#but I knew that'd be out of character for her. I called that shit

[demon-country]

I am feeling so fucking vindicated right now for many reasons, but for this one especially. I have seen so many people say that Loona must hate Stolas because of what went down between him and Blitz, and that she would yell at him or try to hit him the next time she saw him, but I fucking knew she wouldn't.

Those are not the expressions of someone who holds ill will towards him, or who wants to see him be punished. She even got him a towel and lent him some of her own clothes to wear without having to be asked, based on the touched and grateful look Blitz gives her when she hands them over.

[frostgears]

the chosen one

there are handlers that went to officer school and supposedly know what the fuck they're doing, all swagger with the authority of the Service behind them, uniforms like slices of space, voices like knives, their lethal charges trailing docile behind them.

they're the ones that show up in the porn sketches and the short clips of grainy video that circulate in the Fleet network. they're the ones that have pages and pages of fan fiction written about them.

then there's you. you didn't go to officer school. your entire signup process was this:

"hey, Cooper, you were in its old unit, weren't you? before it went to the lab? remember anything that'd distract it from biting at its own link sockets and screaming at techs?"

"uh, shit, sir, i can try…"

"great, it wandered into the rec room. go nuts."

you called your last conversation to mind. there'd been two major rec time activities in your last squad, and the alert that kicked off Paloma 17 had interrupted something.

you sat down next to the thing that had once been your squadmate, not meeting its weird red eyes. you already knew it didn't like that; looking it in the face was how Muñoz got their arm broken yesterday.

the augment whiffed of human sweat, the fake citrus of type-2 interface gel, something musty and unpleasant. its fatigues probably hadn't been washed ever.

"hey, asshole," you said, "you still owe me a Kinetic Princess match. best of five, remember? we were two and one when the hammer came down for P-17."

you put a gamepad on the floor next to it.

"ch. ch. ch."

was it laughing?

it swatted the gamepad away.

and then player 2's character select screen came up. without moving a muscle, it picked Valkyrie, switched her outfit to red, and handed you your ass, twice in a row, with no apparent exertion.

"ch. ch. ch."

yeah, it was laughing.

it kept laughing as it used its onboard hardware to disconnect your gamepad, choose the princess you'd just been playing, and win three matches against itself, beating Valkyrie with Marjoram.

again.

three-one.

three-zero.

three-one.

"well," someone said behind you, "that's kinda freaky. but better than tearing up the couch. guess you're on augment duty."

it was going all out. maybe trying to prove some sort of point. to itself? to you?

you got up.

it immediately paused the game.

"hey," you told it, "i gotta piss."

it followed you down the hall into the restroom. it tried to follow you into the stall.

"hah, you find a friend, Acey?" someone laughed.

"shut the fuck up, Lima." you tried to finish your business as best you could. it wasn't easy. the thing really did reek and it was not giving you a lot of space.

fuck it. you rose, didn't bother to wipe. you grabbed the augment and hauled it into the shower, spun the dial to hot, drenched the both of you, fatigues and all.

"wooooo! take it off!"

always a fucking audience in this place.

you found the zippers to strip the thing, flung wet clothing out of the shower at a spectator, pumped all-purpose soap into your hands.

"if you're gonna follow me around," you told the augment, "you gotta smell better."

this had to get done. you soaped it. all over. the generic floral smell of all-purpose soap was definitely an improvement already. felt human enough under your hands, except where it wasn't, the occasional beveled edge of a link socket. between its legs… human standard.

more hooting and hollering from the onlookers.

you remembered too late not to meet its eyes, but it just stared back at you, tilting its head a bit. no sign of aggression. was it smiling?

you never got around to the second major rec time activity with your old squadmate. you had no idea if she was ever interested. you also had no idea if sexual preferences survived augmentation.

fuck it. audentes fortuna iuvat, right? said so on your shoulder patch.

you slid a finger in.

shut the audience right up.

the thing kept staring at you.

you slipped a second finger in and stared back right up until you finished it off. it shivered visibly, made a sort of low whine.

nobody said shit after that. when you finally shut off the water, silence like a library.

you walked out. it trailed behind you. you grabbed a towel off the stack by the shower exit, wrapped the thing in it. it didn't protest. wearing nothing but your own towel, you stalked back to your bunk, hoping you still had a few clean uniforms, your expression daring anyone to mention that a single thing was out of the ordinary.

"heyyyyyy Acey, you get lu—"

someone always dared. this fucking unit.

the augment hissed. an unmodified human throat wouldn't have been able to make that noise; it sounded like a fire extinguisher. there was reverb in that hiss. there were teeth.

"oh, gods, just don't," you said wearily, looking back over your shoulder. it let Chroma, who had a tiny bit of sense in her head, back away slowly, in one piece.

anyway, that's how you became a handler. the pay bump is nice, your CO says you've been fast-tracked for officer school someday, and more to the point, the augment has already saved your whole squad at least three times.

but you have not once showered alone since that day, and you know it'd be a really, really bad idea to ever refuse a game of Kinetic Princess. that's just how it is when your real MOS is "weapon's favorite person". □

[olderthannetfic]

I just got a comment saying I should have tagged for dom/sub undertones and I'm a little confused. In canon, this guy always bosses his wife around re: doing shit that's healthy for her - napping, drinking water, remembering to eat more than once a day, getting more than 3 hours of sleep - and she lovingly calls him "Boss Man" as a nickname because of it. On some occasions where she's gone more than a day without eating he'll swipe her phone and order her to eat before she gets it back, something she always seems to find endearing. There's a lot of 'I didn't mean to worry you', 'you're worth worrying about, now here's your favorite homemade walnut bread' stuff, all there in canon, just lifted from canon and transplanted into my fic.

Is this dom/sub stuff? I'm aroace so I've never been in a relationship, but I assumed "take care of yourself" "I will but I will call you a silly nickname over it" was regular relationship stuff. Or is it that the frequency of it makes it dom/sub stuff, and I'm just not grasping that because my neurodivergency is making me not read the social cues correctly? I was only recently diagnosed but this has been a problem for a long time, the whole line between normal and abnormal behavior, so I thought I'd ask you. You're much more well-read than I am and know a lot more about shipping dynamics and how they're tagged. I feel like you're an expert whose opinion carries a lot of conclusions-informed-by-knowledge and so your take could help me figure this out.

People who are doms or subs or write them, if you have a guide on this stuff, that'd be cool, too. I want to educate myself more so I know if I should tag something. After all, I can't get my story to people who want to read it if it doesn't show up in the tags they're searching for. Readers aren't mindreaders. It's on me to make sure they can get ahold of the things they're looking for. I just need to work around my own ADHD-addled brain to do it.

--

I think this is the usual pattern of demanding silly tags that would only make sense in that reader's own bookmarks.

Yes, caretaking and food control of various kinds can be a part of BDSM. No, your description of canon does not make it sound like this has obvious undertones.

Readers are going to have different interpretations. It's possible that other readers would agree with this one. I have my doubts. I suspect they're projecting. But sure, maybe other people would think there was some of that vibe.

However, if you did not intend the fic to read this way, I would not add the tag. This is not what the fic is about.

--

As for what this kind of thing can look like when it is intended as a dom/sub activity, the movie Secretary has a bunch of examples. She calls him on the phone to tell him what her family's dinner looks like that night; he gives her instructions about which things she can eat how much of. The way she acts while making that phone call makes it clear it's an exciting game to her. Another time, he tells her she's not allowed to cut herself anymore: he will provide what she needs.

Even if the characters are being playful, just nagging someone to do basic self care doesn't really come across as this. It's more charged when it's an intentional power exchange thing.

It's more like... hmm... if you and a friend agreed to LARP as characters for a day. Even if you were acting fairly normal and doing things you'd often do anyway, there would be this added extra vibe to it that someone who knew you well could probably detect.

It's not so much about the specific behaviors: it's about the extra meaning those people ascribe to them. If it doesn't seem like the canon characters think of this caretaking any specific way and you, as the fic author, don't see it that way, then I don't think it will generally read as a dom/sub thing to most readers.

[arkiwii]

Forgot to list numbers, 8, 9, 22!

(as your previous ask stated, it will be focused on Saria)

and oh my god. Saria is one of the characters who suffers the most in fanon I think. let's dig this out

8. Common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

I don't know if it really counts as a fandom opinion BUT "uwaahh daddy saria so hot omg dominate me 😳" is some fanon view of Saria that is extremely wrong and out of character and if Saria existed and saw this shit she'd get uncomfortable. I don't judge people who are attracted by Saria (I mean, who isn't?), don't get me wrong, she IS hot. but the whole idea that she's a dominant, violent woman, had gotten to the point that people who don't look further in her character see her this way. it's mostly because she's a strong woman, has literally a jailkeeper skin, and hardly shows emotions that this fanon idea started. but she is not violent at all!! she doesn't like to be dominating!! and if you call her daddy again I'll swarm your house with ten thousand rats

9. Worst part of canon

that her and Silence didn't made out very passionately in Lone Trail- ok more seriously it's hard to think about something that was bad about her in canon. the only thing that got me to raise an eyebrow, in all honestly, was Mansfield Break. WHY was she here. I don't really understand this whole deal, no matter how hard I think about it. she was just here. she was just vibing. was it a job she temporarily got before joining Rhodes? did she knew about Jesselton? did she had the exact same plan as Silence to rescue Anthony?? and like it's never mentioned again?? that was so weird I mean thank you for jailkeeper Saria but what the fuck. you go girl? (if anyone actually knows what the fuck she was there please explain I can't wrap my head around it)

22. Your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores.

I hang out with people who are as mentally ill about Saria that I am so that'd be hard to mention something that everyone else ignores, but mmh. wow it's seriously hard I've been sitting in front of my computer for 15 minutes now. maybe... the fact she's extremely attentionate to everyone? but especially those who are close to her. this one official artwork where you see in the background Silence who fell asleep, and Saria is checking on her. the fact she has orange nail polish like Ifrit, so she probably taught Ifrit how to use nail polish. that mention in Dorothy's Vision that when Muelsysye offered her a plant, she woke up everyday at 7 am to check on it. she's really sweet and even if it's hard to tell, she has a heart of gold

[dabihawksluvr]

I despise the BkDk vs IzuOcha discourse on TikTok.

(under the 'keep reading' tab because it's a lengthy rant)

Like, it's so insane and stupid that I no longer post about any MHA stuff over on there for my own safety/sanity. And I have gotten some nasty comments on it myself, being toldI should 'kys' and even being called a 'gay pedo' by some kids who hide behind privated accounts (all blocked of course because I'm not gonna let them continue spreading hate on my page over petty bullshit). And all because I was telling the obvious homophobic bullies to stop using the epilogue as an excuse to harass anyone who is even slightly outside of being an IzuOcha shipper in any way.

And oh, it got even worse when it was found out Horikoshi didn't even really make the epilogue - he only wrote part of it, but the rest (including the art) was by his staff. And the comments I got when I responded to certain posts (mainly to help alleviate the discourse bc at this point it wasn't even about shipping it was about the legit canon of the story itself), it was just a lot of 'cope harder' responses and it's like...yeah? It's fandom shit, I at least admit I'm delusional about it and don't use it to harass others in any way.

But that's when I knew it wasn't even about shipping for these homophobes, it was the fact that they could finally harass/bully the fujoshi and queer fans in the fandom while using Hori's name all the while. And that's what I was most upset about. Because I guess people forgot that Hori is a bisexual man, he is not straight and has in fact included LGBT themes/characters into his story (Magne and her friend are *non-transitioned* trans, the Pro Hero Tiger is *transitioned* trans, and Toga is Bisexual).

In fact, it's so bad that people are forgetting these queer characters exist within the canon - I literally saw someone point out that Tiger is CANONICALLY trans, but they got so many negative responses for it even after showing the exact page confirming he went to Thailand to get gender-affirming care/surgery. People saying there was 'no canon source' and it was just 'coping', even with the evidence from the manga itself right in their faces. And that's when it truly clicked for me that a majority of 'fans' were just jumping on the queerphobia train while using IzuOcha as a vessel for their hate.

Now, I have nothing against (legal) ships. And it's ok to make 'thirst edits' or whatever of the characters after they become adults in the canon (seriously Teacher Deku has my soul he is mine). I have no issues with anything that is legal. But what I do have an issue is when 'fans' come in and start spouting nonsense, saying we are 'pedos' for having any form of ships between two boys or two girls (or fuck even poly relationships bc I've seen hate for them too) because they are so against the LGBT simply existing that they have to use fictional characters to 'prove' their point.

...now that I think about it, I know for 100% fact that if any of these characters were real people they'd be ashamed of the 'fans' using them to spread so much hate towards others.

Sure, they may argue they do not 'swing that way' and that's fine - I'd 100% accept any answers they gave to anyone who asked about their sexuality/preferences. And yeah, they may get weirded out that the fandom is mostly just people shipping them all together with one another. But I know for a fact that these characters, especially Deku, would NOT let people use their name/image in such villainous ways. Because they are Heroes dammit, yeah they could be ignorant on LGBT stuff (highly doubt it tbh) but they'd take ONE look at the homophobic 'fans' and give them a good talking-to.

Oh, and lest we not forget that Katsuki Bakugou himself does not care about one's gender one bit. He just wants you to bring the heat, he doesn't want weak opponents facing him because that'd be more ludicrous to him than someone making their gender/sexuality as the reason they are 'holding back' on him. So I'd see him being the most 'outspoken' about it, he'd be like - 'dafaque you talking about who gives a shit?' and just punch the homophobe in the face because they are clearly a 'villain' by MHA logic.

tl;dr - Stop being a queerphobe, it's not cool. You are the reason why fandom is being scrubbed clean and no longer making it fun for anyone (including yourself). Let people be delusional if they are not causing any actual harm.

[ask-the-owl-house-squad]

[OOC: Any interesting headcanons? I wanna know them all-]

(Oh god, where do I even START

Get ready for this ride LMAO

I HC that the Collector can change their age, like an age shifter. They're a God, who says they can't do that?

