#I signed up for a T-shirt making workshop at my college

[sheepie-self-ships]

This tshirt is gonna go so hard when I make it LMFAO

[fuck-customers]

It's almost sad that when I tell my regulars I only make $14.50 an hour at a job where I do professional level graphic design and print work, they all get shocked and say I should be making more (I work at a locally owned print shop, and I love the job for the most part, I just hate how I'm rushed and hate certain clients).

WcDonads employees make more than I do. Gas station employees around here make more than I do. And I honestly feel quite jipped because I was told to go to college. Get a degree. Find a job in the field I go to school for and I'll be set (I'm one of those "zillenials," too young to be a millenial but too old to be gen z). Some people say i should be thankful, $14.50 is a lot, but cost of living where I'm at is at least $20/hr. Granted, my college is completely paid for so I don't have student loans to worry about and I'm happy I have graphic design and photography experience. But when I'm at work and I feel the bald patch from where my hair has been falling out from stress from workload, it makes me feel like I was tricked.

I'm so conflicted. Like I said. I like this job. When things aren't busy it's wonderful. But those are becoming fewer and farther between where stuff has completely reopened from Covid and more people want printing for events and sales.

And I've met wonderful people! And learned about small businesses in my community I would have never known about otherwise! I love getting to make nice designs and print beautiful art every day. One of my current friends I've met copying her artwork for her! My gifts to my family have been photo prints and even signs for my dad's workshop that I've gotten printed at a discount and they're all loved so much. And I don't have to wear a uniform - jeans and a t-shirt of my choice every day!

But I've also been yelled at over small shit like maps not being printed on time, or how the color on a flyer isn't as "vibrant as it is on screen," or told to hurry up on a yard sign that someone decided they needed today rather than next week, or have a someone chew me out because I haven't even had time to print three sheets of mailing labels because I've had to hold the hand of a very picky woman who wants her rental guest book to look "just right" yet can't be assed to learn how to use a computer on her own. I've had packages thrown at me when I've said people need to pay to ship them. People getting mad over $.20 black and white copies and $.49 color copies. People saying they're going to get their business cards from PistaVrint because it's cheaper. People come to us and act like we're tech support - "Why is my computer not opening Wicrosoft Mord?! Why is my email not sending?! Why is my phone doing this?!" Like I don't know! Take it to Bye Best!

My manager hardly gets paid any more than I do and she's been with the business for almost 30 years and drives an hour each day to come to work. I only got bumped to $14.50 after my boss overheard I was interviewing at a college print shop that would have paid me $18 an hour. He couldn't even wage match! And I didn't even get the job.

I don't have funds to move to another location where I could find a better paying job in my field, nor would I want to as my family and community are here.

There is a pillow factory here I never knew about. They're hiring various positions starting at $19 an hour. Evenings and weekends mostly off, only needed to work if they need to fill a very large order. My friend started there this week and while she says she's physically tired, the environment seems nice so far and I'm so burnt out here that I've already asked her if she can get a word in for me to start there. More pay? And way less customer interaction? I could do that! But it sucks that I feel like abandoning what I like to do because of my pay grade and the stress I feel. I wish it was all different.

Posted by admin Rodney.

[fishyspots]

the same magic touch

happiest belated birthday to @patrickbrewsky! one day i’ll finish the AU you deserve but for today i can give you this, inspired by a conversation we had a while back ❤️️(ps: it’s also on ao3)

“Why are you throwing that sweater out?”

Patrick looks up from the bin, fabric in hand. He feels caught out somehow, but he’s not sure why. “It has a hole in it?”

David stares him down from his spot by the bathroom door. “Why are you ripping holes in your best sweater?”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” Patrick protests. “It was totally innocent.”

“Hand it over.” David crosses Patrick’s apartment, narrowly missing clipping the bed with his knee, limbs akimbo the way they always are this early in the morning. Patrick lets David take the sweater from him, perhaps to say a fond farewell, and turns to start David’s coffee. He didn’t know David liked this sweater best; David’s peeled it off of him more than once, but that’s true of most of his shirts at this point.

For some reason, David folds the sweater and puts it in his bag instead of the trash where it belongs. “What are you going to do with that?”

David looks at him like he’s being difficult. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re trying to clone me, that sweater got ripped in the wash so you’ll want something less fresh.” Patrick grabs for the cocoa powder he keeps in his cupboard and that David still won’t look directly at.

“Why would I clone you before they let me edit out your sense of humor?”

“You love my sense of humor.”

David is scrolling through something on his phone now, clearly past the sweater conversation, but he looks up and smiles when Patrick slides his coffee across the counter. “I have very intentionally never said that.”

“Just like how you’re not saying what you’re going to do with my—”

“The tear is on the seam.” David shrugs and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose in the way that means he tastes the cocoa but will not be commenting on it at this time. “It’ll take, like, five minutes to fix.”

“And you know someone who’s willing to do that? Because the only person I can think of is Jocelyn, and I know you two have that begrudging acceptance thing going but I don’t think it extends to me.”

“She likes you too, you know. She told me last week that you were the best Emcee they could have cast.”

“That’s very sweet.” Patrick tilts his head. “But I don’t know there were any other contenders, so it probably sounds better than it is.” But they’re getting off topic now. “Wait, no. Who’s fixing this sweater?”

“I’m fixing the sweater.” David grabs his bag and sets the mug in the sink. “Should we go? We’re going to open late otherwise.”

David’s concern for keeping normal opening hours more than anything else tells Patrick that he’s missing something. Still: “You’re going to fix it.”

“That is correct.” David sighs. “Can we please go? If you wait much longer I’ll lose all this energy and then you’ll have to open by yourself.”

Patrick rolls his lips in and bites down. “How many sweaters have you mended, exactly? Because you talked for an hour once about all the cashmere sweaters you lost to moths.”

“Cashmere is different. Anyway, I’m not, like, totally helpless,” David says. “I went to art school.”

Patrick privately thinks that the sentence might be an oxymoron, but he can acknowledge his own bias here. He took a pottery class in college as his “understanding art” elective; he and his fellow business majors had a lot to say about the cost of equipment and the annoyance of waiting around for the clay to bake. And then after all of that, his glaze was cracked and uneven. “Do they teach stitching there? Like, a whole class?”

“Mm.” David’s mouth is a thin line. “Right after the Etch-A-Sketch one.”

Patrick may have overshot it. “That didn’t—”

“Go to the store. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Patrick sets the spare key on the counter and elects to retreat.

***

“This is earlier than I was expecting to see you.”

David makes a beeline for the macchiato Patrick set in a prominent place on the counter in a spot near the door. He didn’t want David to miss it. “I said an hour.”

The teasing is right there; Patrick has to consciously push down countless other times where David has wildly miscalculated his arrival time. Instead, he takes a breath and prepares for a real apology. They’re a new thing for the two of them—after his parents came to town, Patrick’s been making communication a priority. It’s mostly his idea, but it was spurred on by some...gentle suggestion from Stevie. He doesn’t want to keep falling back into old habits, and he’s not going to put the burden on David to keep him accountable.

But David has not been exceptionally amenable to this new strategy. “Stop,” he says once he’s taken a drink and turned to look at Patrick. “Enough. Thank you for the coffee.”

He drops a kiss on Patrick’s cheek and continues on to the back room. Patrick entertains the idea of following him, but the bell above the door chimes again and he pushes down the conversation they need to have. Not forever, he tells himself sternly. Just until closing. Or lunch, if he can rig them a break.

But it’s Ronnie crossing the threshold, so maybe they do need to finish their relationship discussion. Maybe close the store for the day, or something.

“Ronnie!” Patrick winces at the enthusiasm he can hear in his own voice. David keeps saying that he’s forcing it, which might be valid. “What are you looking for today?”

Ronnie lifts her chin but doesn’t make eye contact. “David here?”

Still trying too hard, then. “He’s in the back. I’ll get him.”

Apparently he heard them, because David’s already peeking out. “Sorry about that, Ronnie. Back for that cheese or is it something else?”

Ronnie lets David curate a cheese plate for her next Women in Business meeting and suggest some wine pairings; Patrick bites back his own opinions to the best of his ability. Or, he does after Ronnie pointedly sets the chardonnay back on the shelf after he says it’s his favorite.

David rings her up and sees her off, and Patrick opens his mouth again to take advantage of a lull. Then the phone rings.

“Can you take that?” David asks. “I want to figure out what we need for that greeting card workshop next month. Jo likes it when we order with at least three weeks’ notice, and they gave us that frame for the poster last time as a thank you so I don’t want to—”

Patrick waves him off before the phone goes to voicemail. “I got it.”

Fortunately for their stocking schedule, it’s Brenda. They’ve been running low on the moisturizer she’s trying out recently, and they need to get more on the shelf as soon as she has it ready. Unfortunately for him, Brenda called seeking opinions about her new combination skin formula and the essential oil blend. David informed Patrick early on that he had combination skin, but Patrick senses that Brenda will not find this information useful. He bides his time and lets Brenda talk until David catches on to his frantic gestures.

They don't teach this in business school. He lets his eyes drift from David's face (a struggle, sometimes) to the bag at his boyfriend's feet. They don't teach a lot of things in business school.

Patrick passes off the phone and greets the next customers, who thankfully do not have any qualms about his personality. Then he checks the stock spreadsheet. They’re getting low on sweaters and socks after the cold snap last week, so he flags the vendors for David to email and sets about filling in the blank spots on the shelves after a busy morning.

The sound of David’s voice soothes Patrick’s nerves even more than the playlist he and David made together in a process that started adversarial (“Smooth jazz? Why not just get a Muzak?” “People shop in those stores too, David.”) and turned playful after they decided on a one-for-one system. Patrick’s alt-folk mixes surprisingly seamlessly with the Whitneys and Mariahs David added. Even the Counting Crows Patrick put on the list just to be contrary fits, in a way.

“Everything okay with Brenda?” Patrick asks after David drops the phone back into his holder. “Are you going to put a new cleanser in my bathroom soon?”

“I don’t see why those two things are necessarily related,” David says, “but yes to both.”

“Good to know.” They might be able to flip the sign for lunch if they’re quick; clouds are gathering in the sky outside in a way that spells a dreary afternoon. “Want me to pick us up something?”

Patrick heads for the door at David’s nod of assent. Even though they haven’t talked about it, he still feels like he’s making up for something. Hopefully that will change. He’s jumping into this new talking strategy with both feet, and he just hopes that David will catch him.

Silly, he thinks as he crosses the street. David has never once let him fall.

Twyla greets him with a sunny smile and asks if they want their usual. For him, a burger is pretty standard, but David keeps vacillating between different soups, sandwiches, and salads. It’s a caesar salad day today; though Patrick would love to read into David’s mood from his choice, he knows better than that by now. David just does what he wants sometimes. As for Patrick, he’s mostly just happy that David is limiting the chance that he won’t like his food. He worked through the international section of the menu last week and spent three afternoons in a row cranky due to hunger and the continual failure of the café to meet his admittedly unrealistic expectations. He does add a cookie, because communication is great and all but it’s always good to have an insurance policy if things go south.

Back at the store, David’s handing over a Rose Apothecary tote to Roland and he’s not even grimacing. Much. There’s definite relief in his eyes when Patrick holds the door for Roland, though. It’s quickly replaced by confusion when Patrick flips the sign.

“I thought we could eat lunch together?” Patrick resists the urge to kick at the ground like a teenager, but it’s there. “We haven’t had much time to just...see each other. Today.”

“I saw plenty of you this morning.” David raises an eyebrow suggestively.

Patrick fights his easy blush; that’s beside the point. “That’s not—”

“You know I never complain about seeing you,” David continues. “But Roland said Jocelyn is going to stop by later, so we’ll have to keep an eye out.”

Patrick thinks Jocelyn can probably wait, but he keeps that to himself. He waits until they’re settled on the couch with David’s left thigh pressing against his right and David can’t talk past his mouthful of lettuce before he broaches the topic. “I did want to talk about this morning.”

David’s eyes widen as he chews, but he does look a little less frantic than he would months or even a year ago if Patrick said something similar.

While David can’t cut him off, Patrick presses his advantage. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you’re helpless. I don’t think you’re helpless.”

David rolls his eyes, but there’s something tight around his mouth that tells Patrick he has to do a little more here. He swallows, so Patrick hurries to finish his thought.

“I think you’re...you do a lot that I don’t do.”

“And you do a lot I don’t do.”

“I don’t think—no, I know, I know I don’t think about that enough.”

Something suspicious dissipates from David’s face. “Is this your whole talking thing again?”

“I don’t have a whole talking thing,” Patrick protests.

“You’ve had a whole talking thing for weeks now. Do you want me to run through all of my skills, or is it sufficient to just say that we’re okay?”

Patrick definitely had prepared to run through all of David’s skills, but he elects to save that for another time. Maybe tonight, when he has more ability to keep David in one place until he’s finished saying what he wants to say. “It’s enough. For now.”

“Threatening me with conversation.” David shakes his head. But he doesn’t take another bite, so he’s at least somewhat worried that Patrick will drop all of his feelings right this moment.

“You can eat, David.”

David lifts his fork cautiously.

So Patrick has no choice, really. “I love you.”

Patrick wants to frame the look David gives him, cheeks slightly bulging and eyes furious and generally perfect.

They unlock the front door in time to catch Jocelyn, and Patrick finds himself still cataloguing David’s competencies for the rest of the day. That night, Patrick sees his sweater, repaired and neatly folded in the way that David says limits wrinkles, hidden in his drawer under a college sweatshirt. It looks as good as new. “Thanks for the sweater.”

“Well, the cloning people were unhelpful. Said I’d have to keep all of you if I went for a new one, and I don’t have the constitution to be mocked twice as often.”

Patrick can’t let it go without saying something, though. “David. Thank you.” That should cover his whole talking thing for now. David still looks at him like he’s a too-large shipment that won’t fit in the planned display. Back to teasing, then. “You know, I had a thought.” Patrick affects his most guileless expression as he slides into bed next to his boyfriend. David’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Since you’re so good at this, and you went to art school and all, maybe you can help with costumes for Cabaret.”

Patrick enjoys the horrified look that blooms across David’s face probably too much. “I’m suddenly feeling very helpless.”

“Could be worse,” Patrick says. “At least there’s only one of me to deal with.”

[gerberbabey]

debut | one | pope heyward w/ filipina!reader

the idea of the pogues in a high school setting is actual so fun so i kinda got carried away. i rlly hav a thing for writing the character pining for the reader rather than the other way around.

im basing this off of how my high school was cus idk shit about any other high schools lmao. also excuse volleyball terminology, i also very much miss volleyball

masterlist | previous | next

warnings: cursing, like terrible writing, just filler stuff

one - ♫ I THINK by Tyler, The Creator ♫

It was already two weeks into your senior year and you were settling in nicely. At two weeks people were still switching around their classes making sure they wouldn’t regret the class they decided to settle into. You were satisfied with your schedule considering you only had 3 actual academic classes. 

For your last year you’d opted out of taking one least year of math or another year of science. You were a good student sure but you’d never been the best at maths or sciences. To the Pogues’ surprise Pope had a similar schedule, yet the only reason he wasn’t packed with AP classes was because he was signed up for dual enrollment with online college courses. 

“Dual enrollment helps clear GEs better than AP classes. I’m not saying I wouldn’t pass those AP tests but this way is easier,” Pope explained to JJ as they walked through the crowded halls of Kildare County High. Kooks and Pogues alike littered the hallways, separated in their own little groups and yet standing amongst one another. 

“Whatever you say Pope,” JJ shook his head. He and Pope had one class together this year and that was Intro to Drawing in the very beginning of the day.  

“Heeeey guys,” Kie greeted as she walked up to them, hiking her bag up her shoulder. Kie had opted out of a backpack this last year and had instead started using a tote bag which was only filled with her laptop, a single notebook, her pencil case, and other small personal belongings that had nothing to do with school. 

“You guys going to the game on Friday?” Kie questioned and Pope cringed as JJ groaned. 

“No Kie, we are not going to the football game this Friday-”

“Guys come one, first game of the season! Plus the environmental club is planning to work snack bar. All the money goes toward the Turtle Habitats and the Save the Ocean Foundation,” Kie plead. 

“As much as I love the turtles Kie,” the group stopped at Pope’s locker, “Our football team is garbage. Why would I subject myself to that?” 

“Ok I know that, but don’t go for the team,” Kie raised her eyebrows at the two of them, “Go for the turtles!” 

JJ shot her an “eeeh” sort of look and Kie huffed in annoyance. 

“Come on, if you could give me a whole other way to fundraise then please do,” Kie crossed her arms as Pope shuffled around the belongings in his locker. 

“You need help fundraising Kie?” 

The three teens turned in the direction of your voice and you grinned as you walked up to them, your teammate and other best friend Isabelle walking with you. Isabelle was tall, one of the tallest girls at school actually, and though they saw you two together frequently it was still kind of amusing to see one of the tallest people they new walking around with one of the shortest people they knew. 

“Yeah well, my club’s planning to do the football game snack bar but nobody goes to the game’s anyway so,” Kie shrugged. 

“You could fundraise at the volleyball game,” Isabelle suggested giving Kie a smile. Kie smiled back sheepishly as she shifted on her spot. 

“Are you serious?” she questioned, turning to you and you shrugged. 

“Well, why not? Wouldn’t hurt to ask our coach,” you stated and Kie watched as Pope closed his locker and turned as your hands reached up to fix the collar of the button up he’d worn over his t-shirt. 

“We have a game tomorrow, and then there’s a workshop on Saturday. If your club wants to try and fundraise during those, we can try and figure something out,” Isabelle spoke to Kie and Kie flushed for a moment before she nodded frantically and began talking over a few ideas that were already coming to mind. 

“And people are guaranteed to show up to the girls volleyball games,” JJ wiggled his eyebrows at you and Pope and you laughed as Pope reached up to whack JJ in the chest. You couldn’t help but note how weird JJ looked without one of his usual hats on. You figured it was because the teachers lost their minds over hats being worn inside the building. 

“So (Y/N),” Pope started and you and JJ looked at him. 

“So Pope?” you smiled and missed how JJ glanced between the two of you with a knowing look in his eye. 

“Am I gonna see your dress anytime soon?” Pope questioned and you rolled your eyes. 

“Pope I literally already told you that no one’s allowed to see it until my party,” you leaned against Pope as he shook his head.

“But I’m not just anyone,” he insisted and you laughed as the first bell of the day rang overhead. 

“Ok whatever dude,” you shoved at Pope and he playfully slapped at your arms, “Me and Isa have to go, I’ll see you guys later,” you bid and you gave Pope a hug and a kiss on the cheek before you waved goodbye to JJ and Kie. The three of them watched you two join the sea of students and JJ turned to Kie and Pope.

“Was I seriously just fifth wheeling?” he scoffed and Pope glared at him as Kie flushed at his insinuation. 

__________

“Ok can I just get like...the color? Oh my-you never even told me the color!” Pope stared at you with wide eyes and you shook your head as you covered your mouth to try and keep your laugh from coming out. The two of you were in your second to last class of the day (You were both TA’s for the Intro to Film teacher and that usually meant goofing around in the back as the class watched movies all day), and Pope had not let the topic of your dress drop. 

In fact he had asked you about it for the past three weeks. 

“I can’t ruin it,” you whined and Pope leaned forward and groaned into your shoulder. 

“Telling me the color won’t ruin it,” he mumbled and you reached up to rub his back. 

“Yes it will,” you whispered back playfully and Pope groaned again as you laughed, “Oh by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you...” 

Pope sat up and motioned for you to continue. 

“I don’t need to have an escort or anything, but I was actually wondering if you’d like to be my escort? For my party?” you weren’t sure why you were so nervous but you couldn’t get yourself to look Pope in the eye. You watched as your fingers played with the end of his shirt. 

“(Y/N).”

You looked up at Pope through your lashes and he flashed you a wide grin. 

“I would literally be honored,” Pope pulled you into a tight hug before pulling back, “Also I would’ve been extremely offended if you didn’t ask me and I probably would’ve just been your escort anyway.” 

You laughed and quickly brought a hand up to cover it up as a few of the students in the room shot the two of you looks. 

“I wouldn’t even go through with the party without you,” you told him softly and Pope could feel his heart skip a beat. Sometimes he wondered what it would’ve been like if he had gathered up the courage to ask you out ages ago. Despite the bullshit he told his friends he knew that he was in love with you. He would always love you, but being in love with you was different. It meant so much more. 

“So that means I get to know the color of your dress right?” Pope whispered and your mouth dropped open in shock as a wide grin stretched across his face. You tried to stop yourself from smiling as you reached up to whack him on the shoulder. 

“No!” you whisper-yelled. 

“But how am I gonna coordinate with you-” 

“Drop it Pope,” you laughed as the bell rang to indicate the end of class. 

________

“Where’s Kie?” John B questioned as JJ and Pope walked up to him. Today was the first girl’s volleyball game of the year and they had planned on going to watch together. They only really did it out of support toward you but that obviously didn’t stop JJ from his usual flirting. 

“Her club’s doing snack bar or something, to help fundraise for turtles. Did she not tell you?” Pope asked as they walked into the gym together. There was music playing through the gym’s speakers and there was chatter and noise from every point. There was the sound of shoes squeaking against the gym floor and the sounds of volleyballs coming into contact with the floor, hands, the walls, etc. 

“Nah, I didn’t see her that much yesterday or even today.” 

“Yeah, where the hell were you anyway?” JJ questioned as he led the way up the bleachers. It was definitely crowded but the boys weren’t at all surprised, Kildare County High’s volleyball team was actually good, meaning they usually garnered a large audience of spectators. 

“I was at the counselor’s like all day trying to figure out how I’m gonna get enough credits to graduate,” John B sighed and JJ and Pope cringed. After John B’s dad disappeared in their sophomore year, the boy had taken a half a step back from his academic responsibilities to try and keep himself together and afloat. Then after Big John’s body was found at the beginning of their Junior year, John B had considered dropping out entirely. He missed a majority of that school year as a result of his grief, deciding that he felt there was no point for school any longer.

Yet with the surprising help of Sheriff Peterkin he had pushed himself back into finishing school. The school understood of course, but that didn’t mean it didn’t take a toll on his academic record. 

“I’m sure it’ll work out in the end,” Pope encouraged and JJ nodded, before the blonde clapped and looked around, eager to get John B’s mind off the matter. 

“Oh shit look there’s Quincy,” JJ pointed out and the trio made their way over the where a large group of other Pogues who had gathered up on one side of the bleachers. While some schools may have had senior sections or something of the like, their gym was separated by Kooks, Pogues, parents, and then any visitors from the opposing school. 

“Hey JJ what’s up man?” 

JJ dapped up Quincy and the two of them began talking about something or another as John B and Pope were greeted by the people around them. 

“Yeah (Y/N)!!” someone near them yelled, “You dig those balls!” 

The three boys turned to the court and watched as you shook your head and laughed but kept your focus on the court. You squatted down low once more and they watched as you warmed up, passing dimes for your setter to set. 

“Woooh (Y/N)!” JJ’s hands were cupped around his mouth as he yelled.

“Yeeeahhh!” John B yelled and was followed up by the student section of their gym, Pogues and Kooks alike, cheering for their team despite it only being in warm ups. 

Soon enough people had settled into the bleachers as the Varsity game came to a start. (Pope, JJ, and John B had yelled their hearts out at your introduction - “Number 10, Libero: (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!”. And JJ had pointed out where Kie was bustling over at the snack bar, charming people into buying whatever she pointed out to them). 

“Oh shit hey, I’m gonna go say hi to (Y/N)’s parents. I totally forgot,” Pope told his friends and the two nodded, waving him off. Pope mumbled “excuse me’s” as he maneuvered his way by people’s legs and tried not to knee anybody in the back of the head. He jogged down the steps of the bleacher and made his way to where the parents were all situated, watching the game intently. There was a bout of cheering and Pope glanced over to the court to watch you jump up in excitement as your team scored another point. 

“Hey Pope!” Pope looked up at that and smiled as your mom waved him over to where she was sitting with your dad.

“Hi!” he greeted, and leaned over as your mom stretched her arms up to give him a hug in greeting. 

“Your parents not here tonight?” your dad questioned and Pope shook his head. 

“Nah they couldn’t leave the store. They really wanted to come though. (Y/N)’s last first game and all.” 

“Ah well that’s alright, plenty of games after this one.” 

“Of course. Uh Mrs. (Y/L/N) how’s the party planning?” your mom rolled her eyes though he could tell there was no ill intent. 

“Stressful. All (Y/N) focused on was her dress and her guest list. Finding a place to even have the party was almost impossible,” your mom explained and Pope chuckled. 

“(Y/N) won’t even let me know what the dress looks like,” Pope told them and your mom laughed as your dad nodded. 

“She’s hid it from her dad too.”

“Won’t be able to see it ‘till the party,” your dad shook his head at that as Pope let out a surprised chuckle. 

“You ate that (Y/N)!” someone yelled and Pope and your parents glanced over at the game and watched you get picked up by Isabelle as your team cheered over winning the first set of the match. 

“Well I’m gonna head back to my friends,” Pope pointed over to where John B and JJ were sitting, now with the addition of Kie. 

“Of course, of course. We’ll be seeing you at our house later?” your mom teased and Pope shrugged as he laughed. 

He waved your parents goodbye and by the time he’d gotten back to his friends Kildare was already ahead in the second set. 

“Not working anymore Kie?” Pope questioned as he took a seat beside her leaving her between him and JJ. 

“Yeah we made shifts so it’s Marco’s turn,” Kie explained pointing over to the snack bar. 

“Was our volleyball team always this good?” JJ questioned and Pope scoffed. 

“Yeah you were just too busy staring at their asses to watch them play,” he reached around Kie to shove at the blonde and JJ batted his arms away. 

“Hey, you can’t exactly blame me!” 

“Gross JJ,” Kie rolled her eyes and the boy looked at Kie with an offended look before turning to John B as if to say, ‘are you hearing this?’. John B only shook his head at his best friend. The 3 Pogues chuckled at JJ’s expense before they turned back to the game. It was your turn to serve now and as you waited for the referee to blow his whistle John B reached up and cupped his hands around his mouth. 

“Do it for Pope, (Y/N)!!” 

Pope whipped his head over to John B as the students around them “oooh’d!” some of them shoving at Pope playfully. From the court he missed how you glanced up at where they were sitting, a grin on your face as the referee finally blew the whistle to let you serve. 

“Shut up John B!” Pope hissed and the brunette only laughed it off as Kie mentioned how Pope should’ve been used to this by now and JJ yelled. 

“For Poooope!!!!” JJ yelled as you served the ball. 

The Kildare supporters all cheered as you aced your serve and Pope flushed in embarrassment as you turned and pointed to him, riling up the crowd of students as those closest to him shoved at him once more. 

“Yes King!” someone yelled at Pope and he couldn’t help but grin as he pointed back at you. 

[missorgana]

leave me a note, till next time

pairing: finn/rey, background han solo/leia organa

fandom: star wars (sequel trilogy)

rating: general

word count: 4833

warning: swearing

summary: “Finn’s very picky about who he gives his music to, so can tell you I was surprised. "Or the plot explained: Rey ends up talking to the cute cashier in her local record store. He's leaving her post-it notes. This crush of hers might be getting bigger than first anticipated. (record store au) happy belated birthday to my babey @sapphicstarlights ♥ really hope you enjoy this perfect!! mwah)

read on ao3

You’re probably wondering what Rey’s doing here. In fact, she’s kind of wondering that herself.

The deal’s that she’s become more or less a regular customer of the cozy, slightly pretentious but in just the right way, record store at the corner of her street.

Or she would be a regular customer, if she actually bought anything.

Rey doesn’t even own a record player.

Yet she finds herself in the small aisles of the Resistance Record Shack nearly every weekend. And don’t ask her about the name, she’s got no idea what it means, the resistance part, that is.

Rey really does like the music playing in here. It varies in genre, actually, first time she was here it was Pink Floyd, other days Amy Winehouse, and today… she doesn’t actually know what artist it is, but it’s still nice.

The store’s actually connected with the coffee shop next door, she’s never bought anything there either, but it only adds to the coziness of it all.

But as she glances towards the front desk every now and then, the real reason why she’s here comes into view.

And there’s nothing wrong with admiring someone from afar, right?

Rey tells herself that, anyway, because visiting this store only for this reason is incredibly embarrassing, in her own head, and a bit weird.

Said person Rey’s been visiting this store for is one of the cashiers, and no, she’s never talked to him, but he’s really pretty, okay?

She doesn’t really know why she’s so drawn by him.

He seems the height as her, and he’s always wearing a band t-shirt of some sort, and it’s not always she knows said band, but maybe she’s checked some of them out from time to time.

Rey’s not obsessing, she swears by that.

This man’s always got his arms exposed, even when she first discovered this store last winter, when it was  snowing . And yes, once she walked by and saw him talking to someone outside, no jacket or anything.

Strange. She doesn’t really know if it adds to her interest in him or just makes him weird, who knows.

Almost all the times she’s been in here, he’s controlled the music, and the choices are usually great, but a lot she doesn’t know.

Recently he’s played a lot of non-English music, and it made her realise that she doesn’t really listen to much music outside of her own language.

And maybe, she’s seen him in deep concentration sometimes, reading on the back of a record sleeve, or putting records in order, and found his frown a tiny bit cute.

She knows it’s weird, okay, she knows.

A glance at her watch makes Rey realise she should probably leave, because Leia needed her help with moving the last boxes into her and Han’s new apartment, but before Rey goes a voice startles her.

“You looking for anything in particular?”

And she has to jump a bit, and next to her, he’s standing.

His voice isn’t really what she expected, but then again, she doesn’t know what she expected.

It’s very warm, and he scratches his neck, a look of embarrassment starting to wash over him, “Ah, fuck, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Rey’s wide eyed for a moment before shaking her head, “It’s fine.”

And awkward silence. Hate that. Say something Rey, god damn it.

“I, uh, no, not really. I gotta get going anyway, I was just browsing.” she tells him, which is a horrible explanation, but she didn’t really plan to, you know, talk to him or anything.

In her time, Rey’s seen and admired a lot of people without ever approaching them.

She does that a lot in the car workshop she’s an intern in, and she did when she was looking for colleges, and she did back in school in England.

Her girlfriend at that time, Jess, told her it wasn’t weird, but maybe she was just lying to make Rey feel better.

Jess is really the only person she’s admired that she’s gotten to know.

She’s not very impulsive, and Rey wishes she was, sometimes. So did Jess, not that she forced her, because she would never. But Jess did some things alone, and Rey felt bad that their differences did that.

They split up when they both went on exchange, though, and Rey’s honestly really glad they’re still in contact.

Ever since, Jess has been encouraging her to date again, but Rey’s come up pretty result-less no matter the time.

She also made the perhaps mistake of telling Jess about the cute guy at the record store, who’s now in front of her, and now, her former girlfriend urges her to reach out.

Maybe that’s why she’s here, really.

Still, he’s in front of her now because he approached her, not the other way around. Jess doesn’t have to know about this, though… right?

“It’s a good section you’re browsing, honestly,” the man tells him, head gesturing towards the sign stating Alternative Rock, 70s.  “I sort of wish we had a bigger selection, but you know, only got so much space.”

He ended his sentence with a chuckle, and she couldn’t help but give him a smile back.

If Rey wasn’t sure Leia would call her any minute now, she would stay and talk to him just a bit more. He seems like talking to strangers isn’t really his thing, so she can only wonder why he’s got a job that involves customer service.

Rey can’t really end their conversation on that, though, so she rushes, “I, uh, well. It’s sort of stupid, but I don’t own a record player.”

And in a second, his eyes go wide.

“Oh my god, really? I mean, they’re expensive as shi- Sorry. It’s essential, though!” he tells her, laughing, but quickly holds his surprise, “Or I mean, not to make you feel bad, I know technology’s moved on and all. But you just like looking at records, then?”

And, well, fuck. She can’t really say she’s been looking at him from time to time, that might be the creepiest thing she can ever do.

“Yeah? That’s, uh, that’s why it’s stupid. And I like the music playing here, anyway, and the atmosphere, really.”

And the cashier smiles back at her awkward demeanor, and extends his hand.

Rey has to look at it for a second before he speaks up, “Well, I’m glad you think that, we’re aiming for something… I don’t know, homely, I guess? I’m Finn.”

“Rey.” she tells him, shaking his hand in return. His voice is on an octave higher than her own, and his words rush over one another. And he’s got a dimple when he smiles, but just a single one, which she finds adorable and strange, for some reason.

And she has to look at her watch again, because she really is late, and she looks up at him with an apologetic smile, “Finn, it’s really nice meeting you. I swear, honestly. But I do really have to go.”

Rey doesn’t know why she feels so bad, but she does, and she wishes she could stay a bit longer. But this is way more social interaction than she thought she would be having today.

Maybe Leia’s gonna be proud of her, Jess too.

“Oh Christ, yes! I apologise, I keep a hold of you for no good reason,” he leans on the rack behind him, seemingly trying to assume his own business but not really knowing what to do with himself, “Nice meeting you too, Rey.”

And she can’t do anything more than nod, smiling again, and gives him a stupid, awkward wave before turning around and hurrying out the door.

That was weird, but it went okay under the circumstances, didn’t it? She’d ask Jess that, anyway, when she calls tomorrow. And maybe she’d ask Leia, because she’s always got the right advice to everything Rey asks, somehow.

Advice about boys, or girls, isn’t something Rey’s inquired her about before, but there has to be a first time for everything, she guesses.

And she finds herself pondering over the conversation, in the back of her mind, on the train to Leia and Han’s residence.

And Finn. Rey likes that name.

Finn.

…

The weekend following her first conversation with cute cas- Finn, came, and now, she’s walking into the record store with a new determination.

She, maybe, possibly, told Leia of this meeting, which caused nothing more than a knowing smile and a question of this boy’s name.

Leia also yelled to her husband, stocking up in the kitchen, letting him know what they were talking about, causing Rey’s face to heat up. But Leia and Han had taken care of her, ever since her parents died, so she was fond of their shenanigans.

And the knowledge of Finn only sounded a scoff from her father figure, but he’s always grumpy, and really, nothing ever surprises him, which she finds kind of hilarious.

Rey also told Jess over the phone, of course, and she  squealed .

Jessika is no way near a squealing type of person.

When the door closes behind her, Rey spots who she’s looking for, putting a new vinyl record on to play over the bustle of the small gathering of customers.

She has to take a quick breath, but figures it’ll be stupid to just, well, stand here, so Rey approaches him. Terrifying, but also kind of thrilling.

“Hey,” she says, maybe a bit too loud, because Finn jumps, and she’s quick to apologise, “I- oh my God, did not mean to scare you.”

When he recognizes her, he smiles, wider than last weekend she notes, not like it means anything.

Obviously it is, they only just met last time, and now he’s probably just being polite. Shut up, brain.

“Guess we’re even now, huh,” he answers with a laugh, “Really, don’t worry about it.”

For some reason, he makes her feel calm.

She’s not usually like this with strangers, crushing on them or not, so this is different.

Rey’s giving him a smile back, because how can she not, and she has to somehow move this conversation further along, so she finds it in herself to ask a question, “I thought of what you said, and I don’t know, maybe I should invest in a record player.”

Finn’s eyes lighten up now, eyebrows shooting up a bit, “Definitely! Or I mean, as I said, it’s a thing that’s back in fashion, not really that practical, but oh well. Can I ask though, what kind of music’s your thing?”

And in that moment Rey finds herself dumbfounded, and she almost wants to laugh at herself.

Well, hm, now that he asks, she hasn’t really thought about it much.

Rey likes a lot of music, but she doesn’t know if she has any favorites. Is that weird?

“I, uh, it’s… kind of embarrassing. But I don’t really know?”

A look of confusion appears on his face, and she wants to dig herself in a hole already, but can’t really leave this hanging, so she continues hastily, “Or I mean, ugh. I just haven’t really thought of any favorites… you know? Sorry, that’s stupid.”

And honestly, the smile that returns on his face now might be creating butterflies in Rey’s stomach, don’t judge her, okay.

“It’s not stupid, Rey, seriously. You just need to figure out what your niche is, right? You know what - how about I give you one of my favorite records on the side of the player.” he tells, already going behind the desk and digging through something excitedly, “Can’t promise you’ll like it, but ugh, it’s so good.”

This situation’s overwhelming her, but she doesn’t mind right now, because he’s so nice, how can one be so nice?

And why does he have to be so damned cute about it? It’s the worst.

Finn’s already putting it in front of her, “This is on sale right now, actually, if you still wanna try it out? And the record’s from my own collection, so don’t worry about that, okay?”

Rey just nods, and has to chuckle, and gives him a reassuring look, “I’d love that. If it’s not any trouble to you, that is.”

The man’s shaking his head profusely at her.

“Hell, no. Wanna help you into your venture of the music world as much as I can. Prepare to get your mind blown.”

And well, Rey didn’t expect to spend any money today on anything else than groceries, but look at her now. Back on the subway, a giant box in her arms that results her in not being able to sit anyway and other passengers giving her weird looks.

She just wants this awkwardness to be over. Fuck that.

The one she had with Finn, though, well.

Rey didn’t mind that too much.

…

So, you can probably guess that Rey’s going back to the record shack this week, too.

Jess gave her the knowing smile that always gets on her nerves, over facetime, when she told her of her weekend plans.

“I hate you.” Rey told her, but the girl just laughed. Dammit.

But to be fair, this time she’s got more, what do you call it, content for the conversation? Whatever that means.

Rey’s listened to the record Finn borrowed her, to be clear.

She almost immediately set the whole thing up the minute she came home, and well, she hadn’t really expected to buy a record player, and so she struggled to find a placement for it.

Hurriedly cleaning out her desk would have to for now.

And the album was insane, she had to agree with her, well, crush. She can say that. Leave her alone.

Rey had heard of Janelle Monáe before, heard a couple of singles on the radio, as you do, but listening to the whole thing that same night was pretty good, to be honest.

In fact, she found herself putting on the record again when she was making breakfast. And when she took a shower.

But she also found the album, and saved it, on spotify, meaning now would be an appropriate time to return it to its owner.

Thing was, when Rey was packing it to go back to the store, she stumbled upon a blue post-it note, sticked on the back of the sleeve.

Funny that she hadn’t noticed it till today, and she could question her distracted self about that all day, but instead decided to just pick the note off, which read, It’s her most recent album, but my favorite of hers. There’s also a short film made based on it, fun fact. Or well, don’t know if it’s a ‘fun’ fact. Hm. Hope you enjoy it! xo

So, maybe, Rey stuck the note on her bulletin board before she left.

Can you blame her?

Perhaps you can, but the note was nice, and didn’t actually help her infatuation with this man.

And so her mind’s still stuck on that blue note when the bell signal rings over her, a couple of young men hurrying out beside her.

It’s a little busier than last weekend, Rey thinks, but given the size of this place it’s still not crowded enough to be unpleasant. A few of them are residents of the coffee shop anyway, making their through the Jazz aisle while impatiently waiting for their café latte to go.

Of course, she spots Finn immediately.

Stopping her inner self critic, she approaches him as he’s filling up a rack, noticing her with a “Oh, hey!”

He’s smiling significantly bright, and it makes Rey wonder if he’s won the lottery or something. He doesn’t continue, though, so instead she speaks up, “I figured you want your record back.”

Finn seems confused, and in a second remembers, gratefully accepting the album she’s handing him, “Yes! My god, did you like it? I won’t judge you. Maybe.”