The reason I think they can do that is because whenever they were imprisoned in the mirror, they never had a chance to really "grow up." By canon standards, they were around a VERY long time, and sure, being imprisoned in the mirror might have stopped aging completely, but I think that their personality can determine their age. They didn't know about mortality and had to be taught, implying that their siblings (the Archivists) never taught them SHIT. Maybe if they actually knew things and were taught things, they wouldn't be so childlike!

I also HC that, eventually, King gives the Collector a nickname like "Colli" so it'd be easier to say than "Collector." Because, after all, how many Collectors are out there? We only see Colli on the Boiling Isles but what about the Archivists? Where are they? It'd be nice to give them a little nickname!

I HC that trustworthy people associated with the Emperor's Coven get to keep their palismen, like Lilith and Raine. Raine's palisman seems to be their fox on their violin and Lilith's is, as expected due to familial relation, is a bird. They both had a reason to stay there- Lilith for Eda's sake, Raine the same- so it was highly unlikely that they'd betray Belos until absolutely necessary

I imagine if a Collector dies, they become a star in the night sky. I just thought that'd be cute. This doesn't really come into play unless Colli (or a secret character >:3) dies, but it did come into play when my partner and I created an AU called the Fallen Star AU where Colli protects King from Belos similar to how Luz protects Colli. I like angst, what can I say?

I also hc that all Collectors don't like liars because, as shown by Colli, he always wants to do pinky swears as a sort of "contract" (even if it isn't the most reliable one)

I hc that the Archivists are on another planet as their home and are waiting for a time to strike, and maybe they might've shown up if Disney didn't cancel TOH.

I HC that Colli also has scars from when Belos' lichen shit started attaching to their arms and spreading

Similarly, I think the reason it took a long time for it to infect them is because of their Godly status and powers

Also, unrelated to the other HC's, I HC that King 100% sleeps in weird positions like my fucking dog. One day he's fucking twisted and laying on his back and Eda walks in and breathes through her teeth like "How tf is that comfortable?"

I also hc that King's glyph(s) are more Titan-like, as shown by the Light glyph in the finale, because he's actually alive unlike his father

Also I think the Archivists and Colli have never really bled before due to their strength, so if they get a cut or injury, they kind of have a moment of panic upon seeing their own blood

Similarly, I think their blood would be purple or something abnormal like that. Purple and blue are my guesses, maybe red like a red star

I also HC that all Collectors have some phase of the moon on them, like how Colli has a crescent moon. Maybe one of them had/has a blood moon marking on them, or a full moon, or something! And I think that'd correlate to their power and/or their blood color. Maybe full-mooned Collectors are stronger, though that doesn't mean crescent-mooned Collectors are weak. It just depends on how well they can use their magic and have trained for it!

I think there's more, but I can't remember all of them right now! If I remember more, I'll post them!

[rei-ismyname]

HEIR OF APOCALYPSE #4 - A WET FART TO END A TURD OF A MINI

So... This was a waste of time at best. I'm not going to bother with any literary analysis because I don't feel like putting more thought into it than the author, so I'm just going to dunk on it. Spoilers below the cut.

If you read my previous entries, you'll recall I reasoned that Mr Sinister would be part of the climax. He was in opposition to everyone else in the mini and had more page space than any two other characters put together. A Chekhov's Gunman, if you will. NOPE. Doesn't even appear. Emma asks where he is and Warren says he fucked off. WHAT WAS THE FUCKING POINT THEN? I didn't want any more of him, but I wanted a story that's internally coherent. He was already a nonsense addition to the cast, and his presence just makes it a mini full of shit jokes and OOC responses to him murdering everyone's friends. He choked everything else out. Readers already have Sinister fatigue from Krakoa, where he was a crucial character - here he's just infuriatingly needless like a child licking all the cupcakes. The child is Steve Foxe, the saliva is Sinister, and the cupcakes are character work and a plot. Would've been nice, but get fucked I guess. Let's check in with the rest of the contestants.

I've read this sequence four times and I still don't know what is happening here. Meant to what, Doug? You can communicate with a fucking rock but can't tell us what's going on? You deserve to get turned into a golden idiot. I take it back, nobody deserves that.

O.....okayyyy. He doesn't pick Cable. This is gibberish. This is the end of Cable's time in the book. Lucky him. I said I wouldn't do any literary analysis but ARGGGHH. This is all information both parties, AND the reader, know. No new context, just taking up page space.

Sup, Forge? You remember how you were going to solve global homelessness and starvation? You'd built this whole system and were excited. You already knew it would work but I'm going to tell you anyway. (Can Apocalypse see the future? Wtf?) Shame it needs Krakoan biotech.

You're just the best. What this world truly needs. Except... You made a bad thing once so you can fuck yourself buddy. Bit rich coming from Apocalypse, no? 'Deserve' is moronic coming from a social Darwinist. He doesn't get picked either. *Pushes glasses up* ACKSHUALLY, he made it to combat Dire Wraiths - it just happened to work on mutants too. Mega dickhead Gyrich couldn't wait to use it and he did. I'd say Forge's sin is actually working for the US military industrial complex where Gyriches can access your shit. Buuuut, that's NOT something Apocalypse can hang on someone else. He's been fomenting war for millennia. Storm is stronger for having lost her powers, so by Apocalypse logic he should be G. God this mini suuuucks.

Alas, Tumblr only allows 10 images per post. Danielle Moonstar will not be featured bc I don't want to explain it then dunk on it. Just trust me when I say it sucks. She doesn't get picked and she's quite fine with that. Maybe Big Blue learnt nothing from his ridiculous Egyptian traps and decided to make one of his four living children heir? Five if you count his clone, Evan, who is just the sweetest kid ever.

I wonder if he's still calling himself Genesis. That'd be funny cos that's Apocalypse's wife's name. We never did see Evan on Krakoa, what's up with that? It would have been the perfect opportunity for what Age of X-Man bungled - interrogating the reason for his existence, destiny, fate, etc. Would he rethink his position on Nature/Nurture upon seeing Apocalypse behave responsibly and selflessly? Many of the other clones had their personhood affirmed - why not he? These are all very good questions that I'll come back to one day, but I'm honestly just trying to build some tension where STEVE didn't. It should be obvious who 'won' using the process of elimination.

Dougie! You're a good kid. Maybe even the best. We know this already. He picks him btw. He picks Douglas Ramsay. Cypher is the Heir of Apocalypse. Does it matter that he survived the Pyramid obstacle course through luck? Or are we meant to assume he 'solved' whatever dumbshit puzzle it was? It's quite clear Big Blue chose who he wanted to and the Tournament somehow helped that process. Doug ends up in Egypt whereas everyone else is on Arakko. Seems like it should be the other way round but whatever. How did Apocalypse get there? The transporter I guess. This really could have been a one shot.

Were you here for more than a panel of Emma Frost, Laura, Rictor (who actually wants to be here and has a relationship with Apocalypse) or Warren? Too bad, fuck you. Were you here for ANY Exodus, Armageddon Girl, Monet, Gorgon, or even Sunfire who teased a way more interesting story in issue 1? Double fuck you. You get nothing. All people I care about more than Sinister and his dumb jokes. May as well have done a Deadpool movie tie in LIKE EVERY OTHER FUCKING COMIC THIS WEEK. Okay I'm getting distracted - Doug wins the nebulous position of Heir and a ... Transformation. Drumroll please.

Woo! Bei and Warlock sightings! It's nice that they're supportive and they're the first good thing in this book. The second is that Arakko isn't blown up or moved to another dimension or whatever. We might see it again, hopefully in better hands than this kick in the balls. Anyway, let's see what Doug looks like post-transformation and wrap this shit up. Hopefully he doesn't look like an idiot.

HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHA. Oh my god he looks ridiculous. His face and body language look like mine the first time I saw him. 'Fucking really, dude? This doesn't feel like a reward.' Gold, short, Apocalypse - That's what Doug looks like now. Big Blue can alter his own body at the molecular level and he chose Mini Me from Austin Powers 2. Ororo grew up in Cairo, maybe she can call his dumb ass out for cultural appropriation? He looks like a Halloween outfit or a bad cosplayer that doesn't know he's white. White boy dreadlocks given human form.

Is he fine with being renamed as well? Revelation is another word for Apocalypse, the greek translation AFAIK. It was mentioned a lot in Immortal X-Men and Excalibur. C-3PO here could tell him that too. It makes zero sense.

I can't see how this is close to a good thing for Doug, sorry, REVELATION. Apocalypse is kinda world famous as a genocidal lunatic. He may have worn a suit to the Davos economic forum and dropped awesome one liners but it's easy to forget that was a setup. They had 20~ dudes with psi-blockers, body armour and assault rifles to kill them. Unless he included some massive physical upgrades and defenses Doug is in great danger. I hope he got to Egypt by other means bc his days of commercial flight are over. Forget flight, going to the shops to buy food will terrify everyone he sees and he'll probably get murked by a SWAT team. Fuck this is dumb.

OUTRO/SLIGHTLY MORE SERIOUSLY

Okay, it's happened, I've accepted it. Heir of Apocalypse was hot garbage and Doug looks like a fool. What now? Doug has inherited the job of 'shepherding mutantkind' with his words. I know Warren is not listening to him lol. Why would anyone else? Big Blue built up *some* goodwill during Krakoa but blew it at the end. Look how many of the contestants showed up to keep an eye on him. Most of them. Nobody trusts this MF and looking like a gold version of him can only hurt his efforts. A good writer can make anything work, but those kind of pitches getting accepted are rare.

Sigh. What seems more likely to me is some dipshit making Doug a villain. I really hope not, because let's face it, Apocalypse's motivations were always nonsensical. He's like the Phoenix - totally iconic but becomes harder to take seriously each time it's used. Hickman and Gillen, respectively, are exceptions to that and part of their success was retconning the idiotic shit that had been overused and then recontextualising the concept from the ground up. One could argue that Doug as Heir of Apocalypse is doing just that, but if that happens that writer has a lot of work to do.

I'd LOVE for him to get his own book examining exactly how one fills that role with Doug's skills, powers, experience, and worldview. Truly, I would, but the Marvel formula is built on punching and Doug doesn't do that. He's just said he's not going to do that. The easy/obvious path to take is to have Doug go craaaazy (ugh) or be changed into Violence Man from whatever Apocalypse did to him, which would be a waste of time. It'd just be Apocalypse 2: The Goldening. Sadly it's probably most likely.

Until then, I guess Revelation is a gold idiot that's probably not appearing in any books. I'd love for him to show up to the bar Anole works at in NYX or something but let's be serious here. This wasn't even good bad, 'twas just an incoherent disappointment.

[ollieinoue]

IN CHARACTER TASK 006: INTERROGATION III

[ read Ollie's other interrogations: The Initial Sit Downs & First Interrogation ]

He was being advised not to say anything. From his parents ("Just don't say anything, Ollie" "Ollie I swear to fucking god…"). From Gabriel ("Ollie if you try and turn yourself in again you're not going to help Sam, you'll just end up in jail beside her"). From Sam's lawyer ("Mr. Inoue, at this point I'm begging you…"). Honestly if she could write to him right now, probably also from Sam. So, Ollie had a plan as he was called into the offices to speak with the detectives. Just sit there and not say anything. Tell them he was advised not to, sorry. He knew his rights. Sort of. He just had to remember that anything he said could not only be used against him, but against everyone.

Especially against Sam.

So, he took a deep breath that was supposed to be calming, plastered a polite (and very fake) smile on his face and pushed the door to the offices open, taking a seat at the table as he was directed by the detectives.

"It's nice to see you again Ollie," Agent Choi said, friendly and charming as ever. Ollie gave one of those tight lipped smiles, resting his elbows on the table and his cheek against the palm of his hand. "We're calling everyone in to just have a little talk. Help us try and figure out what is going on around here, and as you were so reliable last time, we thought you could bring us up to speed on what has been going on. Have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?"

There was a long pause before Ollie leaned forward in his chair slightly, speaking clearly. "I would like to remain silent."

The officers were the ones to stay silent after that, glancing between each other. As far as they knew Ollie had been so willing to help last time. Which wasn't true, but he was good at getting people to see what they wanted to see. He was good at being friendly, and well liked, and seeming to be helpful. That was what the Detectives saw last time. They had wasted all the fake good will Ollie could throw at them. He was done.

Agent Choi shared a look with his fellow FBI agents, before giving Ollie a sympathetic look. "I promise we're only here to help, Ollie. I understand there has been trouble with other students on campus but you're not in any danger here." They said, and Ollie set his jaw, teeth pinching together hard, as the Agent continued on. "Are you aware of any information about Greer Morrison that has come to light in the past year that you haven’t shared?“

He just glared at Agent Choi in response. God! He couldn't imagine what it would be like to have FBI agents here who were not dumb as shit. It took him everything to point out he'd already shared information with them. The Portugal flight. That'd been him and Parker, and they only knew because of them. Saying they could turn in any anonymous information, then turning around and saying if anyone knew who had found out that information should say something. Fuck them. Fuck that. He didn't know why he'd turn in anything else after that. He didn't know why he'd even tried in the first place.

He hated the cops.

Perhaps it was his death glare that prompted Agent Brown to step up and start speaking. Cutting the bullshit, perhaps, and asking what they really what to know. "Did you have any reason to suspect Greer Morrison was dead before this news came to light?"

Ollie's glare shifted over to Agent Brown instead. He was a talker. Ollie had always been naturally chatty. He liked to say things, he liked to get a word in, he liked to be the last one to say something. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever been through to not respond 'yeah no fucking shit'. Of course he had a reason to believe she was dead. As much as he didn't want to believe it. As much as he wanted to believe that she was off on some private island enjoying the tropical weather and hot people.

How could he not suspect? She'd been gone for a year and a half now and nobody knew anything? Yeah no fucking shit he had a reason to suspect she was dead.

"I don't understand why you're being so difficult, Ollie," Agent Choi said when it was apparent he was also not going to respond to Agent Brown's straight forwardness. "I thought you would want to help Greer. Can you clarify again what your relationship was like with her?"

Ollie leaned backwards in the seat, looking up at the ceiling in silence. His mouth puckered, thinking very very hard about steadying his breathing. Just don't let them get to you. Just don't say anything. They couldn't keep him here forever. He hadn't done anything wrong -- Well, yes, he had. But nothing that they knew about!

"How about the other victims there have been on Campus. Penelope Klein and Ida Clarke. People seem to love you, Ollie. You've been voted Homecoming King two years in a row, we've heard nothing but positive things from your peers. Were you friends with them as well?" Agent Choi asked, and Ollie couldn't fight the distressed expression that crossed his face, a moment of weakness the Agent jumped on. "You seem like you have a good heart, Ollie. If there is any connections you can give us between them…"

He turned his head away, eyebrows furrowing. The truth was that no, he hadn't been friends with either Penny, or Ida. Though it was more complicated than just that. Penny was annoying, but she didn't deserve what happened to her. He remembered seeing her body laying outside of the kitchen, limp in the snow at the Chateau. He saw it in his minds eye so often. And Ida… they used to be friends, they related on so many things. But … well it was complicated. Ida was a complicated person. She didn't deserve what happened to her either. She deserved to be out there learning how to become some sort of nefarious cult leader or whatever the fuck her plans for the future were.

Ollie felt his stomach churn when he thought about it. When he thought about how G's text at the end of last year implying it happened because that was what THEY wanted. Fuck them. And fuck these guys too.

“Okay," Agent Choi said, in a tone that was measured. Perhaps their patience was wearing thin. Good. "You don't want to speak about yourself. Could you perhaps help us clear up what Greer’s relationship was with Penelope Klein?”

For the first time that actually got a reaction from Ollie. Maybe his own patience was also wearing thin. He snorted. That's all. A laugh. No. He had no fucking idea what Greer's relationship with Penny had been. Wouldn't it be great if he did. Wouldn't it fill in some fucking blanks. They were on their own with that one, even if he had been saying anything. Instead Ollie just kept his eyes turned to the side, his head shaking in something of an annoyed and resigned way.

Once again Agent Brown cut in, speaking more harshly. "I'm confused Mr. Inoue. You seemed so helpful the last time we spoke. Unless you are hiding something, you have nothing to worry about." He spoke in a serious tone, standing up to perhaps seem larger and more intimidating as Ollie sat in front of him.

"There isn't anything you are hiding is there, Ollie?" Agent Choi asked, looking for all the world like they were attempting to be sympathetic. Like they wanted Ollie to admit he had nothing to do with anything and cooperate. Rat, or whatever. "Could you fill us in on where you were when Penelope Klein's body was found?"

"Why don't you ask Jesse's Dad? The Good Doctor paraded us all around asking a bunch of questions about that for his stupid fucking show." Ollie said, finally speaking up. Hey, he'd been as quiet as he could manage. He looked regretful immediately, and turned his head away.

The Detectives took this as a moment of weakness however, and continued with their questions.

“Perhaps we will," Agent Brown said, walking around to Ollie's side of the table to come into his field of view. Looking down at him with a stony look on his face. "And what about when Ida Clarke was found? Were you at the Commons the night of the fire? Do you know why students even were there when they should’ve been at the Commencement Gala?“

There was a loud CRACK as Ollie's hand slammed down onto the table in front of him. He hadn't meant to hit it so hard, or at all. He loosened his balled fist, and dug his nails into lacquer wood, his breath coming out in a short burst.

Agent Brown raised his eyebrows, and must have been smelling blood in the water as he pushed on. “Over the past year, have you gotten any anonymous messages? Any threatening ones? Or any with…leading information?”

"Fuck you," Ollie said very quietly glaring up at the Agent towering over him. Sam's lawyer's text lingering in the back of his mind. ("Whatever happens do not bad mouth the officers.") Whoops. His voice raised as he spoke again, "don't you fucking know already? Haven't you found all this shit? Isn't that one of the things you're charging Sam with? Or is it like you trying to pin Greer's disappearance, and Ida and Penny's death's on her-- just bullshit you're going to take away. Fuck you!"

"Okay," Agent Brown said leaning over Ollie, faux patience in his voice that made it sound more like sarcasm. "Why don't we talk about that then? Could you explain to us your relationship with Samantha Jimenez? You have been visiting her haven't you? You grew up together, I believe?"

"Fuck you!" Ollie said again, this time standing up so fast the chair he'd been sitting in toppled over behind him. The Agents stances became defensive, as Ollie backed off, his hands raising in a non aggressive manner. Agent Choi got to him first, coming up behind him, and placing a hand on his shoulder. Something that was supposed to be placating, whilst being close enough to be able to subdue if necessary. But Ollie wasn't here to fight, or a raise a hand to a fucking cop. He wasn't an idiot.

Or maybe he was.

"Calm down, Ollie. We understand you and Samantha were friends, but--"

"Fuck you," Ollie said again, through his clenched teeth, forcing himself to take a deep breath, and speak clearly again. "Am I being detained?" He asked, his head turning to look at Agent Choi. He looked between them, and Agent Brown, and Agent Murray, silent over in her corner.

"No," Agent Choi said with a sigh.

"Then please take your hand off of me so I can go," he said, and they did that. He pulled away and walked as fast as he could to the door slamming it behind him. His entire body shaking as he walked out. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck….

[crazedmetalhead]

Eddie Head cannons/ character analysis

Is this gonna be me projecting onto a fictional character; yes, yes it is. This is just my opinion of what I think Eddie would be like as someone who grew up in a trailer park, with a lot of the conditions that the fandom assumes Eddie went through in his childhood. For context, there will be dark themes, don't like, don't read. THIS IS MY OPPINION (sorry if it makes no sense)

Okay so there has been some discourse in the community about whether Eddie would be a softie or a hard-ass, and I raise a middle ground. I feel like Eddie would seem like a hard-ass, hell, he'd act rough and shit around his friends, and he's loud, he wears leather and chains, I can see where you're coming from, and I also see where people get that he's a softie, from his interactions with Chrissy. I think you're both right, let me explain. "Eddie's always amped up," to me, this means that he's always on guard, he's been hurt before, this man grew up between truck stops and tin cans. The way I see it is he was always, poor, never knew any luxury. He probably grew up in a trailer with his sick mom and abusive dad, he was probably moved around a lot after his mom died, maybe his dad was a part of organized crime or something, which is why he knows how to hotwire a car. He's terrified of getting hurt again, yet expects it so he puts up a tough guy act, but deep down he wants to be good, he wants to protect those he loves. There's also the discourse about Lucas and as a Dungeon Master, I can tell you, if one of my party members last minute cancelled on us, the day of the session, especially a big one, to hang out with people who are known bullies.... I'd also be pissed off, I'd think, "Fuck he's really fraternizing with the enemy," and I would also get a substitute player. Campaigns take months to plan, that session for cult of Vecna alone probably took at least two weeks of planning and Eddie had to buy everything for it, D&D figures are not cheap either so if he planned it down to the player, which many of us do, that'd be infuriating. I think that all the supplies for that game today would run at over $120.00 which for a super senior living in his uncle's trailer and dealing drugs to get by, is a hell of a lot of money. Also, every single other person in the party agreed that that day was okay, and so did Lucas at the time, postponing would screw everyone over, it's literally how every D&D group runs, at the end of the session you all work out the next time you can meet. It's a really high-pressure hobby to be a Dungeon Master because it's not just making the game and improv, it's also managing everyone else's schedules. It can be stressful as hell. Especially with a party of that size. I feel his reaction was pretty valid as someone who has had that happen.

With Chrissy he was soft, yes, that's because he saw how scared she was, Eddie isn't the sort to kick somebody when they're down and wouldn't try and freak her out when she's already practically shaking with anxiety, and sure, he may have had a little crush on her- he has eyes. I think when she says she thought he'd be mean and scary it's not only because he's loud and wears mean looking clothes, I think there is valid reasons, as some of you say, but I think he has his reasons to act that way. He probably got into a lot of fist fights, that's just how the highschool hierarchy works, but I don't think he'd have started it. I believe Eddie is a firm believer of, "I don't start shit, but I will finish it," as well as, "Fuck around and find out," and I feel like a lot of people fucked around and had their asses handed to them. Also, being called the freak all your life is eventually grating on you and eventually you put yourself in that box before other people can, which usually includes wild hair, loud rants, hissing at people you don't like and a mean case of resting bitch face. Also, I raise to you, when I went to a new school, before I even dressed alt, people thought I'd be mean and scary simply because of my resting bitch face, so even without fist fights people would find Eddie intimidating. That being said, I feel like Eddie Munson is an onion of many layers, and if you break through those walls, he is a major softy, malleable butter in your hands. He'd at first be confused by the love you give him, suspicious that it's a prank, but when he trusts you, he trusts you with his life and it's hard to get it back if you shatter it. He definitely holds the doors for strangers, especially girls, he opens the car door and walks on the outside of the sidewalk, Wayne taught him how to treat a lady and he follows those rules. That's all, this is just my oppinion.

[furious-rogue-stuff]

A Feral Interlude, Chapter 5: Pensive Retrospection

Pairing: Victor Creed x Isabela Montecristo | Sabertooth x Vipress

Disclaimer: This series will have canon-accurate and heightened levels of violence, adult themes, slight dub-con/non-con overtones and undertones, descriptions of bloody gore and sadism, and graphic descriptions of sex. *Post-Origins movieverse.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 🔞

Word count: 9,500+

Series Summary: Victor Creed's reputation as the Sabertooth proceeds him. He clashes with a mysterious feral woman, an enigma and anomaly to everything he knows. What began as a hunt becomes a dance between like-minded predators.

🚨Warning: Explicit sex, adult situations, implied rape, graphic imagery, feral power play, slight dub-con/non-con overtones and undertones, descriptions of bloody gore and sadism, and a pinch of angst. I do not own any aspect or character of the Marvel Universe nor elements of the X-Men Origins movieverse.

A Feral Interlude Masterlist

A Feral Interlude, Chapter 5: Pensive Retrospection

Nick knew he was missing something.

After cleaning up Moss' mess and covering up the details of the gala massacre, as it was being called, he tried tracing how Vipress and Sabertooth could be connected. So far, there was nothing but a blip of them crossing paths in Vegas. He surmised that blip led to them butting heads at the gala, but had no goddamned idea what either of them were doing there in the first place.

Isabela Montecristo was an enigma so far, and with the unit still consolidating data from multiple branches and departments, he didn't think he'd get anything on her that'd add to the shitty file they already had. For all he knew she'd been there to assassinate Nagaraja, and that was the extent of her involvement with the man. But he still didn't see why someone would tip off all the satellites about her being linked to him if she'd been hired by that person to carry out the hit. All he could figure was that she'd pissed off someone who got greedy, but he still didn't understand how the hell Sabertooth was involved.

The bit of surveillance that they got before shit hit the fan showed Montecristo and Creed squaring off; then when bullets started flying, they were practically back-to-back, tearing everyone to shreds.

He was filtering through the files, looking for something to jump out at him in the fray of photos, logs and stat sheets. Then it clicked.

Digging through some files, he found the file on Tommy DeLaughter. His autopsy report said he was drained of blood. His neck had been snapped, scapula cracked, and his throat had been practically torn out. A picture of the neck wound was attached to the report. Nick snatched it off and compared it to an autopsy picture taken of Malik Nagaraja. His death had been from a ruptured heart, courtesy of having a hand shoved through his chest, but his throat had been torn out as well.

Vipress stole the tele-computer.

She'd used Tommy DeLaughter to get it to her, killed him, and handed over the computer to whoever had employed her. Whoever hired her had double crossed her, but they hadn't counted on her having a friend drop in and throw the whole operation down the tubes. Sabertooth prowling in had saved her from capture. She clearly was just as unstoppable as Creed, so at the very least they would've captured her had he not been there to antagonize her for whatever fucking reason.

Nick dragged his palm over his face before scratching at his thinning hairline. His dark features were hard, etched with stress as he realized whoever had hired Vipress was connected enough to feed shitty intel to Moss' contacts. Something big was about to happen. He could feel it.

Whatever it was, Nick knew all he could do was wait for someone to slip up, and then he'd have 'em dead to rights. Until that happened, all he could do was sit on his hands and take solace that he was going to whip the unit into shape so shit like this never happened again.

                      _____________________________________

Victor awoke at the sound of the wind howling outside. The firelight was dim, glowing at him from the hearth. He shifted onto his back and felt a curvaceous body sigh and cling to his side. Looking down at Isabela's sleeping form, he couldn't help feel savage pride; her long hair was spilling over her shoulder, and the curve of her cheek was pressed against his pectoral. Her limbs tangled around him, clinging sleepily to him as if he was a pillow. When he shifted again, she hummed in her sleep, her leg sidling up his, caressing the arch of her foot down his shin.

He was content to just lay there with her pressed up against him, but he had shit to do; wanted to finish the journals, check in with Dan, and get more preserves. Since he didn't trust her to let him walk out of the cabin without some power struggle, he figured he had to get the errands done before she woke up.

The temptation to roll on top of her and fuck her awake was simmering in him, but Victor suppressed the desire and maneuvered to untangle himself from the sleeping femme fatale's grasp. The novelty of the situation struck him; he'd never cared whether or not he stirred his mate awake. Hell, he'd never kept a frail alive long enough to have to worry about sneaking out of bed. Once he slithered out of bed, Victor grabbed some clothes and went into the bathroom. While he dressed, he heard her shift on the mattress. Pausing, he waited to hear any sign she was awake. When nothing came, he finished dressing, splashed some water in his face, and headed out through the adjacent door that led out to the hallway.

He took care to leave the cabin as quietly as possible, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Once he was in his jeep, he snickered at himself. He was excited, buzzing with savage glee at his present circumstances. The viper was warm, luscious, and very sated in his bed; he didn't think things could get better.

As he drove down to town, he let his good mood relax him—turned on the radio and tuned into the first station he could find through the static. The opening bars of a Johnny Cash song filtered in through the static.