His laughter’s easily contagious.

Maybe Jessika was right, Rey’s becoming a lovebird, or lovesick, or something.

“I loved it. Saved it online and everything, actually.” she tells him, and looks down because she might be blushing. Stop it.

And Finn looked proud.

Honestly, she wishes she could see what was going on in his mind, but could definitely tell he was having a good day.

But before Rey could say her goodbyes, another record was placed in her arms.

What’s going on in her life, recently?

The title blond is showcased on the white cover, along with a man sporting green hair. She feels like she should know who this artist is, feels like she’s seen this image before, but comes up empty.

Rey realises she’s fallen silent when Finn speaks up again, “If you liked Dirty Computer, you’ll love this too. I hope.”

She shrugs, “I trust you.”

The silence that falls upon them makes her nervous, because he’s smiling at her, and it feels comfortable, but she also immediately wishes she could take that back.

Finn seems unfazed though. Actually, from the look of his similarly nervous gestures, he’s flattered.

Is this a signal, like Jess tells her? Ugh, Rey hates being this unknowing.

“I, well, I gotta go. Or I mean, gotta stock up. Sorry.” he said, his voice slowing down from its previous upbeat tone.

Rey wishes Jess, or Leia, or even Han could be here and just tell her what to do, because she doesn’t really know. He has a lot of the same mannerisms that she does, but then again, she’s never been good at reading signs.

“Of course.” she replies and is about to be on her way, when the same voice calls again, “I’ll see you around, right?”

His dimple’s appearing again.

“Perhaps.” she replies, biting her lip.

Perhaps.

...

The first thing Rey does when she unpacks the new record from Finn is look for a post-it.

And guess what? He did it again.

Another blue note on the back of the sleeve, this time telling her, Hope this isn’t too weird, hope you’ll like this album as much as I do. And it was great meeting you. That’s weird. Enjoy it, though! xo.

Damn this man.

And of course, the note found its way onto her wall, and the record found its way to the player, and Rey may or may not fall asleep to it.

Finn might’ve jumpstarted a Frank Ocean obsession in her.

Her spotify’s really becoming a lot more useful now, and she actually decides to pay for the stupid premium option just so she won’t get ads while she’s on the train.

Rey’s listened to channel orange, the artist’s previous album, and she might prefer that a tad over the record Finn gave her, but he doesn’t need to know that.

And she actually brings the whole shebang over to Leia and Han, and plays the album for them, they’re pretty excited too.

They keep asking about Finn constantly, but you know.

It’s because of them she doesn’t go to the store that weekend, and Rey finds herself wondering if he expected her to be there. He won’t get mad if she doesn’t give him the record back today, will he?

Truly hope not.

She wishes she had the guts to ask him… about, whatever, anything. His phone number. Or maybe not. Maybe just like, ask him about his life.

God, Rey can hear how lame she sounds.

But the worry in her takes control, which is why she hurries in the store, on a Monday. She’s got an hour before she’s supposed to meet at the workshop, she can make that, right?

Thing is, when Rey makes her way to the counter, she can’t see the man she’s looking for, and she has to fight her stomach from dropping.

Holding onto the record just this longer than the previous made her feel like a bother.

But a curly haired man is controlling the player now, dogtag around his neck and wearing a jacket that… looks like it’s been through a lot.

Rey decides to clear her throat, getting his attention, and speaking up when he gives her a polite smile, “Hey, uh, sorry to disturb you. But is Finn working today?”

She tries to hide her nervousness, but probably fails miserably.

Maybe he’ll just think she’s a friend of Finn’s, and not a random person he’s met a couple times and for some reason lent out his favorite music to even though he barely knows her- or did he talk about her?

Jesus, Rey, no he didn’t, stop overthinking.

“Not today, no, ah- sorry to disappoint.” the man tells her with a chuckle, confident and genuinely sorry at the same time, “Finn’s not on Mondays. Can I be of help, though?”

And Rey can’t help her disappoint, but obviously, of course, he can’t just be here whenever she wants him to, she feels ridiculous.

She’s on the line of walking out again, but figures why the fuck not, and responds, “Well, maybe? He borrowed me this record last week, and I figure he might want it back, so…”

And the cashier’s eyes widen up, and exclaims, “Oh, right!” before realising he might be too loud, “Sorry, Finn told me you might be dropping by. I’ll get it to him, don’t worry about it.”

So trusting him, because why should she not, she barely knows either of them, hands the record to him, but is stopped in her words before she can leave, “And he actually wanted me to give you this.”

And because life keeps getting stranger and stranger recently, what the fuck, there comes the third record her crush has borrowed her.

This might be one of the weirdest relations she’s had to anyone.

It’s somehow a different feel she’s getting from this cover, a band called The Regrettes, the art showing some people, presumably the band, sitting on a giant birthday cake.

“I love this album, actually, Finn’s got good taste. But I mean, music taste’s relative, you know? Got half my taste from my boyfriend, anyways.” the shorter man in front of her says.

She has to chuckle, and thanks him, accepting the bag he offers, so hopefully she won’t be looking as dumb in the eyes of the New Yorkers in the underground as she did previously.

“I get what you mean. And thanks again for this, Finn really didn’t have to. But, uh, yeah, it was nice meeting you....”

He realises the lack of introduction with her words, looking surprised again, “Poe. Sorry, it’s Poe.”

She nods, “Rey.”

“Rey! Honestly, Finn talked about you for ages this weekend.” Poe tells her, and when Rey raises her eyebrow, he continues, “Like, wouldn’t shut up.”

And… what the fuck.

He talked about her.

Is this real life?

At this point, it’s almost like things are happening, and she’s just watching like a fly on the wall, letting it all happen.

She wants to ask into it, but a look at the clock on the wall reminds her she has cars to fix, “Fuck, sorry, hate to end on a weird note, but I’m late. Dammit. Thanks again, though.”

“No problem at all.” and he smiles brightly, giving a wave. “Finn’s very picky about who he gives his music to, so can tell you I was surprised. Enjoy it!” Rey stumbles over herself because what sort of way was that to leave her? Oh God.

She simply nods in her nerves, trying to disappear as quickly as possible, while Poe assumed his business, not weirded out by her behavior, so that’s something.

Rey has absolutely no idea what this means. 

She feels like she’s going insane.

And she also feels a little bit warmer picking the new note off, this time a yellow one, This is a bit different from the others, but have a feeling it's just up your alley. Missed you this weekend. xo

...

Looking at the small collection of notes Finn’s given her, she finds something in her, somewhere, to write a note of her own.

That recent one might be giving her some courage.

Everything you’ve shown me is amazing. And Poe was nice, though I sort of wish you would’ve been there. Is that stupid? xo.

Jesus.

She doesn’t tell Jess about this, in case it goes wrong, and because her nerves are on the very edge.

He said he missed her. Could that mean something? Anyway, if he doesn’t reply, she’ll know she read it the wrong way.

Maybe he’s already dating someone and he’ll kindly reject her. Yes. It’ll be fine.

And Rey figures she’ll regret it if she doesn’t act, in the end.

Right?

…

She meets Finn again when she gives the record back, except he’s sort of in rush, so they don’t get much talking done.

He smiles at her, though.

Seems like everytime she sees him, the smile gets a bit bigger.

Is Rey becoming delusional?

And she still finds a note on the back of the newest borrow, this time, Hope you like this one. And maybe I talked about you a little bit, sorry, Poe said he told you. Please don’t hate me. xo.

He might just be making her like him even more. If that’s even possible, at this point.

So, maybe, possibly, she writes a new one back to him.

It takes her a while to word it.

Is she coming off desperate? Creepy? Or just pathetic?

Sometimes, Rey wishes people would just say what they mean to her face.

Guessing is hard.

…

Stop, how could I hate you? Poe did no harm. Just didn’t expect you to talk about me. Hope I’ll see you soon? xo.

…

I guess you could say you made an impact on me. xo.

…

There’s two notes this time, and it seems like he crumbled it but put it on anyway,  Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, is that too much? Fuck.

…

Rey’s just about had it with her own mind.

This thing… whatever it is, trading post-it notes with Finn, it’s been going on over a month now. And she really hopes what she’s reading is meant in the way she hopes it is.

Jessika’s expertise on social interaction and finding out what people mean, really mean, told her that he was flirting.

Rey doesn’t know how to flirt.

Jess tells her she’s already doing it, and fuck, she still doesn’t understand, but honestly, action might be required.

Finn’s so adorably anxious, even more than herself, and Rey figures she might as well make a move. A clear move.

Whatever that means.

And she makes sure to wait till her off day, because this isn’t something Rey wants to be doing in a rush.

If it’s a rejection, though… maybe she should’ve thought of that before she went to the store. Now, there’s really not much going back.

Rey’s got courage, dammit, she’s got so much in her that she marches in through the door, up to the counter, spots Finn, thank god, and hands him the music from last week.

Good start.

Only thing is he’s silent and no words are coming out of her mouth either.

She might be seeing Poe eyeing them weirdly from the corner. Fuck it.

Rey pulls out a note, the first one Finn gave her, and writes on the back, and hands it to him.

Finn looks nervous, and bewildered, and fucking cute. And he reads it, and he’s smiling, and he doesn’t look like he knows what to do with his hands.

Are you flirting with me?

“I, uh,” he starts, sucking in a breath, nodding, looking at her and exhaling, “Yes. I mean, it doesn’t look like that? I just-”

“It does.” Rey bursts out. “It does, to me, but I’m not good at… this. And it’s hard for me to say these things out loud. You know?”

And Finn’s whole posture changes, like her words lift an invisible weight of his shoulders, and instantly, he looks lighter. Like he might float away.

“I know.”

The smiles comes easily on to her lips now.

It’s silent again, but the silent that’s over them is entirely different, because it’s a comfortable one, and Rey wishes she would stop blushing but she can’t look away.

Finn’s blushing too.

They’re embarrassing.

So, yeah, Jess was right, and maybe these post-its only made this whole thing ridiculous, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

The man in front of her was flirting with her. Meaning he likes her. He doesn’t give out his music to many, but he gave it to her. She likes him.

“If you’re not going anywhere, uhm-” Finn says, “Are you?”

Nope, why would she? Rey shakes her head.

“I’m off in an hour or so. Would it be okay if I bought you coffee?”

And honestly, for once, she decides not to hold this thought to herself.

“Hell yeah.”

[chaewonrk]

STAR BRIGHT CASTING AUDITIONS ‘20 : INTERVIEW !

      word count: 1,587. cw: parental death.

what was it that chaewon kept on saying to yuzu? just fucking do it. she’d be a hypocrite if she didn’t at least go along to this interview thing. chaewon didn’t really allow herself to believe in fate or anything, knowing that she’d only be disappointed if she did, but the stars were aligning pretty well for her. she’d kick herself for not going. or, maybe jie would kick her. she was more than happy to have her roommate with her -- chaewon needed the confidence boost that jie’s aura provided.

it would be very typical of her, however, not to go in the end. she nearly didn’t. standing outside the park hyatt hotel, chaewon took three deep breaths. go in. one, two, three -- and she stepped through the front door, following her roommate through. wow, luxurious. she used to stay in places like this all the time when she traveled with her parents as a kid. it was somehow both familiar and intimidating at the same time.

now that she was in, chaewon had to fill in the form. she was in it for the long haul now, or at least for a couple of hours. it was just an interview at this point, she really only needed to worry if she somehow got a callback. supplying the information they asked of her was easy. it was the same old shit she’d attempted to use for bragging points all her life. a decade of ballet training and drama school -- a decade of effort that went down the drain one drizzly afternoon. her choir days at ewha, a fun year where she made friends that she could’ve gone onto college with but didn’t. 6tunes, soundbox, her youtube channel. only one of those projects was something she was still pursuing. chaewon couldn’t help cringing. what a heap of wasted potential. supplying the information was easy, but looking at it, listed out in front of her, was dead hard.

the family section was harder again. eventually, chaewon decided to only list her grandparents. they didn’t know she was attending today, but she guessed they’d be disappointed to hear it. she could always worm her way back into their good graces by expressing her intent to finally go to college.

once she was done, it was a matter of waiting for her name to be called. chaewon tied her hair back in a low ponytail, and asked jie to check for flyaways.

chaewon entered the interview room with a smile, feeling like she stood out well in her red t-shirt against the white background. she gave the staff member a warm look as she took her place. as nervous as chaewon felt before, she found that the professional studio atmosphere soothed her. the sound and camera tests went off without a hitch, and before she knew it, the interviewer gave her the nod to introduce herself.

“hello!” she bowed her head for the camera, then lifted her chin to face the lens with a self assured smile. as per usual, chaewon felt better able to be herself in front of the camera. sometimes, especially recently, when she was playing her guitar, she got a bit too far into her own head, but this was a more comfortable situation. she supposed it could be that playing music close to her heart was a little too vulnerable for chaewon to fully feel confident in herself when she did it. “my name is park chaewon! i’m twenty-one. i’m currently working as a make up artist. i’m living here in seoul, but i was raised in london, england.”

“okay. chaewon, tell me, why did you come here today? why do you want to be an idol?”

chaewon clasped her hands together in front of her as she said, “performing is my first love. i trained in ballet and theatre in london for ten years before moving to seoul, but since then, unfortunately, it’s had to take a backseat in my list of priorities. i’ve worked hard on it on the side over the years, but ... is it okay to say? it sounds a little selfish, but i’m ready now and i really want to prove that i can do it.”

the truth sounded so pretty when she phrased it the right way.

“a ballerina? so it’s safe to assume that dance is your best skill. tell me about your weaknesses.” chaewon appreciated the cool but still seemingly interested vibe that the interviewer gave off as she asked her questions.

“yes! yes, dance is the skill i’m most confident in. besides my experience in ballet, i’ve also got experience in other styles. i attend hip hop and freestyle classes here in seoul, and briefly taught a class of my own too.” chaewon beamed proudly, hoping that her smile somewhat managed to reach her eyes. “my weakest skill ... i don’t rap, but then again, i’ve never tried.” simple as. truthfully, there were a lot of things she was definitely, sincerely bad at, like cooking and budgeting and keeping track of her drinks, but none of them were really relevant to her potential skill set as an idol.

“is there a reason you didn’t choose to pursue ballet in seoul?”

a surprisingly cutting question -- one chaewon hadn’t rehearsed for. though, she supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised. taken aback for a moment, all she could do was nod as she gathered her thoughts. with damp eyes, chaewon resigned herself to telling an abridged version of the truth.

“yes, actually. my parents passed away when i was fifteen. that was the reason i moved to seoul, so that my grandparents could take care of me. for the first year or so, doing things that reminded me of my life with them back in london was too painful, so i avoided them until i was ready. since then, i’ve been ... slowly dipping my toes back in.”

“i see.” the interviewer paused, searching chaewon’s face for any sign that they should stop the process. chaewon merely blinked back her tears and continued speaking.

“that’s what i meant by i’m ready now. it’s been many years now, and i’m finally confident enough to try and pursue my dreams. i want to prove it to myself, but,” she nodded to herself, eyes gleaming determinedly for a moment. any hints of tears were wholly gone now, replaced by chaewon’s regular confidence. “i also want to try to do it for my parents. they believed in me.”

at least, she liked to believe that they did. they probably didn’t. after all, she’d been such a brat. but, it was a nice thought. chaewon figured that regardless what she ended up doing with her life, she’d probably end up imagining some proud parental response for herself.

“you’ve had to overcome a big obstacle early on,” the interviewer started to steer the interview away from the melancholy. “that takes tenacity. are you willing to improve yourself in the areas you lack?”

“of course. i received vocal lessons as part of my drama training, and nowadays, i’m really interested in improving my singing. i play my guitar and sing with it, and upload covers and things to my youtube channel. i’m always looking to see where i can improve and change. it’s the key to growth.” yeah, like when she let jinsoul bleach her hair. change was good. “i attended singing and vocal care workshops in the samsung speakup event a couple of weeks ago too. i sang in the choir in high school, and i sang back up in a band i was apart of, but i don’t have a massive amount of confidence in my group singing skills.”

“lovely. now, chaewon, what influences you? musically, as a performer, as a person, and so forth.”

what did she write on the form again?

“oh.” she tapped her chin thoughtfully. she didn’t want to come across as too much of a fangirl or too shallow or too up herself or too ... anything. “for idol groups, i’m a big fan of luxe and and*roma. i really like taylor swift too. i originally picked up guitar because i thought she made it look cool. i guess you could say i’m influenced by powerful women! it’s really important to me that i don’t have to sacrifice my femininity to be taken seriously. the class i taught was called high in heels -- i think that sums up my influences pretty well.”

“okay. we’re onto the final question now, chaewon. if you weren’t trying to be an idol, what would you be doing right now?”

shopping? sleeping? gossiping? “still working hard. if i wasn’t trying to be an idol, i’d still want to do my best as a make up artist, and as a hobbyist. no matter what, i still love to perform. it would just be ideal if i could do it as a job.” she punctuated her sentence with a content smile and nod.

“thank you, chaewon. we’ll be in contact.”

or we won’t. yeah, chaewon knew the drill. thanking the staff, she quickly made her exit. as soon as the door shut behind her, the adrenaline that was brewing within her shot through the crown of her skull and she half walked, half jogged her way back to the hotel lobby, en route for another period of waiting for jie to have her turn in the audition room. she didn’t know how she was going to be able to sit still.

[vagrantblvrd]

Strange Luck (1/1)

Summary: The problem with living in the city is that sometimes it makes getting your hands on rare ingredients for spells a goddamned ordeal.

Notes: This wasn't supposed to be a Thing, but I kept thinking about this post and it happened anyway. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(Read on AO3)

The problem with living in the city is that sometimes it makes getting your hands on rare ingredients for spells a goddamned ordeal.

Always some vital component to it that no one’s seen or even heard of for at least a generation or two, or it’s so rare it’s only known to grown in a certain climate in certain conditions.

Half the time there’s a complicated riddle or bit of prose Michael has to untangle to even figure out what those conditions are.

Pretentious as fuck about it too like, “blooming under the light of the second full moon of the month as it fights against its celestial confines in a bid to join with the Earth, shining red as blood” or some bullshit like that he has to explain to someone to see if they have it in stock.

If he’s lucky one of his contacts for that kind of thing will know a place that might carry said ingredient or know how to get it for him.

Take this little shop hidden away between a used bookstore and a trendy hipster coffee shop in what used to be a bustling strip mall. Renovated after who knows many years and shuttered businesses thanks to a changing city and economic ups and downs. The whole thing’s been turned into one of those outside malls and that’s bouncing back.

Michael goes past it almost every on his way for one job or another. He’s sure it wasn’t here a yesterday afternoon taking up space in what used to be an ice cream place, but shops like this tend to have what he needs.

There’s a bell over the door that rings when he walks in, something off about them that has him glancing upwards -

“Oh, a customer, how lovely!” someone says, pulling Michael’s attention from the bell towards the guy behind the counter.

Tall, broad-shouldered and against what Michael's used to seeing in shops like these he’s wearing a graphic print t-shirt and a hoodie. What looks like a pair of jeans and while Michael can’t see his shoes from here, he’s betting on sneakers or something similar. (Maybe.)

The counter he’s standing behind is the same one Michael remembers when he used to stop by when it was still an ice cream shop. Refrigerated glass cases and everything else, which.

It gives him pause for a moment, wondering if he stepped into the coffee shop instead, but there’s no smell of coffee or a single hipster to be found. No poor beleaguered college student bemoaning their life choices in the middle of exams or soccer mom on her phone chattering to her friend about the latest neighborhood scandal.

There is, however, a cat.

An orange tabby curled up in a cat bed at the end of the counter watching Michael curiously, little purple collar with a bell around its neck.

Something just slightly off about it in the same way the bells over the door that tells Michael he is in the right place after all.