—I woke up Sunday morning With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, So I had one more for dessert. Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes And found my cleanest dirty shirt. Then I washed my face and combed my hair And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

Victor smirked, leaving it on the station as he drove down the winding mountain road. Things were never this good for him. Usually his routine consisted of mercenary work and murder for hire, globe trotting and bunking up wherever the fancy struck him. A frail here and there; fuck-and-kills he left broken and bloody wherever they fell. Having a wild tryst with a bodacious little number hungry and willing to have him—to take his savagery and give it back in spades was something completely alien to him…

On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned. 'Cause there's something in a Sunday That makes a body feel alone. And there's nothing short a' dying That's half as lonesome as the sound Of the sleeping city sidewalk And Sunday morning coming down

And he liked it. His pulse was thumping from the rush. The spontaneity and uniqueness of it all made him edgy, just like the calm right before battle. He reveled in the feeling of having power over the situation—of having an unpredictable force like Isabela locked away for himself. It was better than the adrenalin high of storming the battlefield because he controlled the surroundings, and indirectly controlled her actions in said surroundings.

Victor drove onto the main street of the sleepy valley town, turning into the parking lot of the 24-hour emporium that was really the only place bustling at the early hour. He parked and cut the engine, but sat in the jeep for a moment when a thought struck him. She's never gonna submit. She'll fight until one of us is too fucked up to fight anymore.

Seething at the sudden thought, Victor went out to the snow storm, trudging up to the store. The chime of the bell was muted by the bustling crowd of travelers who'd been stranded by the storm and decided to come in to shop. They scrambled through isles and chatted one another up. Shoving his brooding thoughts aside, Victor sidled through the damned frails. He went up to the counter, but instead of Rob manning the register it was his mate, a former flower child with dark eyes and sandy hair that was a tangle of wavy tresses to her shoulders. The smile she gave to a customer who walked by froze once she saw him walking towards the counter. He smelled the spike of apprehension waft into the air. Suppressing his toothy smile as best as he could, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he came up to loom over the woman, who tried to offer him a genuine greeting without looking tense.

"Need to use the phone, hun," Victor stated with laced condescension in his amicable tone. "And I wanna put in an order. Rob out sick?" he asked and leaned his hip into the counter so he could invade her space a bit more.

She recoiled, slightly. Smart frail. "Oh-he's out back—he'll be back in a few, should be by the time you finish your call," she stammered prettily, her fear and apprehension thick around her as she reached for a key ring and waddled out from behind the counter. The bump swelling her stomach was a lovely sight. Victor wondered what it would be like to tear into the sweet and plump flesh, to taste the juicy blood and revel in her overly-ripe scent and the horror she'd have all over her cherub face. He shook the impulse off as he followed her to the phone booth. She quickly unlocked the sliding door for him and stepped back, sidling away from him and plastering a pleasant smile on her tense features. "If you need anything just let me know. Rob should be done soon to put your order together," she piped pleasantly enough, one hand on her back and the other resting over her womb as she looked up at him.

"Thanks, hun. Much obliged," he spoke in a syrupy tone, giving her a lopsided smirk as she wandered away cautiously, shooting him a few nervous glances over her shoulder as she made it back to the counter through the bustle. It wasn't like he went out of his way to be malicious to every frail he encountered; just in his nature to be—as akin to breathing, in some ways. It was a hardwired behavior that had only become more wanton over the years. Jimmy hated it, complained and chided him every chance he got.

Huffing at the reminder of his brother's stern glowering face, Victor got into the tight booth and slid the wood and glass panel shut. He grabbed the phone and punched in Dan's number. A group of stupid fucking frails were griping about some football game being canceled just outside of the booth when Dan's groggy voice came over the earpiece.

"M'hello?"

"Wake the fuck up, Danny-boy," Victor chimed gruffly over the line and heard a clattering sound and a series of muffled curses.

"C-Creed? Jesus man it's not even dawn yet—!"

"What was that? I could've sworn you were getting crass with me, Dan," Victor cut in with a warning growl. The other man stammered an apology. "Yeah yeah, save it. I'm calling for an update; heard anything new?" he curtly asked.

"Um—yeah. You didn't mention being part of that gala massacre before," Dan mumbled into the phone, "the unit I told you about covered it up. Said it was a domestic terrorist attack, or some shit like that. No mention of who was involved and they're saying it's an on-going case, but the truth is the unit is under new management, and he covered it all up. But that's not the good stuff," he said before suppressing a yawn, "seems Khomeini was tipped off by that Basset guy I told you about—the one who contracted the job to Montecristo for his employer. He got greedy and cut out on his employer after he leaked the fake intel on Montecristo being linked to Nagaraja. Basset didn't leak the evidence of Nagaraja being linked with Khomeini, so his former boss is screwed and doesn't even know it yet—at least from the last I heard. But, no one other than this unit commander guy knows that you and Montecristo were involved in the massacre and that you got away. Word's out on the both of you, but not for capture."

"Shoot to kill?" Victor asked, his brow quirking with intrigue.

"No. They're in some kind of holding pattern when it comes to bagging and tagging certain high-risk targets. The order is to keep an eye out for you two and report in when you're spotted. This commander guy doesn't seem interested in capturing you or Montecristo; he's got a bigger fish to fry, and the only reason you two are in his crosshairs is cuz you slaughtered a bunch of his men, and because she stole some top secret computer," Dan explained.

Victor's mind's eye pictured Isabela lounging on that queen-sized bed at the high rollers suite, the portable computer in her lap before she closed the top and put it on the nightstand.

"Who's the big shot that hired her?" Victor inquired, glancing out to glare at the chatty fuckers just outside of the booth.

"Dunno his real name. They call him the Frenchman. This Basset guy is probably going to have a hit put out on him by the Frenchman, but my buddy in NY says he doesn't seem concerned at all. Dunno why," a pause, then, "I gotta tell you, Creed. Montecristo might know more about who this guy is than anyone else; rumor is she doesn't take a job without doing a thorough background check on her employer, for more than insurance purposes."

"Didn't do her much good this time, now did it," Victor quipped sardonically.

"Guess not…you got her stashed away, don't you," Dan ventured, a bold move considering who he was talking to.

Victor snickered into the phone. "'Stashed' isn't quite how I'd put it," he chuckled.

A short pause from the tacto-empath before he got the balls to say, "Sounds like you two are made for each other."

Victor's hackles went up, fury rising in him like hot water boiling over. "Watch it Dan, or the next time we meet, I just might have to show youwhat you're made of, from the inside out," he hissed coldly into the phone.

He practically heard the other mutant's heart stop over the line before his breath wheezed into his lungs. "S-Sorry, Creed. I didn't mean anything by it—!"

"Good. I'll be calling you if I need anymore answers, so start looking for them in the meantime, got it?" he ordered in a biting sneer and didn't wait for Dan's reply, hanging up the phone with a grunt. He was tempted to yank the whole goddamned thing off the mount, but he cooled his temper and ruminated about his circumstances instead.

Things were an interesting mess. He didn't need any fucking heat coming down on him—well, anymore heat coming down on him than usual. His work hinged on being hired with the least strings attached, and if there was a call out for his head by some top secret fucking government unit, the jobs would fizzle away before they'd even get offered to him. Victor was reminded now of why he preferred government jobs. Going private was a fucking mess, with all these bullshit contingencies he didn't have the patience to be looking after when all he wanted to do was what he was good at and get paid for it. At least working for Stryker provided a cushy filter between him and government taskforces like this unit; immunity and clean up crews for all the trouble he did get into, and steady work that kept him busy and happy.

Becoming a mercenary had been the most fulfilling thing Victor had done in his hundred years of life. It came with the best perks and the least hassle. Sure he'd had to work in teams with assholes he would've killed for free with great pleasure—and pretty much had—but there were even times when he thought back fondly of his days on Team X. The times when they hunted in the jungles, taking down drug, weapons and diamond kingpins in third world countries, and even the times when the team would hang around a camp fire and just shoot the breeze at each other. He remembered once when Wilson yammered on about how much he loved his job; still remembered his wise-ass tone: "All I ever wanted was to travel to far off, exotic places; meet new and exciting people—and then kill them." Victor had snorted at that, while Jimmy huffed and puffed on his cigar next to him. The other guys had snickered or stood silent, swigging on their bottles or canteens while Wade grinned like a hyena.

Victor didn't really care if the people were exciting or how exotic the places were; he did it for the killing, plain and simple. The hunt, the chase, and the inevitable slaughter; the pay was just an additional perk.

He wondered if the viper felt the same.

Shucking the booth door open, Victor stalked out and spotted Rob at the counter.

"You make Camille nervous as hell, yah know that?" Rob chuckled after the big feral walked over, his arms crossed and his Marine Corp. tattoo peeking out from under his rolled up sleeve.

"It ain't my intention to make your little lady nervous," just a perk of being an animal, "skittish, maybe," he joked and earned a laugh from the shaggy-haired veteran with the stubble-lined jaw.

"Women and their hormones; get extra sensitive about things," the vet quipped, "so I heard you need another order?"

Victor glanced out of the corner of his eye at the pregnant Camille as she took inventory in the back. She looked up and caught him staring, so he flashed a broad grin, showing off his fangs. The woman blanched and pretended to busy herself somewhere else tucked out of his line of sight. "Yeah…it looked like I was going to be staying longer," Victor mentioned and shrugged.

"Huh, "looked like" means another change of plans?" the shopkeeper asked, not at all bothered by the mutant's show of bravado; he knew the other man was intimidating, but didn't feel threatened in the least. Victor picked up as much, and couldn't help begrudgingly respect the guy. Didn't mean he thought it was a smart move on his part—but he admittedly hadn't seriously entertained any vicious ideas against him or his pregnant frail.

Acerbically snorting, Victor eyed the man and conceded, "Not entirely…but I might need your little lady to help me with this order."

                      _____________________________________

She was dreaming. She knew it. She tried to fight the memories away. That's what her dreams had become after 4 centuries; just a series of memories tied together by a stream of consciousness. A vacuum of moments she had to relive, stark and sharp in sensation and perception.

She hadn't dreamed in over a decade. Let alone dream about him. But like quicksand, her unconscious was sucked into the stream of memories until she was part of it, unaware it was a dream and living through the motions all over again.

"They are dead, Izzie."

"You don't know that", she argued, pushing his hands away from her waist as she went to the window, looking down at the cold snowy night and at the Nazi soldiers that patrolled the streets.

"Even if they are still alive, they won't be for long."

He came up behind her, his warm body scorching her skin. She whirled around and glared at him, but he just smiled, his eyes dancing with blue mischief as he cupped his hand around her chin.

"You're such a heartless bastard," she murmured with wavering contempt as she slapped his hand away. "What if it was your son of a bitch brother? Would you like it if I smiled in your face?"

He laughed, even when she pushed past him and went to grab her dress. "Izzie, please stop being so mundane," he mused and grabbed her, forcing her to turn and face him. "You can't control death, my Valkyrie. You're too perfect to care about mere mortals. If they are alive, let them survive by their own merit. Its how the rest of us have done it," he murmured in a liquid steel voice, his hands roving down her body to press her against his naked and chiseled body.

Her hands pressed against his broad chest, digging into the fine fair hair that dusted his pectorals before tugging on them. He yelped and laughed down at her, pulling her into his arms to kiss her, even when she struggled and struck him in the face. He tossed her on the bed, chuckling warmly at her before he leapt on top of her and framed his arms around her head.

"Let's run away together," he hissed and smiled, his blond hair falling into his eyes before he could toss the strands back. "We could go to South America. Things here are falling apart anyway. I have only remained in Berlin because of you. Let's leave," he cajoled with sensual repose.

She avoided his gaze, her blood boiling with helpless anger. He caressed his fingers along the contour of her cheek bone, down her cheek, and tipped her face towards his. Under the glow of the lamplight, Isabela could make out the ragged scars that ran across his bicep. Her fingers trailed up his arm to trace the marred skin, transfixed by the ravages of time that peppered her lover's ageless body. She gazed into his blazing ice blue eyes, at the spark of zest that danced in them before tracing her fingers down his rugged features to brush along his lips.

"Just shut up and make love to me, Eirik."

His hearty laugh echoed around her, made her feel alive and ablaze with the joy of living that beamed out of him.

"You cannot avoid my advances forever, Izzie. You are mine, Valkyrie—!"

"Yes, I know Loki, now make love to me before I change my mind," she cut in before nuzzling his clean shaven jaw. He growled, rearing up to toss her onto the pillows so he could grab her wrists and pin them on either side of her head. He pressed slowly into her heat, his smile radiant and hair platinum under the overhead lamp. Isabela cried out, wrapping her legs around his waist and arching against him.

Eirik's laugh came out a groan as he sheathed into her and thrust up, tearing a mewl of pleasure out of her as he brushed against her womb. "Keep calling me that and I'll never leave your side, my Valkyrie," he groaned harshly against her lips before taking her in a fierce kiss.

She clung to him, her hands clutching at the muscled planes of his body and rocking against him, the world outside dead to them as they lost themselves to each other.

The sensation of his hand caressing up her thigh to knead her hip felt so real. Isabela unfolded into his warmth, breathless and hoping she never stopped feeling him.

"Eirik…"

                      _____________________________________

He parked and cut the engine before heading out with the small crate and a brown paper bag to trudge through the snow up to his cabin. It didn't seem like daylight was going to break at all this snowy Sunday, and that was just fine with Victor; better to stay in bed fucking.

He grinned at the thought as he walked up the porch steps.

Walking into the cabin, Victor felt his senses jolt. His head rose so he could sniff at the air, the scent fluctuating thick and spicy, making him see colors it was so strong. Shutting the door and dumping the stuff by the closet, he followed the scent, his skin getting hot and his mouth watering. He stripped his coat and peeled the layers off until he was shirtless and barefoot by the time he made it to his bedroom.

She was still asleep, curled into the spot he'd vacated when he left. The furs were tangled over her and her lithe leg was draped over the comforter. The arousal and heat was coming off of her in waves, so animalistic that he could feel the primordial pull lure him to the side of the bed. He had a mean hard-on, his loins tingling as he raked his claws down his chest and caressed his hand up her thigh to squeeze her hip.

He felt the current shoot up his fingers as she sighed and moaned under her breath.

"Eirik…"

Victor jerked his hand away and balked down at her sleeping form. The fuck?

Anger swelled in him, scalding and irrational. She was dreaming. Dreaming about someone else; some other bastard got her this hot.