The shelves along the walls where the booths and tables used to be are full of little glass bottles and vials filled with dried plants and flowers and things Michael tries not to think to hard about sometimes.

A skull or two that seem to be decoration and not for sale. An actual skeleton in a corner that is for sale, and the shop itself smells like Geoff’s workshop.

Candle wax and incense. The lingering scent of the potions he and Jack brew to sell. Flowers and herbs and other things hanging up to dry.

When Michael looks back at the guy behind the counter he’s smiling at Michael in this deeply unsettling manner, which is another sign he’s in the right place.

All I’ve seen things your puny mortal mind cannot hope to comprehend and foolish mortal, dealing in things you don’t yet understand, with a side of step into my parlor which is on the rarer end of the spectrum and something he only sees in the creepier shopkeepers.

So.

It’s going to be one of those days.

“Hey, uh,” Michael says, fumbling for the piece of paper with the list of ingredients and other things he needs as he walks over to the counter.

Some of them are for Gavin, the lazy bastard, and Geoff asked him to pick up some stuff to restock his stores if he got the chance. He promised to pick up a new mortar and pestle for Jack to replace the one Gavin broke last week too.

It might be smarter to go to one of his regular shops for the rest of the things he needs, but he has a busy schedule filled with clients and other errands as it is. Doesn’t feel like driving to the other end of the city on top of everything else.

“I have a few things to get, and one of them is hard to find. I saw your shop and thought maybe you could help?”

He hands the guy the paper, watches him read it and sees the slight frown as he hits the part where Michael had to stop and do some research to figure out what the hell the spell was asking him to get.

In hindsight, he should have written his shopping list on a seperate piece of paper, but he was too fucking irritated at the time to bother. (Took him a goddamned week buried in Geoff and Jack’s extensive library of spellbooks and other bullshit before he found his answer.

“Oh, wow,” the guy says, looking up at him. “That’s an incredibly rare ingredient.”

Yeah, Michael kind of figured, what with the very specific circumstances it needs to grow.

“It’s for a spell,” Michael says, decides it’s really none of the guy’s business what the spell is for, because hey.

Not to be rude?

But yeah, none of his business.

The guy hums, giving Michael this look Michael's also familiar with in places like this.

The last time situations were right for that ingredient to grow was about a year ago, and the time before that was over a hundred and fifty years. The chances of finding someone who has it or knows where Michael could find someone who does are – no pun intended – astronomical.

If this guy doesn’t have it and Michael can’t find it anywhere else, he’d have to wait at least that long before it grows again, maybe longer. (At which point Michael will be super dead and it won’t matter, so there’s that.)

“Yes, I will warn you...every item comes with a price,” he says, like all the other assholes before him Michael’s run into in shops like this.

Michael stares at him.

“...Yes,” he mimics, because he’s not in the mood for this bullshit. “I know how shops work.”

He’s not in the mood for this bullshit, but he’s also not an idiot. Knows better than to piss someone like him off, make an enemy of him or whatever. (Well, for the most part.)

The guy blinks at him like he’s not sure what’s going on, or just thinks Michael's an idiot.

He rallies quickly though, clearing his throat and looking around like there’s anyone else in the shop watching them. (Besides the cat, that is.)

“No,” he says, putting more emphasis into his words. “The price may be more than you expect to pay.”

He gives Michael this look, raised eyebrows and please tell me you’re not that dense and dear God, please don’t be that dense and a little why are you doing this to me?

Michael doesn’t know why he does it, he really doesn’t.

Maybe it’s the fact the guy seems relatively normal for someone running a shop like this. Maybe it’s the fact he’s already getting riled up and Michael hasn’t done anything yet. Maybe it’s the fact that Michael’s that much of an asshole, who can say.

“Yes,” he says. “I know how US taxes work too.”

There’s a tiny sneeze, this little jingling chime that has Michael looking over at the tabby just in time to see it hide a smirk as it gives itself a little shake.

From the corner of his eye Michael catches the shopkeeper shooting it a scowl, but when he turns back to him the guy has a polite smile on his face.

Too polite, like he’s not thinking up curses and hexes to place on Michael and everyone he holds dear or whatever else creepy bastards like him do for fun.

Michael should be worried. Shouldn’t be fucking with him at all, but he just. Can’t not, for whatever reason. Is, in fact, enjoying himself watching the poor guy try to keep his cool while his stupid cat laughs at him.

The guy laughs, and it’s. It’s a nice sound. Weird, too, kind of croaky in a way?

But just.

Nice?

Like his voice, and those eyes of his, and okay, look.

Michael’s getting sidetracked, but it’s been a long week and bound to be a long day and he’s just.

Yeah.

The guy makes this noise in the back of his throat, and plants his hands on the counter in front of him, strained smile on his face.

“I’m trying to tell you that I’m evil and offering these wares with no regard for the harm they will do!” he says, voice cracking on the end because apparently he’s never had to deal with something as exasperating as Michael's proving to be.

Probably used to people showing him the proper reverence and whatever the hell after his first warning. Rethinking their decision to set foot in a magically (literally) appearing shop with a creepy shopkeeper and a cat that is definitely not a normal cat and all that. Making the right choice (or not) when it came to their reason for walking in when they should have known better and just. All that.

Instead, he got Michael and his low tolerance for bullshit of any kind, but especially the shopkeeper’s after the week he’s had.

Michael crosses his arms and scowls at the shopkeeper.

Normally at this point he’d be sharing the guy’s exasperation, but he’s having too much fun fucking with him.

“I know what capitalism is too, goddammit,” he says. “Now do you have the stuff I need or not?”

The guy stares at him, quietly seething and for a moment Michael sees something moving around in the back of his eyes – dark, sinister – before it gives the fuck up and rolls over. Shoulders slumping as he lowers his head to stare at the faux granite counter with its scuffs and scratches, little nicks.

Mutters something that sounds less like a dread curse or something along those lines and more like for fuck’s sake.

Michael glances over at a light chiming noise to see the tabby walking over to the shopkeeper, trilling softly as it bumps its head against his face, makes these little noises that definitely isn’t laughter.

Really.

The shopkeeper leans into it at first, and then sputters as the tabby continues walking arching its back to shove its fur into his face before hopping down and wandering off.

“Thank you,” the guy says, wiping fur out of his mouth as he scowls at the cat. “Really, no. Thank you ever so much for that.”

The cat shakes itself again, and meows in smug satisfaction.

The guys sighs, and looks up at Michael.

Seems wary, almost.

“As a matter of fact, I do happen to have the things on your list. If you don’t mind waiting, I can get them out of the back.”

He looks like he’s expecting Michael to give him more grief about things, which is both hilarious and kind of sad.

“Sounds great!” Michael says with a smile, all nice and friendly and perfect customer who would never dream of being difficult.

The guy eyes him, like he thinks it’s a trap of some kind. But when Michael just stands there smiling at him and waiting patiently, he shakes his head and heads off to the back storeroom muttering to himself.

Michael waits until he’s out of sight before he laughs, tries to hide it because the tabby’s watching him, but come the fuck on.

He doesn’t know how long it will take the guy to gather all the supplies on Michael's list, so he explores the shop. Looks into the glass cases around the counter to see they’ve been altered. No tubs of ice cream now, just neatly labeled bin full of spell and potion ingredients.

One of the cases is humming quietly, stocked with ingredients that require refrigeration to keep them fresh, which goes a long way to explain why the guy decided to put his shop here instead of the other empty stores around it.

Michael goes over to the bookshelves, and almost trips over the cat who lets out a sad little noise that has Michael staring down at it.

Looks like a normal cat in all the right ways, but the way its been acting is a dead giveaway it’s most likely the shopkeeper’s familiar or assistant. Too much of an asshole to be anything else, given it’s allowed to roam the shop freely.

Another sad cry and Michael rolls his eyes as he crouches to give it pets and scritches. God knows Gavin and Lindsay would find out somehow if he didn’t, give him shit about a cruel and heartless monster.

There’s a little pet tag on its collar, and curious, Michael catches it in his fingers to see what it says. The tabby flicks its ears but allows it, and Michael frowns at the name engraved on the pet tag.

“The fuck kind of name is ‘Rimmy Tim’?” he asks, because fucking really.

The cat gives him this look, ears swiveling back as it steps out of his reach with this little sniff, tag slipping through Michael's fingers.

Walks away in clear dismissal and jumps back up on the counter to curl up in its bed and turning its back to Michael as it does.

Michael sighs, because the cat has to be the shopkeepers familiar with that kind of attitude.

He goes back to exploring the store, making a mental note to ask the others if they need some of the things he sees being sold here when he gets home. (Assuming he can find the shop again after this, that is.)

There’s a wide array of rare and hard to find ingredients and other components here. A shelf of books he knows for sure Geoff and Jack would give a lot to add to their own collection. Other bits and bobs, as Gavin would put it, any of them would give a lot to have.

It’s that thought that finally has the reality of the situation sink in for Michael, odd shopkeeper out of the picture where the atmosphere of the shop sets in.

Little tug at the core him drawing him towards a small table in a corner, gem stones and crystals and other things laid out.

A cool whisper in the back of his mind pulling his attention towards one of the skulls on the shelves by the windows.

A raven from the look of it.

Creeping unease from the corner where the skeleton stands on display, runes carved into its bones and a wreath of dried flowers resting on top of its skull.

A dozen other little things calling for his attention, quiet whispers and murmuring that builds, and builds, and builds -

“I think I have everything here,” the guy says, voice startlingly loud in the cloying silence of the shop. “Do you - “

Michael looks over at him, heart beating double-time in his chest. Feels a little wild-eyed and expects to see a smug look on the guy’s face, or cool satisfaction at the way his shop and its wares have affected Michael, but.

He seems...confused at first, and then concerned.

Sweeps a look around the shop and the chaos in Michael's mind quiets, retreats like morning fog when the sun appears to chase it away.

Michael sways towards him without conscious thought, crosses the few feet to stand across from him to escape the faint chill that set in without his realization.

“You know better,” the guy says, and for a moment Michael thinks he’s scolding him, but then he realizes the shopkeeper’s frowning at the tabby.

In response the tabby curls up tighter in its bed, ears flat against its skull and lets out a pathetic mew in apology or explanation, Michael can’t understand it. Just knows whatever it is has the guy letting out a heavy sigh.

“Yes, well,” he says, setting a box down on the counter. “What do you expect when you insist on using that ridiculous name?”

The tabby makes an annoyed noise, but it gets out of its bed and comes to the edge of the counter where Michael’s standing and looks up at him.

Guilty, remorseful, tail flicking as it meows at him in apology.

Michael stares down at it.

He could, maybe should, be annoyed at it for that slip.

There’s an understanding, when customers enter a shop like this things like that aren’t allowed to happen.

A gesture of trust, or something close enough to it for certain transactions to take place. For those who are inexperienced enough, unwary, to enter and leave without trouble. (In good faith.)

But.

Michael insulted it, and things like that allows things like it an amount of leeway. (Loopholes.)

And to be fair, nothing permanent, damaging, took place while the guy was out of the room.

Just...a reminder.

One that Michael clearly needed because he let his guard down in here. Got so caught up in things that he forgot the danger to places like this, or made the mistake of underestimating it because the guy seemed so normal.

Human.

Dramatic, maybe, but not like the usual sort Michael’s met in shops like this.

Michael looks at the guy, surprised that he seems to be on Michael’s side in this after all the shit he gave him earlier. The guy tips his head to the side, eyebrow raised and leaving things in Michael’s hands.

Which.

“It’s fine,” Michael says, because things could have gone worse.

He’s seen it before, less scrupulous shopkeepers than this one and his familiar and their deals with the unwise. Has had to clean up the mess afterward and inform the unfortunate victim’s family and friends who hired him to find out what happened to their loved one.

Michael should be the one who knew better in this case.

“Just a miscommunication.”

The guy hums, something thoughtful to it as he reaches out to the tabby and gives it a scritch under its chin. It leans in to his touch in relief, eyes closing briefly before it decides its had enough and hops off the counter to disappear into the storeroom.

Michael snorts, eyeing the box the guy brought out with him.

“Oh,” the guy says, almost sounding sheepish, “sorry about that.”

He holds Michael's list in one hand as he goes over the contents of the box.

Glass bottles with the ingredients Gavin and Geoff wanted and little paper parcels for the rest. The replacement mortar and pestle Jack wanted, and most importantly the stupidly rare ingredient he needs for his spell.

When he’s done he hands Michael his list and smiles at him.

A normal smile.

No creepy shopkeeper with his mysterious shop and even more mysterious wares. Cat familiar and all kinds of secrets waiting to be discovered, for a price.

“Were you looking for anything else today?”

He’s still smiling.

None of his dramatics or theatrics, just a guy in a t-shirt with the NASA logo behind the counter of his little shop and it’s.

It’s certainly something.

“Uh,” Michael says, clearing his throat and giving himself a mental shake to let everything settle back into place. “No. No, that should do it.”

The guy shrugs and starts ringing him up using the cash register, pauses before he hits the total and smiles again, this crooked little thing.

“We don’t take checks,” he says.

There’s.

He’s the one laughing at Michael now, gleam in his eye and very, very much an asshole.

Michael snorts as he pulls his wallet out.

“Credit card alright?” he asks.

The shops he regularly go to have started to accept them, though most still prefer cash Older ones will trade in favors, little ones that don’t cost much.

Places like this, though?

Hit or miss.

The guy laughs, and points at a sticker on the side the register with logos for the major credit card companies, so that’s one question answered.

Michael hands over his card and the guy finishes ringing him up, wishes him a nice day as he hands him back his card and a receipt and Michael picks up the box, ant turns to leave.

Gets a few feet away before he stops. Thinks about things in the kind of way where he really, really doesn't, and turns back to see the guy watching him with that crooked little smile on his face.

“Are,” Michael starts, not sure how to do this because wow, no. “Uh. Are you going to be here later?”

He glances around the shop and back to the guy, because it’s a valid question with places like this.

People like him.

They come and go and most times you never see them again. For the best, considering what they are, but sometimes...

The guy gives him an odd look, which is fair.

He probably doesn’t get questions like that all that often, and Michael doesn’t even know his name.

Has been referring to him as the guy and the shopkeeper in his head this whole time. (Maybe that asshole a time or two, he wouldn’t put it past himself.)

Michael watches as the guy – Jesus, there he goes again – takes in his shop before looking back at Michael.

“It’s possible,” he says slowly. “The location seems pleasant enough.”

Not a no, or even some frustratingly vague and cryptic answer about fleeting permanence or what the fuck ever Michael was expecting.

“Okay,” Michael says. “Great. Thank you.”

Jesus, he’s an idiot.

The guy must think so too, with the smile on his face, but thankfully he says nothing as Michael gets the hell out of there before he says or does anything else stupid.

Doesn’t risk glancing back to make sure the shop is still there once he’s outside, but he catches sight of the coffee shop sign next door to as he heads to his car.

Michael’s never been to it before, no time or reason to in between everything else going on in his life.

But…there’s this half-formed thought in the back of his mind maybe the guy wouldn’t be horrifically opposed to checking it out with him sometime if he and his shop do stick around a little longer.

...Or something, fuck if Michael knows.

Michael slams the trunk of his car harder than he means to, and stares at it for a long moment trying to untangle his thoughts.

Ridiculous, is what they are.

Stupid as hell.

Dangerous, too, considering what the guy is. (Might be? Michael doesn’t have a goddamned clue other than the usual.)

But.

He hadn’t reacted badly when Michael gave him shit, and.

He’s unfairly attractive. Has a nice smile, and an amazing voice and why not, really?

Can’t hurt to ask, right?

Later.

Michael sighs, laughing at himself as he goes around to the driver side of the car.

No need to get ahead himself right now anyway.

If the shop’s still here after he’s done with work, he can figure things out then.

Start by getting the guy’s name so he can stop calling him that in his head, and see where things go from there.

[artificialqueens]

You're beautiful, no matter what I used to say - (Nina/Brooke) - multifandomgeek

Summary: To Brooke, beauty is everything. So when she starts getting feelings for a girl completely outside her type, she just tries to ignore it.

-

A lesbian, college AU

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606846

–

Brooke lived for beauty. She loved every aspect of it, and it was part of all of her favorite subjects: makeup, fashion, design. She had a good eye for it too, be it in art or in people, and she was proud of that. In her first year of college, she already knew it would be an important aspect of her life, no matter if she decided to design clothes or graphic material (she was still thinking about it).

To her, It was extremely important to look her best at all times. It only made sense, and she would rather spend less on food than go without her trusted brands of makeup, even if with her clothes she could be a little more creative to fit her budget.

Beauty was everything, and when she found herself attracted to someone, appearance was always on the top of the list. Some people might call it shallow, but for her it was just a clear sign that that girl had something in common with her. Even when she was a young teen, it had seemed so obvious that she would be a lesbian because women were just the most beautiful creatures on earth. It was simple.

She liked girls with softly smoked eyes paired with red lips, or colorfully blended eyeshadow with a bold personality. She liked voluptuous hair that she could tell was fancy just from looking at it, or maybe short, well-kept styles that exposed a long neck and big, stylish earrings. But most of all, she liked girls’ curves. A lean body, round just in the right places, that she would pull closer to her with a hand strategically placed on their lower backs.

She could never see herself with a less than perfect girl. It was just who she was. Some people valued romance, others valued loyalty, and Brooke valued beauty. To each their own.

“Why are we doing this again?” Brooke asked Detox, her best friend, who had dragged her to a LGBTQ event one afternoon.

“Because we’re queer, and we should give back to the community,” said Detox, fixing her lipstick in a small mirror while they waited for the thing to begin. It was supposed to be an auction, or was it a bingo? Brooke didn’t really care.

“Give back for what?” mumbled Brooke, looking around as they sat down, seeing if she could at least score a good lay from this, but everybody seemed a little… weird.

Detox elbowed her. “Aren’t you out, you ungrateful cunt? Don’t take that for granted.”

Brooke rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything else. She looked at her nails and accepted her fate, if only for Detox’s sake. She knew her friend had another relationship entirely with being gay, and even if Brooke didn’t get it, she wasn’t that big of an asshole to not be able to stand a few hours in a boring lecture (what even was this event?) to support her best friend.

The room they were in was relatively small, with a few rows of plastic chairs pointing to a raised platform on one of its extremities, where a podium with a microphone was set. It reminded Brooke of the church her mother used to go to when she was little, if with a lower ceiling. The chairs were about half full, and she supposed this kind of thing wasn’t very popular. It wasn’t difficult to understand why, considering Brooke herself didn’t want to come in the first place.

She and Detox were sitting at one of the last rows. They usually found themselves in that position, often because they wanted the option to leave in the middle of things, but maybe it was just a habit that came from being popular and not caring much about school. There were all kinds of people scattered around, a lot of them clearly alone, and Brooke couldn’t help but pity them. Maybe this organization (was it a club?) was important for some people after all.

“Okay, guys, sorry for the delay,” said a girl taking the podium with a hurried demeanor and a giant smile. She didn’t talk on the mic, but her presence was enough to make the low chatter that had filled the room stop all at once. “We’ll begin in a minute, but while we don’t, Josh will pass a list for you to fill in with your contact info. It’s completely optional, and we’ll use it to keep you updated with our activities.”

A guy with bright blue hair waved two clipboards with pens tied to them, so everybody could see, before handing them to people sitting on opposite sides of the room. Brooke dismissed it completely, turning her gaze back to the girl at the podium, who was now going through a stack of papers with an air of confident professionalism, a soft smile still playing on her lips.

She was a big girl, probably as tall as Brooke and who knows how much heavier. She had her dark blonde hair brushed back and kept in place by a headband, with a few strands dyed pink, almost randomly and already quite faded. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a logo that was probably that of the LGBTQ association. There was no makeup on her face apart for a nude lipstick. Maybe a little concealer, if that, not that Brooke could notice at that distance. She caught herself thinking she could be sort of pretty, if she put some effort into it.

“Is this working?” said the girl, grabbing the mic, that was, indeed, working. “Okay, it is, haha,” she laughed, and Brooke smiled with her. What? “Hello everyone, and welcome. My name is Nina West, I’m the head of our LGBTQIA+ Association. I want to thank everyone for coming, it means a lot for us, and know that you’re always welcome here, no matter what.” Nina’s smile was so genuine Brooke couldn’t help but believe her, even though it was probably a speech she had delivered a hundred times.

Nina went on to list the weekly activities held by the association, that included game and movie nights, soccer practice, singing lessons, support groups, activism meetings, and so many other things that Brooke was genuinely surprised. The clipboard for the contact info reached her and she almost filled it in before remembering she didn’t actually want to be there. She passed it over to Detox, not looking if she was filling it herself in favor of keeping watching Nina. “We’ve had sewing and fashion design workshops for the last few months, and everyone was so good we decided it would be fun to show it off!” said Nina excitedly. “Tonight, our models are all LGBTQIA students who attended the workshops and made or embellished the clothes they’re wearing. So please give it up for our first artist, Trevor!”

Brooke was smiling and clapping with the crowd before she could think about it. A lanky boy wearing a short sequined dress appeared from behind her to parade through the center of the room, between the rows of chairs. The dress was not very remarkable, but Trevor was smiling so much, strutting like he truly believed he was on a runway, that it seemed more beautiful than it actually was. He went up to the stage and made a few poses while people cheered and clapped.

Nina walked to him, smiling so proudly you’d think she was his mom. “Hi Trevor, how are you?” she pointed the mic to him so he could answer.

“I’m fabulous!” said Trevor.

Nina laughed wholeheartedly and Brooke’s heart did something weird. “You are!” said Nina. “Did you make this from scratch?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, a little more shyly. “Sasha helped a lot, but yeah.”

“It’s amazing!” said Nina. “Isn’t it, you guys?” she turned to the small audience, who whistled and cheered. “You’re incredible, Trev! And fabulous.” She pointed at him, while kindly leading him to stand on the corner while she announced the next model, this time a girl in a big puffy jacket.

The fashion show went on, and while some of the garments were… well, questionable, a couple were really well made and tasteful. The last person to walk the make-shift runway was Sasha, the person who most people mentioned as their mentor. Brooke couldn’t really tell if they were a boy or a girl, and it was fascinating. They were absolutely beautiful, despite the bald head, which was so bizarre in Brooke’s mind. Sasha was wearing a long red gown that was so gorgeous it should be on a red carpet. Brooke wanted to meet them.

In fact, now that she thought about it, a workshop might be just what she needed to decide on what major she should pursue. She could have a taste of the real thing and see if it seemed like something she wanted to do for the rest of her life, then go for the fashion career. If not, then graphic design could be the right choice after all. It was at least worth a try.

She explained it to Detox once the event was over. To say she looked surprised was an understatement, the other girl surely expecting Brooke to want to leave as soon as possible. People were talking and mingling around the room. Brooke noticed nobody was alone anymore, and it gave her a weirdly nice feeling. She felt nervous as she approached Nina, which was even weirder. She never had problems talking to people before, but this girl was something else.

“Hi,” said Brooke once Nina was free from a conversation with one of the students who had modeled.

“Hi!” said Nina with a gentle smile. She was just as tall as Brooke, and her eyes were so pretty.

“I’m Brooke,” she said, extending her hand.

“I’m Nina, nice to meet you.” Nina’s handshake was firm yet comforting.

She must give the best hugs, Brooke thought. What was going on with her today? “I was wondering if those sewing workshops are still going on?”

“Yes, of course!” said Nina, letting go of Brooke’s hand, that suddenly felt cold. “It happens on Wednesdays at 7 p.m. Did you put your email on the contact sheet?”

“Oh. No, I, hm…” Brooke trailed off, not knowing what she could say.

“It’s fine,” said Nina without missing a beat. “Just show up a few minutes earlier and we’ll set you up.” She touched Brooke’s arm, smiling.

Brooke just wanted to be her friend so bad. “Okay, then. I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Nina. “See you then.”

Brooke made her way back to Detox, who was watching her with a weird smile on her face.

“I think you have a crush on pink girl,” said Detox.

“What? Of course not, she’s-” Fat, Brooke wanted to say, but refrained. Detox just chuckled and shook her head, not looking like she believed Brooke at all. Brooke looked back at Nina, who was now talking to Sasha. One of the pink strands of her hair had fallen down her face, brushing her cheek, and Brooke wanted to pull it back for her. “She’s so nice, though.”

–

When Wednesday came around, Brooke found her way back to the Association room all by herself. She was very excited, the prospect of doing something passion-oriented so refreshing after so many weeks of exhausting classes. She had dressed sensibly professional, changing after her classes just to feel more confident going in. She had even applied a new nail-polish just the day before, predicting she would get there barely knowing how to thread a needle and wanting to be at the top of her game to cope with her anxiety.

She was 15 minutes early. The chairs were all piled in one corner, making space for a few long tables that were scattered in the center of the room. Sasha was there, taking pieces of fabric out of a suitcase and organizing them on the tables. Near the door, there was a desk where another girl sat, working on a laptop. She looked up when Brooke approached.

“Can I help you?” she asked. She wasn’t rude, but Brooke was expecting Nina. Of course, Nina couldn’t be there all the time, and the disappointment pooling in Brooke’s stomach made absolutely no sense. She didn’t come here for the other girl, she came for the sewing. Right?

“Hi, I came for the sewing workshop? Nina told me to come early because I’m new.”

“Oh, welcome,” the girl smiled. She had curly brown hair and warm eyes, but it just didn’t hit quite as good. “I’m Meatball.”

“I’m- what?”

The girl laughed, pleased at Brooke’s reaction. “Meatball. It’s not my real name, don’t worry, my parents weren’t that mean,” she said, opening a drawer and rummaging in it for a moment before finding a piece of paper that she handled to Brooke. “Fill this out and you’re good to go.”

It was a form for Brooke’s basic information, with a few unusual boxes like “pronouns” and a line saying you could use whatever name you’d like, it didn’t have to be your official one. For a split second, Brooke thought about how unnecessary that seemed, but then it hit her where she was, and she wondered how much of a difference a detail like that made in making people feel welcome there. A lot, she supposed.

“HI, DIVA,” Meatball suddenly shouted, startling Brooke, who looked up to see Nina at the door. Her heart started beating faster, inexplicably.

“HI, DIVA,” Nina yelled back, leaning over the desk to… wiggle her tongue at Meatball? It was like they were having an open-mouthed, exaggerated kiss, but without actually touching. It was ridiculous, kind of disgusting, and Brooke wanted Nina to do it to her too.

Nina turned to Brooke. “You came!” she said, and Brooke didn’t even know when she started smiling.

“Hi,” she said. Nina had her hair up in a ponytail today, and was wearing a more delicate top than the t-shirt that Brooke saw her in last time. It had a nicely cut cleavage, and wow, those were nice tits. Brooke snapped out of it before she ogled for too long, swiftly finishing her form and handling it to Meatball.

“Have you met Sasha yet?” asked Nina, placing a hand on Brooke’s back.

“Not really, no,” said Brooke, being guided to the tables, not taking her eyes off Nina.

“Hey, beauties,” said Sasha as they approached, and their voice was just enthralling.

“Hi, gorgeous,” said Nina, kissing Sasha’s cheek. “I have a new student for you, this is- oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot your name,” said Nina apologetically.

“Brooke,” she said, extending her hand to Sasha, who shook it. “Nice to meet you.” Nina forgot her name. That was cool, it was fine. They had talked for what, 10 seconds? At least she remembered her. Brooke was not at all saddened by it, that would be ridiculous.

Sasha asked Brooke what did she expect from the workshop and they started talking about the Fashion Design program, Sasha being a junior and a great source of information on the matter. Brooke should be more interested, really, and not fighting to pay attention as Nina slipped out of the conversation to talk to Meatball again.

But Sasha was their own kind of creature, and Brooke was genuinely mesmerized by them, even if her mind was playing tricks on her. Soon, she found herself hanging on every word as Sasha talked about beauty, in a completely different way than Brooke ever heard someone talk about the subject before. Soon, a few more people arrived, and Sasha had to cut the conversation short to start the class, leaving Brooke wanting more and at the same time with too much to think about.

There were about a dozen people in the room, and they were separated accordingly to what they wanted to learn. A few people were making clothes from scratch while others were decorating. Brooke was placed at a corner with a boy who taught her how to turn on the only sewing machine they had and how to make it work. It took a moment, but she got the hang of it, feeling immensely proud when she finally got the thing to whirl into motion, threading a line on a small piece of fabric, just for practice.

Once Brooke learned how to do the bare minimum on the machine, Sasha asked Nina to show her how to thread a needle and stitch something by hand, while someone else used the machine. Brooke was so happy to have an opportunity to talk to Nina again that she didn’t even feel when the needle punctured her finger as she tried to put a thread through its impossibly small hole.

“I didn’t think you were going to be in the class,” said Brooke, putting her finger in her mouth and sucking on it. Nina’s gaze zeroed on her lips for a moment and Brooke felt like smirking.

“Oh, I love it,” said Nina, quickly finding something to do on the table. “I’m not very good at it, but Sasha is such a great teacher, I can’t help but keep coming back.” She was avoiding looking at Brooke’s face; it was adorable and made something sparkle in Brooke’s chest.

“I think I want to be a fashion designer too,” said Brooke, going back to trying to thread the needle.

“That’s great! I’m a theater major, so it’s really useful for costumes and such, but I could never create things like you guys,” said Nina, relaxing a bit once she noticed Brooke’s finger wasn’t in her mouth anymore.

“This is frustrating. I might as well just give up on that dream,” said Brooke, lowering the needle with a huff.

Nina laughed. “You can practice that later. Here, have mine.”

Brooke was still hung up on the fact that she made Nina laugh, taking the needle with a thread already in it from her hand. Nina showed her how to make a simple stitch, and let her practice while she worked on her own project, a hoodie with a small hole in the seam that she was trying to fix.

They kept talking while doing it, and Brooke found out Nina was two years her senior, but had been in the queer association since day one, and for her, it was the most important part of her college life. She told Brooke a few stories about students that found there a true beacon of hope, and how she was so very proud of helping to build a safe space for the community in campus, even if that proved risky sometimes.

“What do you mean, risky?” asked Brooke.

“Oh, you know, just your regular bigot professor, sometimes a group of students who think they can just throw slurs at us and we’ll stay quiet. Oh, and of course, every time there are some cost issues, we are the first thing to pop up on the administration’s mind. It’s been fine nowadays, I just have to pay attention, it’s not like when-” She interrupted herself, looking away before she looked at Brooke again. “Hey, you’re almost finished. I have to show you how to tie a knot in the end now.”

“I want to help,” said Brooke all of a sudden. She didn’t know where that came from, this was supposed to be something she was doing for her own sake, selfish in every sense of the word. Brooke was not the kind of person who volunteered, and she was certainly not the kind of person who did things impulsively just to impress some pretty girl.

Wait, what?

“I’d really appreciate that, Brooke,” said Nina, looking into Brooke’s eyes.

Oh, what the hell.

“I have to look at my schedule, but I can free some time for you- for the association, I mean. I’m pretty good with time-management, I can help with whatever you need.” Her heart was pounding. She wondered if she could become familiar enough to have Nina kiss her cheek when she said hello to her too.

“Thank you,” said Nina, smiling in a way that felt like a reward in itself. She quickly walked to Meatball’s desk and took a slip of paper from the drawer, coming back to give it to Brooke. “Send me an email, we always need more people.”

It wasn’t like getting her number, but it was something. Not that Brooke liked her that way.

“I will.”

–

Volunteering, as it turned out, was work. A lot of work, especially if you just couldn’t find the heart to say no to the person in charge, even if there was an exam coming up or an essay due.

“You know, if you just boned her your life would be so much easier,” said Detox one day, roughly two months after Brooke started volunteering at the association. She was sitting at Brooke’s bed, watching the blonde apply concealer under her eyes to hide the signs of her tiredness.

“Fuck off,” said Brooke, focusing on her makeup and trying not to think about just how much she wished she could take that advice.

Becoming friends with Nina was easy. She was a very friendly person. In fact, she had a lot of friends, and Brooke was absolutely not jealous of any of them, nuh-uh, especially not the gay boys who kissed her on the mouth to say hello. Not at all.

Being friends with her was even easier, Nina was kind, sensitive, a great listener, but perhaps her greatest quality was her sense of humor. It just matched Brooke’s, in a way that sometimes left both of them with tears in their eyes. She just liked being with her, everything seemed so much better when Nina was around. Brooke smiled more, did more things that she was proud of, Nina just made her a point-blank better person, and happier too.

Brooke was so in love with her it was dizzying.

“Why haven’t you made a move yet?” said Detox. “Didn’t you say you could have, and I quote, ‘any fucking girl you wanted’?”

“Did I actually say that? God, I’m obnoxious,” said Brooke, scrunching her face at herself.

Detox laughed. “That’s not the point. What’s the deal with this girl?”

“I’m ready,” said Brooke, finishing touching up her lipstick and capping it, completely ignoring the question. “Come on, let’s go.”

Detox rolled her eyes, following Brooke outside so they could walk to class together.

–

Later that week, Brooke found herself at Nina’s place, together with half a dozen people as they did a task force to organize a bunch of paper-related tasks, including cutting up hundreds of flyers for upcoming events, which was what Brooke was doing. Her thumb was sore already, and so were her cheeks from all the laughing.

“Look at this bitch,” said Meatball with her phone pointing at Brooke’s face, probably filming an Instagram story. “Who puts on that much makeup to get paper cuts?”

“That reminds me, I got something for you,” said Brooke, reaching in her jeans pocket and bringing out her middle finger.

Meatball laughed, putting her phone down. “She’s growing on me,” she said to Nina, who was behind a laptop, trying to fix some finance sheets with Josh. Nina looked at her fondly. Brooke had been trying to stare less at her, but sometimes it was just impossible.

They kept working, the conversation switching back an forth between the most stupid things and important matters regarding the association. As the night progressed, people started to leave, but Brooke stayed put. There were still too many flyers to cut up, and besides, she had nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Look at this,” said Nina at some point, sitting beside her on the couch to show a video on her phone. It was of a couple dancing at their wedding. The camera only focused on the couple for one second, however, before zooming in on a little girl standing with the crowd wearing a hulk mask and a cute, flowery dress. It was so funny, and they watched it too many times.

“Every time I come to your house I have to put on waterproof mascara,” said Brooke, dabbing at the corner of her eyes.

Nina chuckled. “You could not put mascara at all, you know.” Brooke gasped, overdramatically, making Nina laugh even harder. “I don’t get it, honestly. You’re so pretty, why do you do all that?”

“You think I’m all that pretty precisely because I do all that,” said Brooke, trying to play down how flustered the comment actually made her. She noticed they were alone in the apartment now, not knowing how she could’ve missed it. Her heart went crazy.

“Yeah, right,” said Nina, leaning her elbow on the back of the couch. “I’m sure you’re just a monster without lipstick on.”

Brooke shook her head, not knowing what to say. She liked wearing makeup, but lately she had been thinking maybe she relied too heavily on it. It was a work in progress. In any case, she couldn’t just not try to look her best whenever she was seeing Nina. Because if she wasn’t beautiful, then what was she?

“Beauty is all I have,” said Brooke, focused on the paper she was working on.

“What are you talking about?” said Nina. “Brooke you’re not just beautiful, you’re so much more than that.”

“I know.” Brooke smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks,” she completed, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Hey,” said Nina softly, taking the scissors and paper from Brooke’s hand and putting it away. “Talk to me.”

There were tears in the corner of Brooke’s eyes. Fuck. “It’s nothing, I’m fine. I just used to be so obsessed with standards, you know? Thought it was so important, and it’s not. But it’s what I am, right?” she shrugged. “I’m pretty. I’m not particularly smart, or kind, or-” Nina looked so beautiful today, her hair let down and her pink strands recently retouched. Her eyes were searching Brooke’s so kindly it was overwhelming.

“Who let you believe that? That’s not true, Brooke. You’re all of those things.”

It was so hard not to believe Nina. “I sort of like this girl, and I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like I didn’t know my heart was frozen until she took it in her hands and warmed it up, and now I’m so much better because of her.” Brooke sighed. She didn’t know what she was doing, but now she was talking and she couldn’t stop. “But she’s so amazing, she just deserves better than me. Way better.”

“Brooke,” said Nina, kindly, taking her hand. God, Brooke liked her so much. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the effect you have on people, I’m sure whoever this girl is she’d be so lucky to have you.”

“No, you don’t get it,” said Brooke, getting up, suddenly frustrated. “It’s not just about sex, okay? Yeah, I want her, but it’s not just that.”

“That’s good, it’s great! So tell her! Wait, is she straight?”

“No,” Brooke chuckled at the absurdity of it.

“Oh, good. So tell her! Brooke, you’re an amazing person, you deserve love.”

Brooke looked at her. She was up now too, looking like it didn’t even cross her mind that this girl could be herself. If it did, maybe she wouldn’t be saying these things.

“Yeah, maybe I will,” lied Brooke. “Thanks, Nina.”

Nina hugged her. Brooke closed her eyes, resisting the urge to bury her nose in her neck.

“Who is it?” asked Nina, pulling back. “Do I know her?”

Brooke shook her head, panicking.

“If we ever cross by her you have to tell me!” she was holding both of Brooke’s hands now, smiling at her. “Who could’ve gotten you so hard? I’m so curious!”

She looked so happy for her, so excited that Brooke had told her this. She probably wouldn’t let this go, would keep encouraging Brooke and being the wonderful friend she usually was. How painful would that be, watch Nina give her pep talk after pep talk while Brooke kept lying to her? Brooke didn’t think she could stand it.

“It’s you,” Brooke blurted out, watching as Nina’s smile faltered. She pulled her hands back, regretting it, regretting it so much.

“Huh? Oh, you’re just messing with me,” said Nina with a weird half-smile, swatting at Brooke’s arm.

Brooke smiled weakly. “I wish.” She looked away, trying to locate her bag. “Maybe it’s better if I just leave. Yeah, I can take some of these flyers and finish them at home,” she was already in motion to pick things up when Nina’s arm on hers stopped her.

“I don’t get it. You’re serious?” Nina sounded so confused. Brooke couldn’t look at her.

“Yes,” she said it looking down, daring to turn back to Nina only after a beat, meeting her frown and her beautiful eyes with a curtain of doubt in front of them.

“But I’m-” she didn’t finish, but Brooke could see the insecurities in her expression. She was confused, wary, and thinking things that did not belong in her head.

“You’re beautiful. So beautiful. And I don’t mean just on the inside.” Brooke took a step closer, against her better judgment. Nina was the same height as her, but suddenly it felt like she was shorter, smaller. “The way I feel about you, it’s-” she took a deep breath, lost for a moment in Nina’s eyes.

“Don’t play with me. This isn’t funny.”

“You don’t have to like me back, Nina, it’s okay. Really, I promise you. But please, don’t doubt that I do.” Brooke’s emotions were all over the place. She kind of wanted to hide, but at the same time, she couldn’t move.

“Have you been listening to me?” Nina’s voice was low, and she took a step closer, making Brooke’s breath hitch in her throat. Her hand went up to touch Brooke’s jaw, shakingly. Brooke’s eyes closed in their own accord, and she could feel Nina getting even closer. “Look at me.”

Brooke did, and she was so close. She almost couldn’t believe this was happening. Nina’s eyes focused down on her lips and suddenly Brooke’s mind was too cloudy to think anymore. She just reached up, framing Nina’s face before she closed the gap and brought their lips together.