His jealousy was a blow to his savage ego. The animal in him wanted to tear into her—how dare she want another when she's yours—make her scream and wail for the betrayal—

Jealousy seethed into a cold rush of wild possessiveness. She belonged to him. He would make her belong to him. Force her to accept him and take her like he'd taken all his prey.

His skin was boiling as he worked his jeans undone and off. Before he knew what he was doing, Victor was on his bed and pulling her sleeping form, dragging her against him to press into the mattress. He jerked her onto her side, stirring her. Then he forced himself into her from behind, digging his claws into her supple flesh and growling warningly against her neck when she moaned and clutched at him.

Isabela gasped awake, growing taut against the hard body behind her. She cried out when Victor bit the arch that joined her neck and shoulder, her skin hypersensitive and tingling from the onslaught of her dream and his domination. She tried to shove and wriggle away, but Victor's grip around her waist was a vice as his fingers dug into her, scenting the air with blood.

She hissed and clawed at his arm, confusion and a tumult of emotions reverberating through her. When she reached back over her shoulder and scratched Victor's cheek, he snarled and slammed brutally into her, tearing harsh cries from both of them before Isabela elbowed him hard enough to fracture a rib. She tried to scamper away, to turn and fight him, but he was on top of her—gathering her up against him to slam her face against the headboard and push back into her. Her shocked cry came out hoarse against the wood before she tossed her head back and smashed the crown of her skull into his mouth. His grunt came out a strangled bark from his fangs slicing the inside of his mouth open. The fury was palpable, scorching as he roared in exasperation and grabbed the back of her neck. He pressed her up against the headboard, using his hold on her as leverage to keep himself on top of her and her taut against the wall. She thrashed against him, but gasped when he drove into her again, his grip firm on the back of her neck and digging into her hip.

Victor was rancorous, his mouth tinged with blood and his eyes glazed with drunken ferocity as he dominated her, trying to pound her into submission. He felt her grow rigid in his grasp just before she stopped struggling. Growling, he bent over her after a particularly deep thrust and pressed his chest against her back. Her hands were spread against the wall, their full weight keeping her from rolling or tossing him off.

He was trying to take her, to break her down and make her submissive to him. She didn't know what had set him off, but she knew she couldn't stop him. He wouldn't stop until either one of them was beaten into submission, and because she knew this, she'd paused in her struggling, waiting for him to be lulled long enough for her to turn the tables.

When he clawed his hand from her neck around to her womb and nuzzled harsh nips against her shoulder, she sprang, swinging her elbow around to slam against the side of his head. Victor's head swam and his vision blurred for short seconds, allowing her to shove him back and off of her. She turned and lunged at him, catching him off guard as she clocked him on the jaw. Unfortunately, Victor's daze ebbed away in a flash when she fell on top of him, and the next thing she knew he snarled viciously at her and grabbed her wrists, gathering them and pinning them behind her back as he rolled them onto their sides, facing each other.

Isabela lengthened her predatory teeth at him, trying to chomp at him before she was jerked out of range by a sharp tug on her arms that threatened to dislocate her shoulders. She was stretched taut like a bow, and in one swift move Victor was pushing to get between her thighs. Her eyes were glowing with wrath at him when he pressed her against him, his powerful fingers clutching at her waist as he forced himself back into her tight heat.

The position thwarted her from struggling and only earned her intense pressure as he stroked deep into her core. She cried out and arched with shocked pleasure from his rough thrust into her, her body betraying her while the rest of her fought for autonomy. That's when she saw the look in his eyes.

Betrayal, anger, and resentful desire darkened his glare, his mouth etched with hunger as he panted from his efforts. Isabela gasped, her brows wrinkling with confusion as her knees clutched around him, trying desperately to get closer to him. He growled menacingly and tugged on her wrists, his fangs bared at her, but not with hostility.

Her heart clenched and her breath hitched, incredulity lighting up her usually stoic features. Possession. He was trying to possess her; to claim her the only way he could. It was an impulse she'd seen in every man, but in Victor it was like an implacable force.

Victor stared at her, intrigued by the open emotions that graced her countenance. Her struggles and thrashing had died inside of her, and only a current of understanding flowed out of her, warming her scent as her eyes fluttered and she gave in to him.

His hand let go of her wrists to grab her throat, pulling her into a kiss that bruised both their mouths. Her hands clutched at his shoulders as they kissed and rocked against each other, their primitive struggle forgotten to instead revel in a passion as voracious as their natures.

When she climaxed, Victor moaned and bit down on her shoulder as he tangled his fingers into the back of her hair and fucked her hard. He shouted gruffly when he came, his muscles flexing as he clung and rocked blissfully against her until the energy fizzled right out of him. They collapsed in a heap of panting and throbbing flesh, high off of each other and pulsing with sensations.

Isabela stirred against him, the afterglow tingling and flushing her skin. She sighed softly and rested against him as she reached to caress his face. Victor jerked away from her, sated but still irrationally fuming. He glared down at her, his furious blue eyes dark with angry fog. Instead of following his retreating warmth, she curled sinuously back down onto her side, her gaze cooling and her mouth soft. No judgments, cub.

Victor was so pissed off he couldn't see straight.

He stalked off the bed and into his jeans, aware of her gaze as it raked like nails down his back. Without a cursory glance he growled and lividly left the room, his heavy footfalls barreling down on the floor until she heard him slam a door. The muffled echo of something being slammed or thrown carried over into the bedroom.

Isabela remained motionless on the bed, mindful of how cold she was getting, but too pensive to care.

                      _____________________________________

His fucking armchair was a splintered mess of leather and wood after having picked it up and slammed it furiously down to the floor. It pissed him off that he'd petulantly break his own shit when he couldn't actually get his hands on something living and squishy, but he shook off the exasperation of the broken chair and tried reigning in his anger.

He didn't want to think; didn't want to speculate over what made her tick and why she managed to rattle him like lion in a cage.

The unread stack of the faxed journals still sat on his table.

Snatching the pile, he wrinkled his nose at the broken armchair before stalking over to the wide windowsill. The cold windowpanes brushed his bare arm as he sat down and lounged. He found the place he'd left off on.

16 August, 1936

The analysis came back. I wasn't sure of how to broach my findings—I didn't want to make her disassociate; didn't want to waste a session of playing semantics with her because she was too damned smart for me to pin down—since she had exhibited a detached demeanor when I explained my hypothesis a few sessions ago. 

She sensed something immediately. I tried to engage her in idle chatter as we entered my study, but she smiled and paced around the room, aloofly looking at books here and there. 

—"I want to stay for dinner, if that's alright with you, Mischa" she abruptly stated and turned to face me.

"I don't think that would be appropriate—"

"I want to meet your lovely wife Yvette and your little one. Ephram was it?" she interrupted and sat across from me and smiled with chilling pleasantry. 

"I hate it when you do that, countess."

Her smile only widened. "He's six now, isn't he?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't because it was all playful rhetoric. She was the worst kind of predator; the kind that would let you think she was domesticated and friendly, even when she was gnawing your throat out. You would never see her coming—

To be quite frank, countess de Winter was an intimidating woman. Her sheer presence could make a man feel like he was a wounded animal just waiting to be preyed upon. Even after the years of analysis, a didactical insecurity still arrested my ability to remain objective. 

She wasn't human. It was the most conclusive hypothesis after compiling all of the data and researching my findings of seven and a half years. The countess' reaction had weighed upon my conscience, as it was during today's session when I hesitantly asked her to tell me more about her years of isolation.

Could you explain why you went into the rainforest?

"…that's not what you really want to know. At least not at this moment"—her eyes always focused intently when she was pensive. The bright russet rings around her pupils would dilate as if she could see into my soul—"you want to talk about my origins more. That psychoanalytic nonsense of yours is such a waste of time, Mischa. What does it matter? It has nothing to do with my being."

I explained to the countess that it wasn't knowledge for the sake of it—she detested talking about her 'first life', as she called it. It took me 3 years just to get her to tell her story. I managed to convince her; compiled her story into a written testimonial; her point of view, her awareness and retrospection…but I won't include it in my research. Not until she has finished telling me everything. Getting it out of her has been the hardest part of this undertaking, aside from the 'field' observations—but for the necessity of awareness and retrospection. 

"Just tell me."—I didn't want to. Didn't know what it entirely meant, nor did I want to lose her. She'd threatened to destroy my research if I kept anything from her and I wasn't sure how to tell her. "It tore my womb barren, didn't it…there's nothing human left."

"Your womb has scar-tissue. It seems that…the trauma caused a benign form of atrophy that rendered you infertile. Your ability to heal was still fledging in comparison to what it is now, so scar tissue was able to develop. It happens to many women who suffer trauma and have a breech birth—"

She laughed. It wasn't bitter or cold. If anything, it was self-disparaging. "Just science for the spawn tearing out of the mother" she glanced out the window; saw Ephram and Yvette walking up to the house. "My mother bled out. Dead before my father stepped into the room. Oh, the irony…I suppose I was destined to be inhuman." She looked up at me and smiled. "That's your answer. I went into the rainforest because whatever human part of me died that night."

My family was up the walkway, so she stood and softened before my very eyes. It was her real mask. She looked in the direction of the foyer, her demeanor pensive.

"Never took a breath."

                      _____________________________________

Hours later, Victor did a double take at the last page, flipped it over and back, before reading the last paragraph in confusion. It just stops. He wondered if Dan fucked up.

It couldn't just end like that.

He chucked the pile of papers onto the closest table as he started pacing, irritated and stuck with more questions than answers. All he had were bits and pieces of her. Sure a lot of it was intriguing as hell, but he wanted to know what made her so goddamned different. He wondered if that testimonial was still out there; if it'd survived somewhere and was just waiting to be read. But if it did, Dan would've found it. Huffing, he paced towards the door and stopped. Could just ask…

"Feh," he sneered at the thought and opened the door to his den.

The tantalizing smell of seasoned meat was wafting through the air as he padded towards the living room.

The television's ambient light was flashing out of the corner of the room from across the fireplace, the sound lowered almost to nothing. She was sitting on the couch nearest the wide picture window, her legs folded underneath her and a thick fur blanket wrapped around her. She had a glass of whiskey cupped loosely in her hands as she gazed pensively out the window, her back to him.

He didn't know if she even knew he was there. Watching her for long moments, he thought about before—in his bedroom. She had fought him only to acquiesce. No retaliation, not even a word of anger or question once he'd ravaged her. It baffled him, pissed him off to constantly be second guessing every action and expression of a creature that was supposed to be his plaything. He shouldn't be flustered by his own possession, no matter how sly and experienced she may be. The viper was his to fucking reign over, so he had to figure her out; crack her, see what was really inside of her dangerous wit and cunning eyes to know her marrow deep.

Victor was good at figuring frails out. They were stupid, banal cowards that could be peeled away to nothing but raw mortality: pleas, screams, and wails of agony before his very feet—by his very claws. They were mindless puzzle sets that he could throw together for his vicious purposes before he tossed them apart once he didn't need them; once he was bored.

He got bored quickly, but he figured them out, every single fucking time.

Even Jimmy couldn't hide. He was part of Victor, and part of the animal. But figuring out Isabela was like trying to play chess, blindfolded. Not that he'd ever played chess, but shit it was the closest analogy he could fucking think of without getting too annoyed. Just when he thought he had her cornered, she morphed before him; the feral beauty would soften and look painfully mortal, distorted and raw until her frondy eyes took on a faraway gaze that looked through him and she became the sultry viper he knew and wanted again. He wanted to own her emotions—wanted to be the source and cause of them.

Victor wanted the pain inside of her.

His dog tags clattered against his chest when he sat behind her on the couch. She exhaled through her nose when she sensed him silently sizing her up.

"The roast is almost done. I made a few side dishes; nothing fancy," she stated before raising the glass to her lips and sipping the amber liquid.

Victor's fingers combed firmly through the back of her hair before fisting the silky strands and lightly tugging. Her breath hitched, but she still didn't turn to regard him, so he growled deep in his chest and shifted to loom around her.

"Who the fuck is Eric?" he rumbled against her ear, his breath hot and his claws impish as they skated across the nape of her neck. He felt her stiffen. It was incredibly subtle; if he hadn't had his hands on her he wouldn't have even perceived it.

"Eirik," she corrected, pronouncing the Norse name with her fluid Spanish accent.

Victor's nostrils flared, but he held his impatience at bay. "Spare me," he growled.

"Fine," she spoke and leant back against him.

When she didn't answer his question, Victor wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed warningly. "Cute, but you're not getting off that easy, viper. Not unless I want you to," he hissed viciously into her ear, his double entendre scalding.

She shifted so she could give him a sidelong glance. "He's just a name—!"

"A fucking name you moaned in my bed!" Victor corrected with a snarl and bared his teeth in a sneer. "So who the fuck is he?"

She blinked at the hostility that was rolling off of him. The hostility was real, but so was the jealousy that clung to his scent. Her hand came up to cup the back of his skull as she shifted to crane her head and reply, "he was a memory, Victor. No one for you to be jealous of…"

Victor jolted at that and squeezed her throat more firmly. "Who the fuck said anything about being jealous?" he barked with cynicism. "Watch what you say, sweetheart, or I'll have to punish that pretty little mouth of yours," he snapped sinisterly before taking the glass out of her hand and emptying it in a swallow before dropping it down on the coffee table next to the bottle.

Her heart ached. Ached for the man she had lost, and ached for the feral she was growing fond of. They were polar opposites in some respects, and two sides of the same coin in others. She was pretty sure that if they'd ever met, they would've hated each other's guts. It would've been like putting a wolf and a mountain lion in the same cage. They would've never understood each other, even when they shared commonalities.

She'd never understood Eirik…but she'd loved him with everything she had.

She understood Victor, understood him so much that it jarred her.

"I'll tell you about Eirik if you let me leave."

Isabela turned to face him then, her eyes earnest and guileless.

Victor openly laughed at her. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't look more than un-amused.

She turned to face back toward the window when he snickered and pulled her back around. "C'mon, did you honestly think that'd work, Izzie?" she glared at him, but he continued, "Instead of sulking and looking out the damned window like you're in a prison tower, humor me," he cupped his palm around her cheek and combed his retracted claws through her hair before muttering, "accept it; it doesn't have to be so unpleasant. Hell, it could be an arrangement you grow to want if you stop being so fucking stubborn."

"So, you intend to keep me here like your little pet? Really, cub," she mused and leaned in closer, their faces so close that their noses brushed together and their breaths were mingling together. "Going to settle down? That's a laugh. Two ferals playing house. I wonder how long that would last," her sarcasm was cool and sultry, until she mocked, "You're not the first man to think he could make me his. Either the desire will fade, or you will. That's what time has shown me, cub. Give it a bit longer, and it'll teach you the same."

Not missing a beat, he chuckled. "That's a pretty stupid thing to say, Izzie," Victor smiled condescendingly at her, his fangs wicked and his eyes mischievous. "You said it yourself, sugar: I'm as permanent to this world as you are. I ain't going anywhere," he purred scathingly and pulled her onto his lap. She yelped and wriggled, fighting to keep the blanket around her waist. He laughed and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her waist and hoisting her up. His palms dragged down to cup her voluptuous ass and instead of the satin he'd expect he got bare skin.

The oven dinged in the kitchen, and Isabela pulled away from the kiss and wriggled off of his lap, yanking his sweater down her thighs and standing before he could reach to pull her back down.

"So anxious for me that you went commando, eh?" Victor teased and leered at her with a smug smirk as he sat back and draped his arms along the back of the couch.

She raised a mocking brow at him. "My panties are drying in the laundry room, since I can't commandeer any of your boxers," she offered dismissively as she strode to the kitchen and disappeared around the corner.

He chuckled to himself and reached for the bottle of whiskey. He filled the glass and brought it to his lips before he realized how atypical it was. Snorting, he took a long drink and propped his bare feet up on the coffee table. The sounds of clattering and the shifting of pots and pans carried over into the living room, so he reached for the remote and turned up the volume on the television. A weather report was droning on when she came back into the living room with two plates of food. Shoving the plate at him, Isabela sat down next to him and folder her legs under her. His mouth watered at the succulent rare meat and he grunted his approval before digging in. He picked the meat with his claws, sucking the juices off his fingers before he noticed her staring disapprovingly.

She shoved the fork that was shucked into the potatoes into his hand and raised a brow when he swallowed and grinned.

"Such a cub," she mused lightheartedly as she ate daintily from her plate. "Did your mother let you shovel everything into your mouth with your fingers?"

Scooping the last bit of vegetables and potatoes into his mouth with the fork, Victor pointedly tossed the fork onto the table before and licking the plate clean, giving her a puckish sidelong glance with every long lick.

Isabela gave him a rueful smile before laughing and shaking her head at the juvenile sight. He liked seeing the sardonically amused expressions she made. Her eyes would become glimmering crescents when she laughed, her mouth softening with her melodious laughter. She took the glass of whiskey held between his knees and drank before offering it back to him and snatching his plate away from him.

"—Due to the blizzard, tonight's game has been canceled. In its place, the network will broadcast the Silver Screen classic: Gold Diggers of 1933, starring Ruby Keeler, Dick Powell, Ginger Rogers…"

Isabela's head went to the television screen. "Hah! I can't believe it," she laughed and stared at the opening credits of the movie.

Victor looked at the screen and back at her. "What. Just some old ass movie…"

"My favorite movie," she corrected and smiled at him and hurried to take their plates back to the kitchen and brought him back a second helping. Handing off his plate back to him, Isabela climbed onto the couch and sidled close to him, her eyes glued avidly to the screen as the movie's opening song played.

Victor watched her, enjoying the feel of her sitting so close to him without any pretense or tension. "A musical about showgirls?" he quipped dryly and watched her snicker.

"Don't tease," she hissed and squeezed his thigh. "Don't you have a favorite?"

"Pfft, do I look like I spend a lot time watching movies?" he grumbled and shoveled food off the plate into his mouth with his clawed fingers.

"No, I'm sure you traded them in for etiquette courses instead," she jabbed and glanced at him playfully.

He licked the corner of his mouth clean and raised his brows derisively at her. When he was done, she snatched the plate out of his hands before he could scornfully lick it clean to get a rise out of her. Chuckling, he licked his fingers clean instead before picking at his teeth lazily with the tip of a lengthened claw. When she glanced at him again, she giggled at the smear of mashed potato that was clinging to the whiskers close to the corner of his mouth. What a handsome slob.

She leaned over and open mouth kissed said corner, licking up the smear and reaching for the glass of whiskey clutched in his other hand over the armrest, the movie forgotten.

"So much for etiquette, huh," he husked lasciviously before he turned his head and kissed her hungrily. She hummed into his mouth before pulling back and bringing the whiskey to her lips. As she drank, he picked her up and pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him, the hem of the sweater riding up towards her waist as he shifted her over the bulge in his jeans.

Sighing softly, Isabela brought the glass to his lips and Victor let her feed him the rest of the whiskey before he took the glass and distractedly placed it on the table. The movie played on while they passively indulged in animalistic courtship, nuzzling and primitively pair bonding by scenting each other and kissing whenever enticed to. When she pulled away coyly, Victor growled and clamped his mouth onto her throat, worrying her skin between his teeth and tearing before laving the wound with his tongue. Isabela shuddered and clutched his bare shoulders before rearing back and forcing his back against the couch.

"W-Wait, Victor. We need to talk—!"

"Hah—are you fucking joking? First fuck, then maybe talk," he grunted and snaked his hands up the sweater to caress her curves and cup her perky tits.

She growled and slapped his hands down before sashaying off his lap and onto the couch. When he protested and went to prowl over her, she held him at bay by bracing her foot against his shoulder. "Talk, then fuck," she announced, and sternly eyed him. "You said the other night I was sabotaged by my employer. If that's true, then I have a few scores to settle. The way I see it…I need to repay you."

He braceleted her ankle and dragged his hand down to grip the back of her knee. Her words weighed the air for a short moment before he smirked and flashed his fangs. "And how would you 'repay' me, Izzie?" he growled lazily and loomed over her. "By promising to be a good girl if I let you go? I don't think so, sugar. I like you exactly where you are: here, naked and wet for me," he purred. Her scent was spiced with anger and arousal, a combination that had him straining against his jeans.

"So, you expect me to let you walk out of here? Think I'm going to sit here obediently while you stroll out the front door? Oh please, Victor. You're not stupid. Don't pretend to be," she chastised sarcastically, sitting up on her elbows when he pinned her against the armrest and the back of the couch. "Because you got in the fray, that black ops team has targeted you too. So if they're looking for me, they're looking for you as well."

"What d'you suggest then," he remarked conversationally as he leaned and nuzzled her temple before nudging his head against hers.

"We make a truce. Work together," she murmured, hooking her ankles along his haunches so she could guide him back onto his heels. "Taking care of my problem will take care of yours. I settle my score, give this government unit what they want, and its business as usual," she propositioned, toying with his dangling dog tags as she gazed into his smoky eyes.

His chuckle was like liquid velvet to her ears as he yanked her down onto the couch and settled between her thighs. "Only one problem: You're mine. If I go with this deal, there's no insurance that you'll behave; don't need you being insolent and trying to double cross me, princess," he mused with snide sweetness and scraped his mouth down her neck. "Now, the subject is close—"

"If you consider it, I'll consider being yours…"

Victor snapped up to look down at her. Her eyes were glowing up at him, the russet rings blazing in the palm green irises. He didn't know what to say; needed time to wrap his mind around it all.

"If you're done talking…" he rumbled as he leant down.

Her hands raked down his chest and stomach to work his jeans undone once his mouth took hers in a savage kiss. Once his erection was free, Victor was hiking the sweater up and off of her while she shoved his jeans down with her feet. In seconds they were reveling in each other, all the anger, frustration and tension melting out of them as they coupled passionately on the couch.

Nothing was forgotten, though. Victor wanted to own her. He felt like something stood between him and his goal. The pensive retrospection that arrested her kept her locked away from him. He'd break through, sooner or later. For now, he took pleasure in having her body, flushed and writhing under him, as well as the sultry moans and mewls that preceded and followed the gasp of his name.

Isabela basked in his heat, in the carnal ferocity he gave her that blocked out the past, including the lover she never understood.

Just under the sounds of their passionate coupling, the movie's ending credits scrolled with the musical accompaniment. The national anthem played on the television as they climaxed almost in unison, the screen crackling and going directly to static while the ferals collapsed in sensual repose.

                      _____________________________________

Ephram was crestfallen when the curator called him and told him of the theft. As soon as he'd gotten off the phone, he'd rushed up to his attic, spending the last days and evenings sifting through trunks and boxes.

He'd been conflicted about keeping the testimonial, but not about keeping the journals. The journals had been years of work that detailed amazing and frightening things, things that he hadn't witnessed as the young precocious child who would eavesdrop on his father's sessions with her. He couldn't believe that the woman his father had introduced to him and his mother was the same woman his father had written about in those journals.

The only thing he believed was that she wasn't human.

She had been otherworldly to him. An ethereal being with dark and exotic features who'd showed him the fondness of a guardian angel, so the fact that his father believed her to be an immortal being had resonated with him. At almost 50 years old, Ephram could still remember her visits.

When he found the thickly bounded book with his father's handwriting scrolled on the front tag, he'd gingerly brought it to his chest. It had been part of the sack his father had lugged throughout Nazi occupation. He had wrapped them in water resistant plastic slips and buried them in with rubbish so the SS wouldn't look through the sack and confiscate his precious journals. Mischa Krause, his father, had carried them in that sack for 2 years until the ghetto had been emptied out and all the Jews of Berlin had been shipped to concentration camps.

His mother and father had been strong, teaching him everything they could up until the day they were separated. His parents had been placed on a train to Auschwitz, while he'd been taken to Dachau. Sensing the immanency of their separation, his father had entrusted Ephram with the sack before they'd been physically separated and put on different trains.

The last time he saw his mother and father, they had been forced onto the line for the train to Auschwitz.

He'd survived. Spent 3 years in Dachau until the Allies liberated the camp. He'd made his trip to America with the sack, save for the rubbish of course. Now the only thing he had left of his life before the war, of his parents and his father's work was the book he clutched to his chest.

Climbing down from the attic, Ephram walked through his home, narrowly avoiding his grandkids that ran around the halls playing hide and seek. He went to his study and left the book on top of his desk, staring at it but unable to open it. He'd never read the testimonial. After reading the journals, he'd been too afraid to. So for over 30 years, he carried the book, having never read it.

He promised himself that as soon as the holidays were over, he'd finally read the testimonial his father and Izzie had poured into from the times of his childhood, when he'd been a bright-eyed boy who cherished everything life showed him.

____________________

Read Chapter 6: Possessive Reciprocity

The song I used was Johnny Cash's "Sunday Morning Coming Down". 

Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a comment and sharing your feedback. I would be eternally grateful.

[hibewriter]

Oakwood Table

Masterlist Read it on Ao3

Original Characters | 673 words | T

Tags: Cheating, Divorce

What was the point of marriage? Suffering long days away from each other, coming home at night. And then what? Breaking each other's hearts? Maybe she got it all wrong. Maybe James was all wrong. Margaret sat at the head of her oakwood table, the one she brought with James all those years ago. They'd argued over the chairs, right up until she swiped their credit card at the furniture store, James glowering at her as she did so. 

"Thanks, babe, I hate it. "

They'd had cold Pad Thai for dinner that night. James ate in the living room. Margaret ate at her new dining set. Maybe she should've known then. Should've known he'd hate what she loved. Their sheets, once a warm haven for their love, were now a frozen tundra as he'd taken to sleeping on the couch. Or coming home later than she'd ever imagined. Or leaving before she woke up. 

Excuses poured out of his lips like a faucet. Early work shifts, celebrating birthdays, a drink with the guys. But she knew their friends' birthdays. She knew his boss wouldn't care if he showed up three hours late with a beer in his hand. His friends, sure. But they never posted with him in it. Sure they were out but why was everyone but James in the group selfie on Instagram? Yet she took it in stride. Every lie, every argument, every broken promise. 

When he started coming home smelling like her she worried. She worried when he'd smell like her, strip his clothes off and clamor into bed, pawing at her as a man starved. She should be happy, her husband was in her bed again. But it wasn't her name on his lips. It wasn't the thought of her that brought him over the edge. 

Her friends insisted he was a jerk. That she should just leave him and start over. Hey, that construction foreman oh what's his name? Micheal! He seems into you! And she'd smile, shake her head with a laugh that she was just being silly. She'd go to work, ignore the men who flirt, a soft smile to Micheal, then go home. But his clothes smelled like Donna Karen perfume. His lips had a tint of red. And his love was only given with his eyes closed. It should've been obvious. Should've been clear what he'd do. 

She stared at the papers on the table before her. He hadn't meant to leave them out. Probably would've given them to her later. Any day but today. The methodically typed-up letters were an angry glare as she read and re-read the stupid list of things he wanted. Things she'd have to part with once she signed. The pen in her hand nearly snapped in half as she read each line. Each digs into her psyche as she wanted to scratch each line away. As if that'd make them disappear. 

Of course, he'd want the table. 

She glowered. Ripping the papers in half as she stood from the table. All the shit he'd put her through for a table he didn't even like. She gathered the shreds in her hands, and marched across their house, into their bedroom. Dumped them on his pillow. She didn't hesitate to pull her overnight bag out, methodically placing everything she'd need in it. She'd call the hotel on her way there. She'd call a lawyer once she settled in. She made a mental list of everything she'd ever brought him as she did, every stupid thing he hated . Every stupid thing he despised no matter how hard she tried to please him. 

No more. She threw her belongings in her car and slipped into her driver's seat with a thought in her mind.  Her phone nearly burned in her hand as she typed up her final goodbye. 

Me 5:45 PM             

Hey babe! Happy anniversary. I saw your gift on the table. Thanks so much! I hate it. You'll hear from my lawyer this week. Don't talk to me again 😘.       