Nina immediately pulled her closer, pressing their bodies against each other’s, and Brooke felt a shiver run down her spine. She heard a faint moan escaping her throat as her hands slid down Nina’s face to reach her neck, the kiss deepening as their tongues found one another’s, Nina’s hand moving to tangle in Brooke’s hair, her blunt nails raking her scalp deliciously.

Brooke arched against her, wanting to get closer, closer, so much so that Nina stepped back. It made their bodies be too far apart, and Brooke stepped closer again. They were so lost in it that they didn’t realize they were right next to the couch, and as Nina tried to walk back one more time, this time keeping a hand firm on Brooke’s back, her leg hit the couch and she stumbled down, taking Brooke with her.

They fell gracelessly on the cushions, Brooke on top of Nina, her face so close to her breasts that she felt dizzy. Nina started to laugh, her hand still in Brooke’s hair. Brooke laughed too, sitting up and taking in Nina’s swollen lips, faintly stained by Brooke’s lipstick. She couldn’t even fathom how she could have ever thought that Nina was less than gorgeous.

Brooke probably wasn’t smiling anymore, too entranced, and Nina sat up straight too. She looked insecure again, but Brooke didn’t even want to entertain it, and just leaned in to kiss her again. It was softer this time, and Nina sighed into it. Brooke moved to kiss her neck, sucking lightly at the skin and relishing in her smell. God, she’d pictured this so many times.

Nina’s hand was in her hair again, and Brooke was getting too hot. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “I want to take you on a date,” said Brooke, leaning back to look at her face, not without some effort.

Nina smiled. “Yeah,” she nodded, capturing Brooke’s lips again. Her hand slid down Brooke’s side, slipping into Brooke’s shirt to grip her waist. Brooke thought she was going to combust.

“Wait,” said Brooke, breathless. “I don’t wanna rush into anything, I was serious when I said this wasn’t just about sex, Nina, I want to do this right.”

She was interrupted by Nina’s chuckle. “I’m sorry,” said Nina, covering her mouth. “You’re just so cute, protecting my honor.” She caressed Brooke’s cheek. She called Brooke cute. No big deal. “Let’s go slow then. But just to be clear, it’s not on my account.”

Nina wanted her. Brooke’s vagina was screaming at her right now, begging her to listen to reason. “So, if we, hm… You wouldn’t think I was using you?”

Nina looked a little taken aback. “This is fucking surreal,” she mumbled. “No, of course not.”

“Alright then.” Brooke was back on Nina’s neck in an instant, drawing a half-laughter, half-moan from her. Brooke could feel her clit practically setting off fireworks. She let her hands wander to cup Nina’s breasts over her clothes and God, she was so gay.

“Bed,” breathed Nina, and they scrambled to get up.

Nina pressed Brooke against a wall for a few minutes before they could reach her bedroom, kissing her silly while groping her ass, and Brooke couldn’t do anything but hold on.

–

Brooke loved curves, and Nina’s were the best she ever saw, let alone touch. Her breasts were a heavenly gift, and Brooke was sure she would never get tired of putting her mouth on them, nuzzling them, making them home. But Nina was soon squirming too much, and she moved on, kissing down her soft stomach, letting her hands trails down the curve of her waist and hips, massaging her thighs as her tongue worked past her belly button.

She groped Nina’s inner thighs, and the girl opened her legs for her. Brooke looked up as she let her thumbs graze the juncture between Nina’s thighs and her crotch, watching her breath hitch and her hands grip the sheets. Brooke stroked Nina’s folds teasingly, letting her eyes roam over her body as she did so. She dipped her fingers between them, finding wetness and heat, and kept stroking as she watched Nina’s hooded eyes close and her heavy breathing become tiny moans as her body waved against Brooke’s hand.

Brooke surged up to kiss her, straddling her thigh as her hand kept going, now drawing wide circles around her clit. Nina pulled her close, trying to kiss back and grope Brooke but getting sided-tracked by her own pleasure, letting out huffs of breath and stopping her hands mid-movement as she just felt.

Brooke was rutting against her leg, holding back her own moans as her fingers worked with increased precision on Nina’s clit. It was getting harder and harder for Nina to keep from making any noise, and Brooke never felt prouder of herself. She moved to suck on Nina’s neck, her own rutting growing more intense.

“Don’t stop,” whispered Nina with a sinful, delicious moan, tugging on Brooke’s hair. It was so hot Brooke thought she would end up coming first, but Nina kept moaning and with a few more strokes she came, arching out of the bed and opening her mouth in a perfect “o,” a guttural sound escaping her throat.

Brooke touched her through it, keeping it firm and slow, watching her face as she rode her orgasm. Once Nina opened her eyes again, Brooke retrieved her hand and kissed her, feeling Nina’s hand snake down her body to slot in between her legs, stroking Brooke hard and fast while they kissed. It didn’t take long at all for Brooke to come too, biting Nina’s lip and convulsing over her body, one hand holding Nina’s juicy tit in a deadly grip.

Brooke collapsed down on the bed, a smile planted on her lips that she was sure was never going away. Nina snuggled against her, resting her head on her chest and throwing an arm over her waist. Brooke started combing through her hair, sleep creeping up on her. Nina’s smell was intoxicating, and she closed her eyes, dozing off while thinking that she definitely could get used to this.

–

“HI, DIVA.”

Brooke was already working on the sewing machine when Nina arrived for the workshop. She stopped pressing down the pedal to watch her and Meatball doing their tongue thing, that Brooke still didn’t get, but chuckled at every time. Then, Nina went to Sasha, kissing their cheek and exchanging a few words with them before finally walking towards Brooke.

“Hey, baby,” said Nina, giving Brooke a peck.

“Hi,” said Brooke, smiling. That’s right, she’s my girlfriend, she felt like stating, even though it was just their friends in the room with them. It had been a month, and Brooke still wasn’t over it.

Meatball made a puking sound in the background, and Nina giggled.

“Jealous much?” said Brooke, turning back to her sewing.

“Suck my dick,” said Meatball, not even bothering to look away from her computer.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Detox, coming in the room at exactly the right time, surprising Brooke into laughter and making Meatball flush red.

[thomasword-blog]

M13U1A1 Globalization and Education

INTRO

There was a phrase that my middle-school self promised to never utter, “I am a middle-school teacher.” Well, I am a middle school teacher and have been for the last four years. The school I work at, Pride Prep, was founded under a vision of project and action based learning with an emphasis on relationship based teaching. It was understood that we would not unionize because the school would take care of us. Though we would be required by state law to participate in standardized tests, as an organization we would not pay attention to the results. There we stood, a public charter school, free from the restraints of the system, able to focus only on the well being of the students. 

Given my background in construction, graphic design, and CNC operation I been hired run the school’s maker-space. However, the school was short on math teacher, so instead of helping kids build projects I found myself in the classroom teaching math. I had no formal mathematics background, had never taught before so I didn’t know enough to know better. I tailored my curriculum around my construction, design, and business background.  The students built board games, chairs, and copper art pieces. Each build was a different iteration of scaling, fractions/decimals, perimeter/area, addition, subtraction, multiplication, unit rate and so on. The students would then cost and price the products for resale so that we could use the profit to buy new supplies. For me it was a blur of a year; a trial by fire of classroom management. For the kids it was an illumination of the power of math as a real world tool.

TESTING

As a public school we where required to participate in state testing. We went in with our chins up, knowing the growth our student’s had made, hopeful that we would score on par with other public schools in our district. Our CEO (also acting as principal) reassured us that the test scores did not matter but when the test scores came out changes started happening in the school. We had performed on par with schools of similar demographics but it turned out the public scrutiny of the tests had more sway than was originally anticipated (see https://create.piktochart.com/output/20093013-u2m3a1-sps-and-pride-prep).  As was discussed in Minori Nagahra’s (2011, p.375) review of Globalizing Education Policy, our school was about to start, “implement[ing] policies set elsewhere and have [our] school achieve according to various league tables of performance indicators.”

The following year, in response to the test score, we created our schedule around the needs of the math department on the premise that math is very linear and sequential and requires a solid foundation of concepts before progressing. The problem with this was the unintentional ‘tracking’ of students in other classes. Tracking, or the leveling of students based on demonstrated abilities, is a very controversial topic. Research has shown that tracking sets the stage for a student’s self expectations such that when they are in what is perceived to be a ‘dumb’ class they have a very hard time breaking the mold. While students in mixed level classes have a much easier time stepping up to greater challenges. In addition, “Data shows minority and low-income students are few and far between in high level and Advanced Placement courses,” (Brindley, 2015, p.4). Our admin was aware of the problems with tracking and has since done their best to juggle students schedules so that they can have a leveled math class while maintaining mixed abilities in other disciplines.

This year, however, I was not on the math team. I had signed up for my teacher certificate training with Teach Now and was on track to becoming a science teacher. As such I was given a science class and joined up with the science team to develop curriculum. In silent response to the test scores we aligned the curriculum with The Next Generation Science Standards. We used them to develop projects that ensured students had exposure to a more mainstream science curriculum. The past year science was run as an inquiry based workshop where students led their lines of inquiry based on their areas of interest. The core standards were addressed by means of the online platform Summit PLP. 

As a result of the curriculum change, science projects became more like simulations than actual inquiries. We incorporated more practice and rote skill building into class time without a solid demonstration of the need for the skills. This diminished engagement thus begged the question of how do we keep up engagement while also giving students the tools they need to do well on a standardized test. We answered this question by incorporating design into the science curriculum. If we where studying keystone species we would have the students do a deep dive into one species, make a custom t-shirt and then sell them at venues to make money to be donated to conservation and preservation organizations. We also made backstories for the different experiments and workshops we did so the students had a colorful notion of why they where doing what they where doing. This payed off as our test scores in science where 74% passing while the state average was 63%.

RIGOR, CITICENSHIP & CAPITOL

The increase in test scores was not enough for our parents. There was a large cry out for more rigor in our school. The implementation of design in science and the remnants of inquiry based learning gave the parents the impression that we more of an arts and crafts school than an academic institution. Some wanted more ditto work others wanted more instruction. And while the school was founded on internationalist principles as defined in the article, Internationalism and Globalization as a Context for International Education, We would need to take on more of a globalist (as defined in the same article) approach to making our school a more desirable, thus competitive, institution (Cambridge & Thompson, 2004, p.164). A school school needs money to operate. Our first two years we had money from Bill Gates to fall back on but we made a choice as an institution to not use it unless we had no other options. Gates is an avid supporter of charter schools and even though ours is a public charter school, it is a step in the direction of public money for private charter schools. Our school was not founded on the neoliberal idea that schools should be part of a Laze Faire, free market (Nagahra, 2011, p.373). Instead it was conceived of as a dynamic institution that could defy union norms in the interest of a rich education. We hoped to be a school that students wanted to be at because we where doing the right things. 

The parents, however, had a hard time swallowing such an optimistic pill.  Naturally they wanted their kids to go out into the world and be successful and more often than not this involved attending college.  Even though we where using a vetted program to ensure students where getting their required standards, Summit PLP, we had to respond to the call. Since we are a public school we are allocated dollars by the number of students we have. If the numbers go down the budget goes down. If the budget goes down we loose the resources to implement great projects. If we loose the great projects we loose more students. Eventually we loose the school.

As a response to the call, our CEO decided to begin the acceptance process into the International Baccalaureate  program. This would lend credibility to our program and give us a framework to steer our projects. There are ivy league schools on the east coast that look at students with IB diplomas as their first draft (J. Ewan, personal communication, 2014)*. And what a way to level the playing field. Our school has around 50% free and reduced lunch. And students come from all walks of life. The only other school in our city to offer IB is a private school that charges over $30,000 a year in tuition and recruits wealthy students from china as a staple source of income. This does make the school more international but it also perpetuates the schism between the haves and have nots. 

Ans so it was, for the next two years we steeped ourselves in ATL’s, Global Contexts, and Statements of Inquiry. We tried very hard to balance the rigorous academic expectations of IB, with the original project based philosophies of our school. When things became too academic parents again stepped up with complaints. Only this time the complaints where that the school had lost its focus on project based learning. The drive to compete to be an institution that creates college candidates had overridden the desire to make well rounded, experienced, and thoughtful citizens capable of solving alien problems. On the down side we finished last year, our fourth year, with a higher than average attrition rate. We lost teachers mid year because they could not handle the pressure of balancing the IB with meeting the social emotional needs of kids from all walks of life. However, we are a resilient and dynamic (sometimes too dynamic) institution. And while we never will find a perfect solution to balance out the requirements of a free market competitive system with that of creating global citizens and stewards, we will continue to work creatively within the parameters we are given to maintain the first with the true aim of creating the latter.

Resources:

Nagahara, M. (2011). Fazal Rizvi and Bob Lingard: Globalizing education policy. Journal of Educational Change, 12(3), 377–383. doi: 10.1007/s10833-011-9170-1

*, J. C., & Thompson, J. (2004). Internationalism and globalization as contexts for international education. Compare: A Journal of Comparative and International Education, 34(2), 161–175. doi: 10.1080/0305792042000213994

Brindley, M. 'Leveling' Raises Questions About Educational Inequality. Retrieved from https://www.nhpr.org/post/leveling-raises-questions-about-educational-inequality#stream/0

*J. Ewan is a 14 year veteran teacher who spent several years teaching in public and private schools on the east coast.

[southeastasianists]

Tell me a little about yourself and how you became a writer. I’ve always loved stories and writing since I was a little girl. At eight years old, I filled a notebook with stories and poems. I liked especially adventure stories and mystery stories. I was painfully shy and fearful, and I couldn’t even say anything when someone was being rude to me in public. My only outlet was writing. It was the only space where I could truly be myself and say what I need to say.

So, I took it seriously. I kept on writing – I wrote longer and more complex stories, and after college, I began sending pieces out to various publications, both in English and Bahasa Indonesia. I also started working on what became From Now On Everything Will Be Different, signed up for workshops and festivals, and learned the business of becoming a writer. As I got published more often and got invited to speak at writers’ festivals, slowly I gained the courage to speak up in daily life too. I became more confident in my own opinions and instinct; I became more able to trust that I have good ideas and good vision.

Now I can talk back when someone catcalls or insults me in public, for example. It’s all because of writing, and finding someone who loves me for me and doesn’t want me to change or conform. Writing is my home; I feel most alive with my imagination and the world I’m creating. It is my space to ask the questions I need to ask about the world, about how and why Indonesia is changing, about why we don’t allow women to be in control of their own bodies and their own lives, why I can’t be myself around my family, if I still want to be a Muslim and how, and many other things. I believe writing – and being creative – is an expression of faith in our own ability to heal and save ourselves.

Your novel From Now On Everything Will Be Different is about the Reformasi [post-Suharto] period that began in the late 1990s. What inspired you to write it, and what themes were you going after? The inspiration was the letters I exchanged with a friend. We were discussing our sexual adventures, which we had to keep secret from our family, colleagues and our other friends who disapprove of such free behaviour. We also talked about our artistic aspirations and how our family pushed us to more conventional, stable professions. We talked about the opportunities we had and how we missed them, our self-destructive habits, if we could ever break free from the patterns of starting [anew], failing and moving somewhere else to start over again. I realised that is also the story of Indonesia – from ’98, we had moments of great hope, moments that promised transformation and improvement, but we were often disappointed. I thought we would be free to choose our own leaders, careers and romantic partners. I thought we could write about whatever we wanted because writers and artists would no longer be censored or persecuted. I thought we could all be safer to be ourselves. Then I realised the obstacles don’t come only from the government – we are also constrained by social norms and our families’ expectations. With From Now On, I want to explore how the young generation could try to live free and follow their own hearts, choose the profession and relationships that fulfill them, instead of what is usual or expected of them.

Your novel was set to be launched at the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in 2015 but was cancelled due to government pressure. How did you react to this? Has the environment for writers improved since 2015? I believe the pressure mostly came from the local police. I reacted by printing excerpts of my novel on T-shirts and wore them to the festival. I wanted a creative means to resist or circumvent the censorship, and I wanted to do it in a way that achieved the goals of the book launch, which was to let people know that I had this novel just published. I also wanted to show the authorities who might be watching that censorship often has the opposite effect. They attract people’s attention to the censored or banned book, rather than away from it. I also wanted to show fellow writers and artists that we can resist censorship – there are ways to do so that are fun, creative, and conducive. I believe if we have good amount of attention, and international attention, the authorities will think twice before messing with us again.

I think there are still many concerns and much fear in exploring and publishing certain topics – for example, controversial periods in Indonesia’s history, ’65 and ’98 especially, environmental issues that brush against corporate interests, LGBTQI issues and anything challenging the mainstream conservative Islam narrative. Regarding the last two themes, I’d say things are even worse now. We need publishers and media outlets to be braver to support writers who are exploring those themes in a progressive and inclusive manner.

Tell me a bit about your work at House of the Unsilenced, and why you founded the project. The idea came to me late last year as I was following the #MeToo movement. It occurred to me that there were not as many stories coming from Indonesians. If a survivor were to come forward with her story, she may face negative stigmas. These things affect survivors everywhere, I know, but I feel in Indonesia the social stigma and sanctions can be harsh. So I thought if we can’t speak directly in person or through social media, maybe we can speak up with art. This way, people will have to listen to us. We’re not just nameless survivors anymore, we’re also artists and creators. We’re telling our stories and turning them into art. We’re also fighting the situation by telling our society that we refuse to be silent, we deserve to be listened to.

We had more than 20 artists, writers and performers participating [in the project], and about 50 survivors. We invited artists working in various mediums because people express themselves in diverse ways and we want as many survivors as possible participating. We had workshops and collaborations. We had discussions about themes related to sexual and gender violence. We had a film showing and an open-mic night. For most performances and discussions, we had a full room. We provided quiet rooms and psychological first-aid volunteers to help survivors who felt panic or triggered. With our partners we developed ethical guidelines for staff and participating artists and writers. We worked with partners who often work with survivors, such as APIK Legal Aid Foundation, Pulih Foundation, Lentera Sintas Indonesia support group and Hollaback! Jakarta. We also consulted Indonesian Association of Women With Disabilities to help make a conducive environment for disabled participants. The themes for the artworks also varied, from survivors speaking about sexual harassment to how sisterhood still often excludes non-cisgendered women, to forced pregnancy and lack of access to safe abortion services, and many more.

The artists and the survivors are equally important in this project. I want us to speak up together with the survivors, not for them.

What does being invited to speak at the festival mean to you? What types of events will you speak at, and are there any writers you are especially excited to meet? I hope by speaking at the festival, I can create more interest and support to do more House of the Unsilenced events, particularly in Bali and also in other places. That is one of our goals: to be able to hold events with House of the Unsilenced’s model wherever it is needed, with local artists and survivors.

I’ve heard so many great things about Clarissa Goenawan’s work, and I’m also excited to meet or hear Reni Eddo-Lodge, Yenny Wahid, the filmmaker Kamila Andini, also my friend Tiffany Tsao, and many others.

I’ll be speaking at two panels, #MeToo and Ladies to the Front. I’ll be talking about women’s leadership and the imbalance of power that makes rape culture possible. I will also share experiences in creating a huge collaborative art project with a strong social focus, and what a privilege it is to get to know and make work together with resilient women and survivors who, despite the huge obstacles they face and the deep trauma they’ve experienced, can overcome their fear and speak up and work for others like them.

[peckhampeculiar]

Master of the arts

LOU SMITH WAS INTERVIEWED ABOUT THE PECKHAM PECULIAR BY BBC BREAKFAST ON THE DAY OUR FIRST ISSUE CAME OUT.

The local artist and screenprinter, who is the man behind the famous “Made in Peckham” design, tells us more about his creative career

WORDS: COLIN RICHARDSON; PHOTO: PAUL STAFFORD

Lou Smith is one of those enviable people who seem to be able to turn their hand to anything and do very well indeed.

Lou is an artist, jeweller, sculptor and screen-printer. He’s a photographer and videographer. He’s been a maker of bespoke, high-end furniture. And he’s a children’s party organiser, candyfloss-maker and indoor pyrotechnist.