[tintysun]

All of Us Are Dead (2022) [Remarks (by episode)]

EPISODE 1

• Damnnit. Su-hyeok should have done more for Eun-ji and her reputation. Maybe he believed something like it wasn't his place and could indeed make it worse by meddling. Among other things. But still... :/

EPISODE 2

• "Heads" of schools are so often so effin' dense. Geez. Trying to reason with them is worse than talking to a brick wall hoping to get through it. *facepalm*

EPISODE 3

• It's characters like Lee Na-yeon that I tend to dislike the most and have no compassion for. At first, you may be like, "Okay, so they're privileged and pretty out of touch. But nobody is perfect and people change! I could be bitchy too before..." And then they start pulling shit (and crying when they're facing the consequences of their actions).

IMO, one of the worst kinds of person to have in a team. IDC if they're right at times.

• Yang Dae-su is like the complete opposite. Jeez. Purest and biggest heart of gold.

• Spoiler: Jang Ha-ri LIVES! And I had no idea I would grow to like this character so much when she was first introduced...

EPISODE 4

• You wouldn't believe how heroic Nam So-ju is...

• And Park Mi-jin is so feisty and quarrelsome.

But such a good teammate after all...

EPISODE 5

• Cheong-san is tougher, smarter, kinder, and more deadly than he looks and you'd initially assume. Messing with him is not a good idea.

• The conversation about what if everyone turned and they're the only humans left hits so different now...

• Yoon Gwi-nam is the worst. *shudders*

EPISODE 6

• Trying not to say more than I should before upcoming episodes and the ending, but... Choi Nam-ra is OP. Top student and top fighter.

EPISODE 7

• Call me biased, but when it comes to Min Eun-ji, I'm like, "YASS, SLAAAY!!"

• Welp. If they all leave the school in this instance, that'd be it.

EPISODE 8

• I love how Min Eun-ji, by dealing with her pain, indirectly freed the group to be out on the rooftop and relatively safer. Not the abuse and neglect, though. People are messed up.

• The reluctant "villain". Though, I mean, if you've been severely bullied or outcasted by your peers (and chances are they're all turned or infected, anyway), it kind of follows that you'd hate the place and everyone in it or be indifferent about it all. He may just have been honoring another's rage wish, too.

• Am I supposed to feel bad because she starts showing signs of having some humanity? Well, I don't. She had plenty of opportunities to do the right thing but over and over chose her own comfort and convenience over it. It didn't matter that the teacher who sacrificed herself for her practically begged her to do better and help others. She still chose to be selfish until her bit of conscience (or maybe a literal ghost), and probably her loneliness most of all, finally pushed her to more. I'm not saying go get killed by a zombie, but missed me with that sympathy-seeking. And if I had to guess, she'd be the kind to revert to her old ways once she has it going good for herself again.

EPISODE 9

• Is there a politician that isn't a phony?

EPISODE 10

...

EPISODE 11

• Hmm... Seeing someone you love, or just knew, turn all the way into a Zombie must be a whole other kind of grief. Because you remember the person they were before and you want to hang on to that, and maybe even cherish it, but then in front of you is the same body acting in wildly contrary ways. And you'd have to tell your brain not to override who they were with this new behavior but it would still do. Then there's the hope that there's a cure and you can bring them back again, but that's rarely the case in zombie stories.

• It always both baffled and irritated me to no end the obsession of Yoon Gwi-nam with fighting Lee Cheong-san. But it makes sense that Lee Cheong-san could upset him so. Besides Yoon Gwi-nam just being generally violent and wanting to take that out.

EPISODE 12

• I'm sorry if anyone saw themselves in Park Ji-hoo but, to me, she came across as an NPC - there to prompt the rest of the characters to show different sides or degrees of them as well as to display how emotions can be processed or moral stances taken. I wanted to take it all seriously, but couldn't help but be amused at parts to watch others interact with her as though they were all interacting with a non-entity rather than with a number of other characters they would have shown those sides and degrees to. 😂

Or maybe she's the writer's self-insert? Anyhow, thank you for that, Park Ji-hoo, whatever or whoever you are.

FINAL

• I regret not having written down my favorite lines as I was watching all the episodes. There were some true gems in there. I'd have to rewatch for all of them now. 😭

But off the top of my head right now: Loved Ha-ri's profoundness showing, as well as the thoughtfulness of the teacher, Sun-hwa, and the boldness of Cheong-san. 💛💛💛

[wistfulweaverwoman]

Sure! @sohypothetically you're one of the few original mutuals of mine that are still active. We've been mutuals for NINE years!!

I joined the fandom at some point in the later half of 2013. Maybe because I was so new, or maybe because I got fairly lucky with my mutuals? Mostly I remember feeling really appreciated by my mutuals, they were excited that I was on that day and we knew if one of us was sick or had a date or something. I do think we reposted each others stuff more back then, and we used to have these very long reblog chats discussing and dissecting the texts. I was quite rabid about my theory that Peeta rips off Katniss's cape when she was on fire and point out why ALL of the time, as well as pointing out that any time Katniss mentions "strong arms" she talking about Peeta without saying who she's talking about.

Yeah, within the everlark crowd the anti-Gale hate was strong then, lots of fics where he's super controlling to the point that in many fics he rapes Katniss, which is wildly OOC. The Galniss crowd used to be way larger and more obnoxious. A lot of them shut up (or left) after MJ2 came out. Honestly, most fics were OOC with most of the characters.

I was never a super popular writer so that's probably part of it, though few of my mutuals were very popular and for sure had anon issues. My first fic (The Awkward In-Between) was nominated for best Hunger Games fanfic of all times (The Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards) and we were encouraged to basically campaign to get people to vote for us. I never bothered because out of the other four nominees one was The Miners Wife and the other was When the Moon. LOL. It was literally a popularity contest.

What really stood out to me at the time was how ridiculous people were about Peeta and Katniss. In MOST fics Peeta was always portrayed as perfect and Katniss was always a heartless bitch. Obviously this comes from Katniss's own internal dialogue only and completely ignores/misses contextual evidence that paints an entirely different narrative. I remember being terrified of the backlash I was going to get by the perfect!Peeta crowd with my fic that not only contradicted popular fic culture, but used textual evidence to support my story. I had several discussions with my beta at the time. The hate never came, in part I think because I wasn't one of the popular writers, so I never came under the gaze of those who might attack me.

The other big thing at the time was that there were a LOT of anti-feminist trolls. They'd DM the meanest stuff. No to me, but to a mutual that became a target. They'd tell her that they hoped she was raped to death, and other just awful shit.

Since then we've had a lot of societal shifts. People started calling out rape culture, Me Too, BLM, OWS... these moments have all effected how people think and that in turn has effected the fandom and folks seem to have a more balanced view of everlark now.

Another big difference is there's a lot more people that really study the books and wring out every possible detail now. I think a lot of the OG fics were written by people that'd only read the books once, maybe twice, and read by people that only read the books once to twice. So the perfect!Peeta/bitch!Katniss became cannon-like to these people since they'd read more fics than than they'd read the books.

Before I ever joined the fandom I'd read the books though maybe five times and had written multiple character analysis and I went into the fandom and reading fanfic with a kind of horror. Luckily I came across a diamond early in my search for growing together fics (The List) and figured there'd be more.

When I took a break from the fandom it was for personal reasons, and I still kept in touch with some people via a Facebook group that still going years later.

It's important for context to understand that I was never an "inner circle" Everlarker. I lurked, I was ignored and I basically lived in my own little corner of the world.

Do you think fandom has changed since then?

Ah, Anon,

I think the fandom is different for sure. Or may I am. I don't know.

It's hard to describe how it was back then. Tumblr was such a different place and you had these amazing creators as well as people who were almost obnoxiously Everlark-centric. There was a lot of drama. Like, high-school-level drama. Mean girl stuff. People trying to be top of the heap. It was very, very competitive. And if you were interested in a different point of view -- like Gale not being the anti-Christ -- then people didn't dig that.

We had PIP (Prompts in Panem) and FandomforLLS, which showcased talent, but also made like little Hunger Games out of it. There were constant little gift exchanges or themed prompts that would fly around, and we compared whose stories were more popular. FandomforLLS actually was cross-fandom and people voted for stories. It was bragging rights, but it was a big deal. Then S2SL came about -- same thing. We all came together for a cause, but it was a bit of a popularity contest. If you didn't write drabbles, or smut, or weren't a fast writer who wrote cleanly, you were left behind. And if you wrote something unpopular, it followed you for a bit. We had divisive arguments over certain stories.

And then we had the earth shattering article heard around the world. It was meant to be a good thing that highlighted the best the fandom had to offer, but it named named for the "greats" and everyone else got their feelings hurt. It was awful.

So...is it different now ? I think there are still people who are very, very faithful to their pairing. I think adding TBOSAS changed things up because it added another primary couple/characters to the mix. But I think -- I hope -- that competitive feeding frenzy where we pitted one author against another is done.

I hope.

Anyone else want to share experience? I know mine doesn't sound positive, but I must have gotten something out of it because I'm still here!

[metalheadsforblacklivesmatter]

If you don't want to support JK Rowling's latest antisemitic shit in her most recent movie, let me remind you Percy Jackson is coming to Disney+.

And while I don't support Disney, I HUGELY support what Rick Riordan did in selling the rights to the Percy Jackson series to Disney.

So Rick Riordan started with Percy Jackson and Greek mythology to basically make a series of "what if demigods were alive today". He started the series to support his dyslexic son by making the dyslexia part of the demigod experience.

And that series took off so he wrote similar books for other mythologies, and they were pretty dope.

So people started asking "What about this mythology" or "what about that mythology" and some of them were beliefs that there's people still alive that follow the culture. So he's like "I can't write about that. There's people still alive that follow that culture. If anyone of that culture wants to write about it, I'll boost them."

Fast forward when Disney wanted to buy the rights to make their shitty Percy Jackson cash grab (the movie was absolute shit and every fan knew it was going to be a cash grab).

Riordan came up a clever idea. He gets a small branch of the the Disney publishing company (and the finances that comes with it) to make his own smaller publishing company called Rick Riordan Presents, in which he publishes these books written by BIPOC people about these cultures.

And parents, teachers, administrators, librarians, etc see the name "Rick Riordan" on these books and are like "Rick Riordan? That guy that wrote lightning thief? That was a cute book. I'll put it on my shelves."

Which is getting these cultures in front of the eyes of kids and teaching them about it in a respectful manner BECAUSE IT WAS WRITTEN BY THE PEOPLE OF THESE CULTURES.

I can't speak much for the what was in the library when I went to school but that school is 86% white (based on percent white people in that city). And I went to visit my friend and I see "Rick Riordan Presents" in big bold letters on the table. So I look at the book and it's this book about this Mayan culture written by this woman using stories passed down by her grandma.

And I'm like "Damn. This kid is actually reading about this Mayan culture. Not just that but he's LOVING it."

Not only that, but his mom is Hispanic and his dad is Black. I know my friend. I know how happy she is that her kids get to read about kids that look like them.

(Also, I'd like to point out that the main character of the book I'm talking about, Storm Runner by CJ Lewis is disabled.)

Like. Rick Riordan sold the rights of his biggest series to get the opportunity to put his name on books my authors writing about their culture. Which 1) Gets their books more likely to be picked up by parents and 2) Gets authors published that'd otherwise be fighting racism in the publishing industry especially because they're writing about their cultures.

THIS IS WHAT WE WANT TO SEE. CHILDREN GETTING THE OPPORTUNITY TO LEARN ABOUT CULTURES IN A MANNER THAT'S RESPECTFUL AND ENJOYABLE TO THEM.

So yeah. Regardless of how good our bad the Disney+ show is. It'll always be a reminder to me of that joy my friend had of seeing her kids get to read diversity in their books, and Rick Riordan was huge in making that happen.

-fae

[takenyoomies]

Takeomi's "Day Off"

Title - Takeomi's "Day Off"

Rated - T

Summary - When Senju said it was his "day off", this was not what Akashi Takeomi had in mind.

Tags - Food, Movies, Wakasa Lock-picking, Swearing, Benkei Slander, Mildly OOC

Characters - Takeomi, Wakasa, Benkei, Senju, Draken(mentioned), Shinichiro(mentioned), Terano South(mentioned)

TWs - mentions of character death

Word Count - 2977

Read on AO3

The evening forecast calls for-

“Rain.”

Thunderstorms until the late evening, and it will then clear up around nine o’clock. Back to you for the local news to talk about how you can protect yourself from-

Click.

Takeomi sighed as he took another drag off of his cigarette, neatly ashing it in a black ceramic ashtray he’d found long ago in the belongings of none other than Shinichiro Sano. With his gaze affixed to the ever infinite tile ceiling, one thing crossed his mind. What was he going to do on his day away from the rest of the members of Brahman?

It wasn’t often that the scar-faced man had a rare “day off,” as Senju called them. He chuckled at the idea as he hadn’t been employed since he lost his ambitions, though all things considered, helping manage the gang members did feel like a full-time job. There was the somewhat apathetic Wakasa, who seemingly followed Senju to the ends of the earth. However, enjoyed the occasional prank. Benkei was pretty hot-headed in their quarrels. However, outside of them, he seemed to enjoy the more minor things...only to also become hot-headed about those too. Takeomi rubbed the bridge of his nose as he remembered the time they went fishing only for Benkei to pick a fight with his fishing pole for not catching him any fish. There also was Senju, his sister, who was calm for the most part until she wasn’t, and it became a game of World War between the five of them as they tried to figure out who stole the last manju from the plate in the middle of the table. And lastly, there was of course the new member of the gang, Draken, who hid mainly in the shadows and made a relatively decent hot curry.

The scar-faced man stood from the well-loved recliner, stretching his back as he made his way to the kitchen to grab a beer, “Wonder what they’re up to today…” He murmured as he opened the fridge, plucking a silver can from its place on the shelf. He turned his body to walk back towards the living room only to hear the doorbell ring. He froze in place, blinking. No one other than four people knew he lived here, and all four of those people knew it was his day off.

The bell rang again.

He pursed his lips, thinking that perhaps they would go away.

“He has to be home, and he never goes anywhere.” A deep voice stated, almost in annoyance.

“True...I don’t see the point in him going anywhere, to be honest, and it’s raining.” A tired voice replied, almost sounding bored with the situation.

Takeomi huffed, “Oh, so they think I’m a hermit?” He thought to himself, crossing his arms with a smirk.

“Well...we could always use...that.” The last voice said, the doorbell ringing one more time.

“Oh! I like that idea.” The deep voice spoke excitedly.

Takeomi blinked, wondering what that meant, only to hear the telltale sound of scratching at his door. He hurriedly rushed over, unlocking the door as he quickly realized what that was.

“How many times have I told you, if I’m not answering the door, don’t get Waka to pick the lock!” He yelled in exasperation as he whipped open the door. Benkei collapsed into the genkan while Senju and Wakasa remained kneeling outside, both looking up at the semi-tired-looking man holding a beer, a cigarette between his lips.

“Oh. Hi Takeomi.” Wakasa finally spoke with a wave, his bored face showing how unaffected he was by the man in front of him.

Benkei groaned as he rose from his position on the floor, “If you would’ve answered the door, maybe we wouldn’t have had to use Waka.” He rubbed his head, “And would it kill you to open the door slower?”

“You act as though I’m some item for you to use when you get locked out…” The two-toned-haired man retorted, standing from his crouched position, patting his pants as he put away the lock-picking kit back into his bag.

The buff man clicked his tongue, “As if that’s the biggest fucking issue here.”

Takeomi sighed, looking at the group in front of him, “What are you three even doing here?” He questioned, noticing the plastic bags, “It’s my day off.”

“Well…” Senju started, standing from her position on the ground as well, “We were going to meet up at the park, but it’s raining.”

“Yeah, I wonder who did that.” Benkei huffed sarcastically, crossing his arms.

“You can’t blame me for the rain every time.” Takeomi pointed out, taking a drag off of his cigarette.

“I can, and I fucking will.”

“Regardless of if Takeomi made it rain,” Senju cut in, looking over at the several plastic bags on the concrete behind them, “Your apartment was the closest.”

Takeomi exhaled, the smoke wrapping around him like the safety he needed in that moment as he paused to think. Yes, he could refuse them entry. Unfortunately, though, that would likely just cause them to force their way in like usual. He sighed in defeat, “Alright, get in.”

Senju smiled, “Yay!” The smallest cheered, rushing into the apartment past Takeomi and Benkei.

“Wait, shit, she’s gonna get the chair!” Bekei roared in sudden realization, attempting to blow past the other man as well, only to be stopped by an arm.

“Pick up the bags and then go fight over the chair. Don’t make Waka carry everything.” Takeomi warned, only to receive a glare in return.

“You do it if you’re so concerned.” He snapped, sliding under the arm that was blocking his path inside and rushing inside, “Hey Senju, you got it last time!”

Takeomi shook his head, “Never changes.” He looked over at the plastic bags that Wakasa was beginning to gather up, “It’s always us, huh?”

“Been that way since…” Wakasa trailed off before shrugging a bit, the lollipop in his mouth shifting, “Take these, and I’ll carry the rest.”

The older man knew what he meant by that sentence and was somewhat thankful he didn’t finish it. Sometimes he wondered if that ghost would ever stop haunting the three of them. He shook the thought as he grabbed onto the two plastic bags, peering into them and noticing the sheer amount of food.

“Just...how much did all of you buy?” He questioned, the cigarette on his lips nearly dropping in astonishment.

A hum of amusement came from Wakasa’s throat, “Senju kept putting things in the basket, and Benkei...Well, you know him.”

“And you?” Takeomi questioned, only to see the two-toned-haired man pull out a bag of lollipops. The scar-faced man's lips tilted into a smile, “How predictable.”

“Please,” Wakasa began as they walked inside, Takeomi could already hear the sounds of an argument, “My simple tastes are far superior to Benkei’s ridiculous tastes in cola-flavored garbage.”

Takeomi snorted, “I didn’t know you had a candy complex.”

Wakasa rolled his eyes, “Is that even real?”

“Beats me.” Takeomi chuckled as they made their way into the living room to see a smug-looking Senju placed in the comfortable recliner and an angry Benkei gesturing.

Benkei groaned, “Like I said, you got it last time so, get up!”

Senju smiled sweetly as she settled herself into the recliner, “No, I’m comfortable.”

You could see a vein pop on the buff man’s forehead, “Oh my god, you’re so!” He attempted to piece together before growling once more.

Senju snickered, “Use your words Benkei.”

“Senju, don’t be mean to the wildlife.” Wakasa sighed, placing the bags on the coffee table.

“I am not an animal!” Benkei yelled in offense.

“Hm. Debatable.” Wakasa shrugged as he sat down on one of the pillows.

Takeomi shook his head, placing the other plastic bags onto the table, opening his beer, taking a sip, and wrinkling his nose. Warm. However, this seemed to get the attention of Benkei.

“Hey, Takeomi, if you’re having a beer, share one with the rest of us.” The bearded man complained, strolling over to him.

“Bring your own.” He breathed, waving his spare hand at him, sitting down at the table beside Wakasa, “You just were at the store.”

“If I remember correctly, you said you were going to bum one off of Takeomi.” Wakasa’s bored voice cut in, exposing the other’s plans as he opened a bag of hard candy.

“I-I did not.” Benkei huffed, crossing his arms and looking to the side.

“I clearly recall you stating, Waka, I’m gonna get a beer from Takeomi, so I don’t have to buy a six-pack! I’m so smart, haha or something of that effect.” Wakasa mimicked the burly man set before himself, popping the lollipop out of his mouth and pointing at him with it.

Takeomi hummed, “Is that right?”

“No way, I would never say that!” Benkei denied, holding his hands up in refusal.

“Senju can confirm it, probably.” Wakasa sighed, popping the sweet back in his mouth.

“Ain’t no way she heard sh-”

“I was in the other aisle. Even I heard you say it, Benkei.” Senju confirmed.

“Okay, maybe I did say that,” Benkei muttered, looking to the side, “But come on, beer is expensive!”

“And bumming it off of me makes that okay?” Takeomi asked incredulously, shaking his head.

“Yes.” Benkei grinned, only to receive a look of disapproval from the man.

Takeomi sighed, “I’d say you’re unbelievable, though this is far too in character for you.”

Benkei snorted in amusement, “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Eyebrow twitching, the scar-faced man sighed once more, "If you could stop swearing in front of my sister, that'd be wonderful."

Benkei huffed, "I don't think she minds it."

"Well I-"

Senju waved an arm, interrupting the conversation, “Hey, can you pass me the sour gummy worms?” She asked, as if to ignore the on-going conversation about herself.

Wakasa sighed and looked over to Takeomi, “You’re closer.”

Takeomi stared daggers at Benkei, who shrugged with a lopsided grin. He turned towards Wakasa, “Fine, fine.” Takeomi groaned, putting his cigarette out into the ashtray, “Which bag are they in?”

Wakasa shrugged, opening a can of juice, “Probably the one with the candy.”

Takeomi pulled one of the bags forward, fishing around for the bag of sour candy. “Is this the right bag?” He questioned as he fumbled through the several different types of snacks.

“Probably.” Wakasa’s bored eyes peering over at the man, “Actually, they might be in the other other candy bag.”

Takeomi stopped his search to look up at the two-toned-haired man, “You mean to tell me you have two entire bags of candy?”

The accused party sighed, “Listen, blame Senju for that one.”

“Nuh-uh Waka, you pitched in to at least half the damage!” The light-haired girl chimed in, crossing her arms with a knowing look.

Benkei snorted as he sat down at the table, “And by half, that’d be one bag each.”

“Thank you. I can do basic math,” Wakasa replied, rolling his eyes and pulling the other bag forward. His fingers instantly pulling out the bag of sour gummy worms, much to Takeomi’s surprise.

“How did you…” Takeomi started, only to have the bag of gummy worms flung into his chest, “...Nevermind.” He breathed, standing from his place at the table and walking over to the snowy-haired girl, “Here.”

Senju grinned, “Thanks.” She spoke happily as she grabbed the package of sweets out of his hands, biting open the top with her teeth.

Takeomi sighed attempting to grab the package back from her, “Hey, you’re gonna ruin your teeth like that.”

Wrinkling her nose, Senju looked up at Takeomi, “You’re not the boss of me.” She spoke sarcastically with a slight smile, shoving a gummy worm into her awaiting mouth.

The dark-haired man raised a brow, “...And I’m assuming you forgot that sour food is sour, again.”

Senju’s face had contorted, her nose wrinkling as her lips puckered, “Shut up…” She whimpered, shoving another gummy worm into her mouth.

"You're how old?" Takeomi questioned with an amused smile, as Senju pouted.

"Worst brother ever." She huffed.

Benkei tilted his head over only to burst into laughter, “Happens every time, man.”

“You do the same when you eat spicy food.” Wakasa mentioned as he took a sip from his drink, “Remember the time we ate Draken’s hot curry? You were crying like a baby.”

Takeomi snorted as he remembered the scene, Draken had said he would make them curry since they were eating out too much, and Benkei had been the most excited about it. But, of course, this only seemed to fire up the braid-haired man more when it came to making the curry, so when it came down to them eating, he had even given Benkei an extra serving.

“Do you remember when he took the first bite?” Takeomi pondered as he walked back over to the table, Benkei groaning and placing his head on the table in embarrassment.

“Man, quit it, do you have to?” Benkei pleaded, peeking an eye up towards the man.

“Do you mean the it burns part or take me to the hospital one?” Wakasa questioned with slight amusement.

The buff man grumbled, “I’m going home. This is bullshit.”

“So you can bark, but you can’t take a bite?” Takeomi teased, grabbing his beer and taking another swig, once again scrunching his nose, “This is disgusting.”

“Then why are you still drinking it…?” Wakasa sighed in exasperation.

“Because wasting beer is a cardinal sin.” Takeomi clarified.

Benkei sat up quickly, pointing at both Takeomi and Wakasa, “You know what else a cardinal sin is? Dunking on your homies.”

The two-toned-haired man blinked, before shaking his head and clasping his hands together, and looking directly into Benkei’s eyes, “So is having an IQ of below 70, but we’re still accepting of you, Benkei.” He spoke carefully before downing the rest of his drink, “Alright, are we watching a movie?”

Benkei sat at the table, mouth agape, unsure of what to say or do, all while Takeomi and Senju snickered uncontrollably in the background.

“Sure, we can do that.” Takeomi finally spoke through his laughs, lighting a cigarette, “Though we’re not watching Jurassic Park again and making Terano South references.”

“Aw, come on!” Senju pouted.

“We could always watch Pulp Fiction?” Wakasa offered with a half-hearted shrug.

Takeomi raised a knowing brow, “You just want to say the does he look like a bitch part again, Waka.”

He sighed, “Guilty.”

“What about-” Benkei began.

“No.” Takeomi interrupted.

The burly man huffed and crossed his arms, “But I didn’t even say shit!”

“We are not watching Austin Powers.” The man with the cigarette proclaimed, shaking his head.

“...Fine.”

“What about Goodfellas?” Senju pointed out, swinging her legs from the recliner, “That’s always a favorite.”

Benkei groaned, “We’ve watched that like 20 times, though.”

Takeomi hummed, “What’s 21, though…”

“Waka can probably quote all the lines in that one, too, then.” Benkei thought out loud.

“Did you hear him last time?” Senju asked while tilting her head to the side, “He even did the voices.”

“He wasn’t here last time we watched, remember?” Takeomi pointed out, taking a hit off of his cigarette and exhaling.

“Oh, right!” Senju realized.

“Wait, you mean to tell me I missed Waka doin’ Goodfellas impressions?!” Benkei asked, looking around at the group, “Why did no one tell me!”

“You miss a lot of things when you screw around doing other things.” Wakasa pointed out as he stood, “Goodfellas it is.” He walked over to the bookcase and grabbed a VHS case for the movie.

“The real question is...did we rewind it when we watched it last time,” Senju commented as Wakasa walked over to the television set and shoved it into the VHS player.

“I don’t see why we wouldn’t ha-” It was not rewound, “Goddamn it.” Takeomi huffed.

“Short intermission, I guess.” Wakasa breathed as he hit the rewind button, walking back to the table and plopping down.

The smoking man chuckled, “You know, I didn’t expect to spend my day off like this?”

“Oh?” Wakasa asked, raising a brow.

Benkei snorted, “What, did you expect to sleep all day and drink beer?”

Takeomi rolled his eyes, “No, though that sounds peaceful compared to the mess all of you seem to bring.” He huffed, inhaling the last of the cigarette and putting it out into the ashtray. The VCR clicked, signifying the tape was done rewinding. “I got it,” Takeomi stated as he stood from his seat at the table, walking towards the TV set.

“I guess it is your day off…” Senju hummed, her legs once again moving back and forth as she spoke, “But, we missed you.”

Benkei’s eye’s widened, “Shhh!! You weren’t supposed to tell him!” As he attempted to silence the small leader.

The scar-faced man’s hand stopped as it reached forward. He blinked. They missed him. He felt his heart swell in his chest as a smile spread its way onto his face.

“Hey, Takeomi...” Wakasa questioned boredly after a moment, “Tell me they didn’t take you out with just that?”

“I’m fine.” He responded, pressing play on the VCR and turning to walk towards the light switch. While the smile on his face had disappeared, the warm and fuzzy feelings had not as he switched off the lights. Making his way back to the table, he received an all-knowing look from Wakasa as he sat down.

As the previews for the movie were nearing their end, Takeomi leaned forwards towards Wakasa, attempting not to alert the other two members of the room.

“So, even you missed me?” He questioned quietly as the beginning scene started, the two-toned-haired man not entirely paying attention.

“Yeah, yeah…” the two-toned-haired man dismissed, the piece of candy in his mouth shifting against his teeth.

“Hm.” Takeomi hummed, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the tiled ceiling once more. He could vaguely hear the storm outside over the sound of Wakasa quoting the movie, Benkei’s obnoxious wheezes of laughter, and Senju’s tiny kicks against his favorite recliner that he always gave up to one of them instead to sit on the floor himself. A gentle smile once again made its way back onto his face.

Maybe it should rain more often.

[chrisevansluv]

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!