What he’s not, though – and he is the first to admit it – is a self-promoter. “I’m a bit lackadaisical on the self-promotion front,” he admits, “so these things just seem to happen, not because I’ve promoted them. If I had promoted them, I don’t know what position I’d have been in.” Or to put it another way: “The thing is, I do too much stuff.”

Lou was born in Leeds. “My father was a geologist,” he says. “He used to take us on regular outings into the wilds of Yorkshire, which instilled in me a deep love of nature. My mother was very artistic, but, as was so often the case in those days, she stayed home and looked after us. There were three of us, so it was pretty much full-time.

“She’d always be doing something – painting for instance – and she taught me how to cook and sew, the things I would need later. My dad taught me all the hammering and sawing kind of skills.”

When Lou was 14, his father’s job was relocated to London and the family upped sticks and moved to Uxbridge. “It was tough,” he recalls. “In London regional accents weren’t popular in those days.”

He got on, though, achieving three science A-levels and going on to Imperial College to study biochemistry. Then, halfway through his studies, he fell ill and was hospitalised. When he recovered, he went travelling before returning to college, but later dropped out.

After abandoning his formal studies, Lou moved away from science and towards art and design. He rekindled his passion for nature, which is reflected in his photography and jewellery. He took up video-making. And then he got together with his friend Roy Middleton, who had trained at Camberwell Art College as a fine-art metalsmith.

“For years, we worked together as a team doing really nice bespoke interiors for commercial premises and houses,” he says. They worked on three houses for Channel 4 series Grand Designs.

But eventually, Lou reached the point where “I saw I didn’t want to be doing this in 10 years’ time.” In any case, the work was drying up as people tightened their belts in the face of economic austerity. So Lou cut loose. And having done so, he came up with a design classic that moved his career in yet another direction.

“Made in Peckham” is one of those ideas that is so fiendishly clever that you wish you’d thought of it first. Indeed, many people seem to think they have. Lou has recently discovered that his iconic image has been appropriated by a wide range of businesses who use it to promote their enterprises without so much as a “by your leave”, never mind an “and here’s a little something for your trouble”.

You’re sure to have seen the image yourself. It’s so much part of the culture of Peckham now that it’s almost as though it has always been here. The image is of an SE15 street sign with the street name replaced with the words, “Made in Peckham”. And perching atop the sign, bending down as if to peck at Peckham, is a large black crow.

To start with, Lou screen-printed the image onto T-shirts. A friend of his had opened a clothes shop on Bellenden Road and she offered to sell his T-shirts. “She sold hundreds of them,” Lou says. “I couldn’t print them fast enough.”

Since then, the range has expanded to include mugs and, among other things, hotpants. Lou has produced lampshades screen-printed with images of creatures from his nature photography, which are also available as framed prints.

He makes everything in his studio in one of the railway arches on Blenheim Grove. How long he’ll be able to continue doing that is a matter for conjecture. Last year, his rent was increased by 80 per cent, backdated for two years, and he anticipates further rises later this year. He laments the fact that once-affordable spaces are being priced out of the reach of many artists and craftspeople. “It’s killing experimental art,” he says.

For several years, as well as selling through local shops, Lou sold his merchandise at street markets and events like Pexmas. At the moment, though, he doesn’t have any retail outlets and is keen to hear from anyone interested in stocking his wares.

In the meantime, he welcomes enquiries via his website or through Captured on the Rye, the shop on Pellatt Road in East Dulwich that he co-owns with his wife. It used to be Jack’s Cafe. The coffee machine is still in situ and “occasionally, the ghost of Jack’s can be seen from the original vinyl that they had on the window,” says Lou. “When it gets breathed on, it illuminates a crown with ‘Jack’s’ written on it. I started retailing my Made in Peckham stuff from the shop, but people didn’t really understand: why is it in East Dulwich?”

Lou’s wife, Lorraine Liyanage, is founder of the Dulwich Music Festival and runs her SE22 Piano School from the shop. Between lessons, Lou turns it into a party venue for children.

“I did some summer screen-printing workshops for the London Wildlife Trust,” he says. “It was then that I thought, ‘This could be a good business’, because children love to make their own T-shirts.”

Lou runs two types of parties: artistic ones, focusing on screen-printing, and science ones, which involve explosions and white lab coats. “The kids come and dress up in them and wear specs and make slime and bath bombs and fire little cannons at one another. And we do spin-painting and pyrotechnics and candyfloss-making.”

As if all that weren’t exciting enough, Lou says, casually, “I’m also a champion of the underground music scene in London. That’s one of my biggest things, actually. It doesn’t pay very much, though.”

He has made videos for a number of bands and has an extensive collection of photos taken at gigs. One day, he hopes to stage an exhibition of them...

So yes, Lou Smith probably does do too much stuff. But he does it damned well.

[monleaanglaisespagnol]

I Had An Affair With My Straight, Married Neighbor. Then His Wife Emailed Me.

The email came from out of the blue a few months ago. It was from the wife of a man I had been secretly involved with. “How long did your affair with my husband last?” she demanded to know. “I’d like the date range of the years, please.”

I always wondered what she knew, if anything. Why was she confronting me now? I hadn’t communicated with her husband — I’ll call him Mike — in more than five years. We live on separate coasts now.

“The least you can do is respond truthfully, given what you’ve done,” she wrote. Was she accusing me of turning her husband gay? Of breaking up their marriage?

That fiery email may have been written in haste. Still, it was years in the making. I now know that deception has a long life span and often returns to claim its guilt.

I never told anyone about my affair with her husband. Too much at stake. Not so much for me ― I was unattached, and my sexual orientation wasn’t a secret. Mike, on the other hand, was a devoted family man with two kids who I know loved his wife.

He was my next-door neighbor, and I did not seduce him, even though I was 20 years older than he was. I’m certain I was the first man he’d been intimate with, while I had, as they say, been around. Our affair wasn’t a sudden, passion-filled trip to the moon on gossamer wings. It was more like a long train ride. It started slowly and lasted some five years.

Mike wasn’t the only married man I’d been involved with. But the others were one-nighters or friends with benefits ― eager conspirators.

Mike was another story.

We were opposites in many ways: I was a magazine editor. He was a master carpenter. I liked the arts. He liked sports. I splurged on nice clothes and twice-monthly haircuts. He dressed in whatever was handy, usually cut-offs, T-shirts, Birkenstocks and a tool belt.

One night when his wife and kids were away, we went to see a movie about a giant meteor heading for Earth. He told me that he was 16 before he ever saw a movie. He had seen it on the sly because his parents were evangelicals and movies, TV, and pop music were all considered tools of the devil.

What we shared was a passion for the past. One night Mike took me to a fire station that was about to be demolished. We broke in. He wanted me to see what was going to disappear: a cast-iron farmer’s sink, a pulley for hauling ice to the second-floor window. He explained to me the building’s ingenious post and beam construction.

I once showed him a wood inlaid jewelry box that depicted a family playing cards around a kitchen table. My great-grandmother brought it from Germany. “It’s beautiful,” he told me, gently running his fingers over the different woods. “Don’t ever give it away.”

My Victorian flat always needed repair. I had no idea how to install ceiling fans or fix doorbells. Mike did. He once spent a week patiently refinishing the beadboard in my kitchen. He made the century-old wood glisten like new using only sandpaper and baby oil.

We were friends for several years before becoming lovers.

With his wavy black hair, cobalt eyes and droopy eyelashes, Mike had no idea how sexy he was, or could be. Yet his lack of vanity only enhanced his allure. I once stuffed him into my tuxedo when his wife insisted he accompany her to her workplace’s black-tie event. Put a martini in his hand and he could have been James Bond.

Mike would drop by my place after his wife and kids were in bed. We would watch baseball games, make popcorn. Sometimes we’d share a joint, which deepened our enjoyment of “Antiques Roadshow.”

I agreed to let Mike set up his saws and tools in my attic after he told me he couldn’t afford to rent a workshop. That meant seeing him at all hours.

There were signs, some blatant, that he was struggling with his sexuality. Like the time he told me he had gone on a porn site to see how gay men “do it.” He confided to me that when he was in college, he had been attracted to another male student but didn’t act on it.

It usually took a few beers for him to start opening up.

A mutual hug in my attic one afternoon changed everything.

Even after our relationship became physical, it took months for Mike to feel comfortable kissing. I’ve known couples, gay and straight, who were in open relationships. Many made a pact that they could mess around with others as long as they didn’t kiss. Sex can be a purely tactile, pleasurable experience. But kissing is up close and personal.

My nights were as free as his. I was in my 50s and I had outgrown discos and late-night bars. There was no Grindr back then. Craigslist was in its infancy. I could no longer bear meeting faceless strangers from newspaper ads.

I didn’t know Mike’s wife well, despite our being neighbors. She wasn’t the social type. Books, cats and gardening were her pleasures.

“What if she finds out about us?” I asked Mike.

I’ve been cheated on in several relationships, so I know how it feels.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s not a confrontational person,” he said. “The other night, she told me she was tired and suggested I go hang out with my butt buddy.”

“What did she mean by that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied.

I was, or so I thought. I figured that on some level, she was OK with this good-neighbor policy. That helped ease my conscience.

Besides, I wasn’t out to steal her husband, even though same-sex marriage did become legal in our state in 2004.

I wasn’t being completely honest when I said I never told anyone about Mike and me. My downstairs neighbor, who I had become close friends with over the years, figured it out. She could hear Mike’s footsteps coming and going on the stairwell, the squeak of bedsprings. “Mike’s a good person,” she told me. “You’re helping him become his true self. You should feel no guilt.”

I’ve never had children or wanted them. Mike’s, however, were a joy to be with. I worked from home, so it was easy for me to babysit them on school breaks and summer vacations. I’d take them to their swim lessons. We’d go bowling, miniature golfing. They introduced me to “SpongeBob SquarePants.”

Mike was always struggling to make ends meet. Yet not having money didn’t matter when it came to his boys. He gave them something dollars can’t buy: his time and attention. He once spent a day with them riding the subway lines. He got them memberships to a science museum. He taught them to Rollerblade and play hockey. I would go with them on weekend hikes. I would bring my dog and lunch. His wife never wanted to go along.

I lent Mike and his wife a down payment to buy a house. It felt good to do something positive for his family. His wife worked out a payment plan, which she stuck to. Mike converted the basement of his new digs to a workshop. Despite living in a different neighborhood, he still came by.

I can’t give a precise date when it all came crashing down. All I know is there were no more late-night visits, trips to Home Depot or those delicious foot rubs that he voluntarily gave. Mike simply disappeared without a goodbye. My phone calls went unanswered. He blocked me on Facebook. We never argued, so it wasn’t as if he stormed off in a huff.

Desperate for an answer, I bravely — and foolishly — called his wife. “What’s going on with Mike?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “He never mentions you.”

Our train ride had come to its final station.

I had to take an honest look at myself. What I needed was a real boyfriend, one who I could go to the theater with. Or to restaurants. One who wouldn’t leave me waiting for him to come by on a Saturday night, only not to show up. One who I could tell my friends and co-workers about.

One who was available.

Then one afternoon, four years later, I saw Mike. I was taking my dog for a walk, cutting through a baseball field that abuts a wooded area. He was lobbing softballs over home plate to his boys. Seeing me, he trotted over to where I was. He took off his Red Sox cap. “I’m getting a little gray,” he said. I said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking my hand. “Really sorry.”

“C’mon, dad,” his boys yelled, and with that, Mike jogged back to the pitcher’s mound.

I finally had my explanation. His boys were becoming young men, old enough to ask questions and figure things out.  

I should have foreseen this scenario. During the 1990s I lived in the Deep South. The steam room and sauna at my local Y served as a kind of after-work social club for men who were gay ― and for those who had wives and kids.

I would sometimes ask these men why they got married. “I wanted a family. I wanted children” was the usual reply. I asked one devoted father why he stayed in the South when he could have moved to a blue state. “I couldn’t live more than a few miles from my mama and daddy,” he said.

I knew a gay impresario when I lived in San Francisco in the 1980s. One night he threw a dinner party for his gay circle of friends at Trader Vic’s. Over tropical cocktails, he announced that he had just gotten engaged to a divorcée with two girls. “I’m going to have a family now, “ he told the table. “I can no longer see any of you again.”

I didn’t respond to Mike’s wife’s angry email. I figured that was Mike’s job, since he’s the one who came out to her and told her about us. He knew the dates of our affair as well as I did.

But I did need to know what was up. So I nervously texted him. We hadn’t communicated since that day on the baseball field.

“We’re going through a nasty divorce,” Mike texted back. “I decided to finally be honest with myself. I needed to be who I am. I told her about us. She blames you for everything. She wanted to know how many men I’d been with. I said there was only you, and that’s the truth.”

“Every time I pass by your place, I think of you,” he wrote. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I replied.

“Do your boys know?” I asked. They would be young men now.

“I told them. They were fine with it.”

“You were a great father to them,” I told him.  

“Now you’ve got me all teared up,” he replied.

Mike volunteered that he was in therapy. He said he had joined a bisexual men’s support group. He met a man there, he said, whom he found attractive and who had asked him out.

I felt a twinge of sadness. I didn’t tell Mike that. Instead, I wished him all the best in his new life, and I meant it.

I had a new life too. I had sold my place and moved to the California desert, where I knew no one. A few weeks after buying a small condo, I went to a paint store to check out color samples. A younger salesman waited on me. He looked to be in his early 40s.

I could see there was a gold band on his ring finger.

He intercepted me in the parking lot as I was heading toward my car. He handed me a piece of yellow paper that he had hastily scribbled his cellphone number on. “If you ever need anything, just call,” he said. “And I mean anything.”

“You’re married,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders.

Nights can be lonely. His invitation was tempting.

I took the piece of paper out of my pocket, wadded it up and deposited it in the nearest trash bin.

John Stark is a veteran journalist and editor who has had staff positions on the San Francisco Examiner/Chronicle, People magazine, Cooking Light magazine, Martha Stewart’s Body + Soul, Cooks Illustrated and Walking magazine. His freelance stories have appeared in such publications as The New York Times, Newsday, AARP magazine and The Boston Globe. He was a founding editor of PBS’ “Next Avenue” website for boomers, where for three years he wrote weekly blogs and features, and continues to write for the site. He holds a master’s in journalism from Boston University and is a licensed Realtor. He currently lives in Palm Springs, California, where he is retired but writes freelance stories. For more info, visit JohnRStark.net.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch!

[jesliey]

The Many Ask Thingymabob

Second times the charm...

Tagged By: @caramiathegreat

Spoofy Soundcloud or Pandora? Im a spoofy kinda man

Messy or clean room? I think my room is comparatively clean

What colour are your eyes? Bluest blue to ever blue

Do you Like your name and why? Its alright. It always seemed a little lackluster to me

Relationship status? The running joke in my friend group is my 3 year dry spell. It isnt a very funny joke.

Describe your personality in 3 words or less? Distanced pragmatic dumbass

What colour is your hair? Golden and luscious

What kind of car do you drive? My moms PTA-mobile

Where do you shop? Bad Dragon

How would you describe your style? Dying, yet fashionable college student

Favourite social media account? We all know timboblr is utter trash, and i picked up natter a while ago and its honestly pretty fun

Bed size? Queenie my man

Any siblings? two older stepsisters and a wee lil half sister

Anywhere to live in the world and why? GERMANY OR POLAND. BECAUSE HERITAGE

Favourite snapchat filter? I really like the flower crown an butterfly ones but my phone is being dumb with snapchat and i cant get them

Favourite makeup brand? I mean i dont wear it, but im definitely not opposed! i dont know anything about brands and i am ashamed...

How many times a week do you shower? I go by how my hair feels. Usually its every other day, or every two days.

Favourite TV show? Currently? Gotta be that weeb and say Jojo...

Shoe Size? Depends on where i go, but like 12 - 13

How tall are you? Very

Sandals or sneakers? I like wearing socks and sandals feel weird on my feet

Do you go to the gym. I LIFT SO MANY THINGS WEEKLY SWOLE SESSIONS BRUH.

Describe your dream date? Existent... T-T

How much money do you have in your wallet? I dont carry cash!

What colour socks are you wearing? Black

How many pillows do you sleep with? Like 6. Ones a memory foam body pillow its soooo nice....

Do you have a job? Nah...its not for lack of trying though

How many friends do you have? Like...sooo many duuude...not really...

Whats the worst thing youve done? Cut someone who was bad for me out of my life. Bad for them, good for me.

Favourite candle scent? I mean i dont do candles but i love lavender

Favourite boy names?

Gabriel

Alistair

Jeremiah

Favourite girl names?

Elizabeth

Abigail

Lauren

Favourite actor? Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson

Favourite actress? Ashley Johnson

Celebrity crush? theres a lot...

Favourite movie? The Boondock Saints. Easy question.

Do you read a lot? Whats your favourite book? I dont read as much as i think i should, but i loved 1984. I wanna try David Foster Wallaces Infinite Jest and i have the first book in Baccano that i borrowed from a friend and havent touched yet :/

Money or brains? Ignorance is bliss and im filthy fuckin rich HOLLA

Do you have a nickname? Jesliey is an old one. People also call me J a lot. Very briefly in highschool someone called me J-Money whenever he saw me

How many times have you been to a hospital? Not very many. I went in a few years ago for a tonsil infection but that was it in recent history

Top 10 Favourite Songs? Ok this is in no particular order and also limiting to 10 is blashpemy

Subdivisions by NSP

Everybody Wants to Rule The World by NSP

Resist and Bite by Sabaton though if im honest most of Heroes belongs here this ones just my fav

Winged Hussars by Sabaton POLISH PRIIIIIIDE

Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch

All of Pendulums Immersion album im not picking one

Come with Me Now by KONGOS

History Maker by Dean Fujioka

Setting Sail, Coming Home by Darren Korb

Sonata For Whitestone Castle by Aiden Chan

Do you take any daily medications? No, but i probably should have...

Whatis your skin type? on a good day, slightly dry. on a bad day, cracked bleeding sandpaper.

Whats your biggest fear? My man i used to battle almost daily with some quite hefty anxiety. I could stare down the Grim Reaper and say “I served my time you come and take me”. Wasps and needles are pretty bad though i guess

How many kids do you want? Id be lying if i said i didnt want a daughter at some point...but theres no way im passing on my genetics. im adopting if i ever want a kid.

Whats your go-to hairstyle? Either free flowing and glorious, or ponytail if i need it out of my face

What ype of house do you live in? Moms house is pretty decently sized i suppose

Who is your role model? I dont really have one...

What was the last compliment you received? I dont know I dont really get those often...this is getting kinda depressing....

What was the last text you sent? “Well i hope shes alright”

How old were you when you stopped believing in Santa? Like 10 or 12

What is your dream car? Oh god i want a 1985 Pontiac Trans Am so bad you have no idea...

Opinion on smoking? I dont get the appeal but everyone can make their own choices

Do you go to college? Yes and im dying

What is your dream job? Metalworking and blacksmithing has lowkey been a huge fascination of mine for like 2 years now. i would love to be able to do that for a living

Rural area or life in suburbia? I like the idea of both, but rural areas have space for metal workshops

Do you take shampoo/conditioner bottles from hotel rooms? Nah i bring my own

Do you have freckles? A few spread sporadically all over my body. no noticeable patches though

Do you smile for pictures? Yeah but most of the time it feels so forced

How many pictures do you have on your phone? Somewhere between 1 and 2 hundred. Im not adding them up among all the folders...

Have you ever peed in the woods? Bruh the forest has seen every bodily fluid ive got

Do you still watch cartoons? ANIME IS NOT A CARTOON DAD. also yes quite often.

Wendys or McDonalds nuggets? GIMME DEM CHICKIN MCNUGGiES

Favourite dipping sauce? Sweet chili thai!

What do you wear to bed? Pajama pants, a shirt, and socks usually. Occasionally whatever i wore during the day. Ive been known to ditch my pants and socks in my sleep.

Ever won a spelling bee? Never been in one, but i think i could have if i wanted to

What are your hobbies? I wont as long as i live under my mothers roof, but i would hella get into amateur blacksmithing!

Can you draw? yes. should i draw? no.

Do you play an instrument? I can play trumpet, but i would really like to pick up playing cello

What was the last concert you saw? If i remember correctly it was the Scorpions

Tea or coffee? Both. Simultaneously. I like to remain calm while containing the energy of a god.

Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts? Fuck you america! Tim Hortons!

Do you want to get married? I wont oppose if a future partner wants to, but if i love someone enough to want to spend the rest of my life with them, then it wont be necessary

What is your crushs first and last initial? Which one tho?

Are you going to change your last name when you get married? Im indifferent

What colour looks best on you? Blue and red are my standard colours

Do you miss anyone right now. If i think about this at all the answer is usually yes

Do you sleep with your door open or closed? I have the lovely habit of losing my pants in my sleep. for the sake of everyone else in this house, closed is best

Do you believe in ghosts? Call me a skeptic

What is your biggest pet peeve? Im pretty laid back about a lot of things. Only thing i can think of now is more of an anxiety thing but i cant stand people randomly touching my hair without me knowing

Last person you called? My mother

Favourite ice cream flavour? Butterscotch ripple

Regular or golden oreos? Golden

Chocolate or rainbow sprinkles? Rainbow

What shirt are you wearing? An old white one with some brand graphic on it

What is your phone background? Lockscreen is Goku from DBZ if he were done as a Jojo character, and home screen is a cr1t1kal quote

Are you outgoing or shy? Im not overly comfortable with just meeting new people and striking up conversations without some kind of help

Do you like it when people play with your hair? I mean i used to...theres a girl at my college who has absolutely no concept of personal boundaries who has at least partially ruined that for me now. Like i said earlier, i cant stand people touching my hair now without me acknowledging it

Do you like your neighbors? Ive lived her about 8 years and im still learning their names

Do you wash your face at night? In the morning? lmao

Have you ever been high? Hella my dude

Have you ever been drunk? Also hella my dude?

Last thing you ate? Coscto chicken penne and a salad.

Favourite lyrics right now? “Light up the night./ There is a city that this darkness can’t hide./ There are embers of a fire that’s gone out,/ but I can still feel the heat on my skin./ This mess we’re in, well you and I,/ maybe you and I,/ we can still make it right./ Maybe we can bring back the light!” Light Up the Night by The Protomen

Summer or Winter? Autumn fuck that noise

Day or night? Night

Dark milk or white chocolate? White!

Favourite month? October

What is your zodac sign? League of Legends Cancer

Who was the last person you cried in front of? I legitimately dont remember...probably @vocoterra

GOOD LORD THIS TOOK TOO LONG TO FINISH

If anyone wants to do this feel free and say i tagged you!

[btsgroupchat]

Away From Home Pt. 7

Summary: New life, new friends, and new home. You never realized how hard it would be to start over on your own. Just when you think you are getting the hang of it and moving on, life decides to keep you on your toes. 

Word Count: 2978

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3,  Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 

“Have you ever been in love before?”

The cheerful woman’s question lingers in the air as she steadies her microphone and eagerly awaits the answer of the seven boys seated before her.

A pale faced boy with a gummy smile picks up his mic and begins to recount his middle school days, reliving the time he was too afraid to confess his feelings for one of his classmates. The woman fondly smiles in response as another boy pipes up to tease the first one.

“What about you?” The woman turns her attention to another boy as he fumbles with his mic in hand.

“There was this girl I met at a high school dance through a mutual friend. I wouldn’t call it love, but there was definitely something there.”

The familiar husky voice piques your interest and you turn from your bed to squint at the small screen on your roommate’s laptop. Laughter fills the room as the boys tease and joke about his response, and you slightly scoff before turning back around and drawing your sheets over your head.

“Ah, I’m sorry Em. I should have been using my headphones, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Why do you keep watching those?” You scoff again at your roommate before sitting up in bed to stretch. “And I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

She smiles cutely in response and pauses the stream on her laptop. “Em is short for –“

“Muffin. I know.” You sigh in annoyance but choose not to push it any further with her as you slink out of bed and gather your things for a shower.

“I can’t believe you went to school with Kim Taehyung. You have to get me his autograph or something one of these days.”

You choose not to respond but instead give her a wry smile as you excuse yourself for the bathroom.

Soojan was assigned as your roommate for the first year and the two of you clicked instantly. It wasn’t hard to break through her shy exterior, and you were quick to fall in love with her quirky, sarcastic and honest self. It was early in the semester that you two had already decided to room together again for your second year.

The first year of college went by relatively smoothly with the help of Soojan. You were pleased to learn that Kayla had also been admitted into the same college when you ran into her on move in day. Having a familiar face around quelled a few of your fears of being alone in a new environment, but there was really only one face you wanted to see.

You finish your shower and head back into your room to see Soojan lounging on her bed and scrolling on her phone.

“It’s only week one and you’re already skipping class?” You give her an incredulous look of disbelief as she rolls onto her side and continues scrolling. “I thought we agreed we weren’t gonna skip any classes this year.”

She shoots you a dangerous look before attending back to her screen. “I never said anything about skipping.”

You laugh at her choice of clothes and apologize – a baggy white t shirt and faded black leggings. “I guess now that we aren’t freshmen anymore we don’t have to care what we look like?”

“Keep the snarky remarks to yourself.”

“Min Yoongi would not be impressed,” you test her further.

She shoots you another dangerous look before rolling off her bed to grab her jacket and bag. The two of you continue to banter until you have to part ways for your classes.

Kayla greets you outside of your first class, her wispy silver locks are pulled back into a loose ponytail and her thick framed glasses square on her face. You give her a warm smile as the two of you make your way inside the large lecture hall to find seats off to the side.

“Chemistry in high school and here we are again in college. Not much has changed, huh?” she jokes. You chuckle as you half-heartedly agree. You know that’s not entirely true. The lecture drones on but you are lost in your thoughts.

It’s been almost a year since you’ve spoken with Taehyung. Your first year of college was spent trying to coordinate video chats and phone calls with your best friend, figuring out the best times and days to talk to each other to provide updates on each other’s lives.

The first few months started out promising. Taehyung would call you every Sunday night and the two of you would talk for hours about everything and anything. Despite his busy training schedule, you were grateful he was making time for you, even though you could hear the exhaustion in his voice or see the dark circles under his eyes the few times you would video chat.

Taehyung would talk about his debut date, ecstatic and excited about his chance to share his music with the world. You listened in contentment, happy that your best friend was finally achieving what he worked so hard for. He would talk fondly of his members and you did well to remember each of their names, along with the group’s name – Bangtan Sonyeondan.

The debut rolled around along with endless promotions, variety shows and interviews. As their popularity grew, Taehyung’s calls and messages became sparse until they ceased all together. You didn’t want to blame him, but you couldn’t help but feel betrayed and abandoned as you religiously watched every promotional video, interview or show, hoping for some kind of sign or signal from your best friend that he was still thinking about you. But you never found one.

The bustling of students gathering their things and filing out of the classroom snaps you back to reality and you’re quick to pack your things and follow suit. You nod off to Kayla as you make your way to the student center to meet Soojan for lunch. As you approach the open courtyard, you immediately regret your choice for food as you weave through the mob of students to find your roommate perched on a bench by the ATMs.

“What the hell are all these people lining up for?” You greet her as she continues to comb the crowd in astonishment.

“It’s welcome week for the freshmen, remember? All of the clubs and organizations on campus are here to recruit new people.” She clicks her tongue in disapproval as she watches a freshman girl get trampled by a group of bigger girls who push her aside to get to the front of the line.

“Let’s go somewhere else to eat,” you offer. “It’s too crowded and loud here for my taste.”

The two of you are just about to leave the student center as a flock of girls come running and screaming in the direction of the auditorium. Knowing your roommate all too well, you turn to grab her before she can follow in curiosity but already see her heading in the same direction, laughing and beckoning you to follow.

You roll yours eyes but oblige, jogging after her before she gets swallowed up in the crowd.

You can already feel the bass of the music filtering from the auditorium from the outside. A group of overly excited students block the entrance to the propped doorway, but you can generally make out a small group dancing on stage.  

“Ahh, should have known,” Soojan sighs as she turns to leave. “It’s just the stupid dance team ICON promoting their club.”

You raise an eyebrow to question her before a shrill voice interrupts your inquisition. “Thank you to everyone who came by to check us out! If you come to our very first workshop next Wednesday, we’ll promise to have a very nice treat in store for you!”

Soojan urges you to follow her back to the student center but you are glued to your spot. Your heart drops down to your stomach yet you can hear its beating pounding in your eardrums. “Holy shit…”

The words leave your lips before you can catch them. “What?” Soojan asks in annoyance. She didn’t like crowds any more than you did.

“I know that girl…” you can’t even bring yourself to explain why it was such a big deal. The beating of your heart in your ears fogs your thoughts before you realize that Soojan is dragging you away from the auditorium.

“Whoa, you okay, Em? You better not pass out on me,” she warns you as she pulls her notebook from her bag and begins to fan your face.

“I-I’m fine…just shocked. Come on, I’ll explain over lunch.”

The two of you opt for the dining commons, choosing a table that’s tucked away by the window after grabbing platefuls of food. You begin pouring over every detail, reliving your former years along with your former tormentor.

“May Lee?” Soojan echoes. “She sounds like a bi-“

You cut her off with a harsh cough. “Let’s not.” You shake your head despite your silent agreement with her choice of words. “It’s bad enough we’re attending the same college. There are thousands of students here on campus, the chances of me ever running in to her are slim. Let’s just pretend we didn’t see her.”

Soojan is about to interject before she is cut off by a group of squealing girls taking a seat at the table next to yours.

“Is it true? Is he really coming to campus next Wednesday?!”

“I heard May Lee telling some of the new recruits that she knew him personally! That must have been how they got him to come!”

“It’d be good publicity for them too! Everyone will see how great of a dancer he is!”

“Everyone will see how hot he is too!”

The girls erupt into another fit of squeals before Soojan rolls her eyes and leans over. “Hey, what are you girls talking about?”

The group doesn’t seem too bothered with Soojan’s eavesdropping, and excitedly exclaim the good news. “BTS’s Park Jimin will be leading ICON’s workshop next Wednesday at the auditorium!”

Soojan almost falls out of her chair and you choke on your food. She is quick to compose herself, but eyes you over as you struggle to down your half-chewed chicken. Any mention of BTS gets her going, and she’s already trying to convince you to check out the workshop with her despite your extreme distaste for May Lee. But it doesn’t matter. None of her words reach you.

Park Jimin is coming to your campus.

The next few days are spent actively trying to avoid Soojan as she tries to take every opportunity she can to convince you to attend the dance workshop with her. You purposely stay late each night at the library, knowing that she sleeps by 11pm every night and are sure to be up and out of the room by 9am the next morning before she wakes. Despite your attempts, she tracks you down on Tuesday afternoon while you are walking out of your chemistry lecture with Kayla. You try to duck behind Kayla but it’s too late.

“You sneaky bastard! I know you’ve been avoiding me!” Soojan gives a brief wave to Kayla before yanking your arm and drilling her fingers into your sides.

“St-stop it!” You manage to huff between large gasps for air. “You’re making a scene!”

“Then I’ll continue to make a scene until you agree to go to the workshop with me tomorrow!” You crumble in response beneath her but she doesn’t seem to let up.

“Are you talking about the dance workshop tomorrow?” Kayla interrupts as Soojan immediately beams and lets up on your punishment.

“Yeah! There’s talk that Park Jimin of BTS will be leading the workshop and I wouldn’t miss that for the world! But party pooper over here is making me go alone.” Soojan is sure to dramatically roll her eyes in your direction as you straighten yourself out and smooth down your ruffled sweater.

“Don’t you want to see Jimin again?” Kayla asks you curiously. “You two seemed pretty close back in high school.”

Soojan shoots you her infamous look, the threat of danger evident in her eyes and her eye brows furrow. “You mean to tell me…that you know Park Jimin too?” Her voice is dangerously low. You prepare your sides, expecting her to drill you again.

Kayla senses the danger of the situation and offers a means of escape. “Hey, if you don’t want to go alone a couple of my friends and I are gonna check it out. We can meet up before hand and all go together.”

You shoot Kayla a grateful look and she responds with an understanding smile. But Soojan hasn’t forgotten the new piece of information. She exchanges numbers with Kayla before dragging you back to the dorms for her interrogation.

“We met like two times and then hardly spoke to each other after that!” You’re not entirely sure why you are raising your voice as Soojan paces the floor in front of your bed. You sit along the edge and tuck your feet underneath you as she continues to stride in thought. Sighing, you plop down to grab her by the shoulders and sit her down at her desk. “It’s really not that big a deal. He was May Lee’s date to our senior prom and then we hung once before he left for training.”

“Knowing Park Jimin isn’t big deal? Do you know how many girls would kill to spend a day with him? Or even just get the chance to meet him?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. It almost scares you how fervent she becomes when it involves BTS. You simply want to forget everything, the abandonment and betrayal you feel from Taehyung’s silence as well as the empty promises Jimin made to you during your first year of college. But you couldn’t help feeling that something was stopping you from moving on.

Jimin had tried his best to keep in touch with you after he left town, but just like Taehyung his texts became sparse overtime. He had never told you his plans after high school, but you were hoping he would be someone you could hang out with once Taehyung left for training. The two of you had been texting nonstop for a week before things just rapidly changed without warning.

At first you didn’t pay it much attention, but the more you tried to text Jimin, the shorter and vaguer his texts became. It wasn’t until you were video chatting with Taehyung one Sunday evening that you realized where Jimin had disappeared to.

Taehyung had been lying on the floor of the dance practice room when two boys noisily came in and joined him. One of the boys playfully snatched his phone, teasing him about having a girlfriend as Taehyung was quickly trying to end the call. The second boy grabs the phone in curiosity before almost dropping it in disbelief. You had almost dropped your phone that night as well, remembering how shocked you were to see Park Jimin on the other end of the line. After that night, Jimin had stopped texting you all together.

“Shit, this is personal territory I’m treading into, isn’t it?” your roommate’s apologetic voice rips you from your memories and she sighs heavily in retreat.

“No, it’s fine…I just haven’t had the chance to sort out how I feel about everything that happened between us.” You weren’t completely lying, although forgetting seemed much more appealing than having to sort out feelings.

“I never noticed the sadness in your eyes whenever I talk about BTS. But interrogating you about Jimin and asking about Taehyung all the time…I’m really sorry, Em. I just, you know…I can get caught up in the excitement sometimes.”

You shake your head and give her a small pat on the shoulder before grabbing your coat. “Don’t worry about it, I’m all right. I’m gonna step out for some air, I’ll catch you later.” She returns with a small smile and you slip out of the room unable to take anymore of her sympathy.

Ten minutes later, you find yourself at the park in the middle of your campus. You pick a green patch of grass where you discard your coat and lie down for a few minutes of silence. Park Jimin. Even if you went to the workshop, would he even bother to speak to you? It never occurred to you to reach out to him after seeing him through Taehyung’s phone. Why hadn’t he just told you he was becoming a trainee to pursue music?

And was Taehyung really so busy that he didn’t have the time to even send a small text to let you know that he still thought about you every now and then? You finger the metallic T hanging on the silver chain hung around your neck, turning it over to inspect the engraving that Taehyung had made just for you the last time you were together. You close your eyes, unsure of how you’re feeling. A mixture of anger, sadness, and confusion washes over you as you slowly try to calm yourself down. You tell yourself that the least you deserve are some answers. You don’t like to be short changed.

An hour and a half passes by the time you get up to head back to your room. You know Soojan is in class, but you pull out your phone to text her a quick message.

              Hey, I changed my mind. I’ll come with you to the workshop tomorrow.

You hit send, sliding your phone back in to your pocket without waiting for her reply. You’re not sure what to expect tomorrow, but you do know that you want your answers.

A/N: Happy New Year to all of my followers! Thank you all for being so patient with me for the series, I know a few of you had asked me whether I was gonna continue it and tbh I was pretty unmotivated for a while but I finally got around to updating ^-^ This is a new chapter, meant to portray the “new chapter” in the OC’s life (lmao so corny) but it’s still a continuation of the original series :) I’m not sure how often I’ll be updating though, so please continue to be patient as I figure it out. Hope you all enjoy!

[biofunmy]

Jewish Summer Camp With Campfires, Crafts and No Lights Out

As if on cue, the first camper I meet is a guy named Josh: a nice, 27-year-old Jewish boy with kind eyes, a subtle smile and the same name as my husband, another nice Jewish boy, back home.

“Do you know where Malbec is?” asks this Josh, Josh Blake, rolling his eyes, and then his suitcase, over a wide dirt path flanked by rickety cabins that have been renamed for the weekend. (Malbec and Cabernet, for the men; Pinot Grigio and Rosé for the women; Raisins for all.) “I don’t want to walk all the way over there, if it’s back there …” he says, sounding not unlike Woody Allen.

I don’t blame him. The camp is desert-hot and dusty. And he’s ultimately here, he later admits over bagels, because his parents paid the all-inclusive $525 for him to be. They met on this very land, albeit half a mile away. “Talk about pressure!” he says, laughing.

Ilana Rosenberg, 31, sitting nearby, agrees. “My mother said, ‘Have fun! Go meet your Jewish husband!’ My sister was like, ‘Mom, she could find a Jewish wife, too, you know’.”

American Jewish University owns these 2,800 acres in Southern California’s Simi Valley, which is home to rolling hills and herds of cows, the university’s Brandeis-Bardin Campus and Camp Alonim. Over the next three nights and four days, this 66-year-old summer camp for Jewish kids has been commandeered by a new kind of summer camp — Trybal Gatherings, for Jewish adults.

Trybal Gatherings was founded by Carine Warsawski, 34, a buoyant, Boston-bred M.B.A., with the goal of fostering lasting community among Jews in their 20s and 30s, and, ahem, a few in their 40s.

She held her first Gathering at Camp Eisner in the Berkshires in 2017, roping in mostly friends of friends. Over Labor Day weekend, it sold out, with 125 campers and a wait-list dozens’ deep. Last year, she added Wisconsin; next summer Atlanta, and has plans to expand from Seattle to Austin to Toronto.

Whereas traditions like Birthright Israel offer free trips to the homeland, Ms. Warsawski’s aim is to offer an immersive, low-commitment experience closer to home — one rooted not in Zionism or religious doctrine, but in the shared nostalgia of a Jewish-American rite of passage, complete with archery and horseback riding, and a roster that reads like it’s from the Old Testament. (At one point, I’d forgotten my name-necklace. “That’s O.K.!” someone joked. “It’s probably either Sarah or Rachel.”)

There are two main differences between Jewish kids’ camp and Jewish adults’ camp: No bedtime, and booze, lots of it. Kiddie-pools brimming with hard seltzer at Bubbe’s Beer Garden. Bottles of cheap wine at supper. Compostable flutes of bubbly at Arts & Crafts.

Also, adult campers have careers, though no one talks about them. Web developers and screenwriters, wedding planners and wardrobe stylists. And yes, a few doctors and lawyers. The majority came solo; others hand-in-hand and interfaith or happily married in matching outfits, like Emily and Rachel Leavitt — my Secret Santa, er, Mystery Moses.

It’s a mix of die-hard camp people reliving their glory days, once-homesick campers redoing their awkward years, and first-timers wondering what all the fuss is about. “My parents were immigrants from Iran! They didn’t know about camp!” says Baha Aghajani, 30. Neither did Saraf Shmutz, 39, who moved from Tel Aviv to San Diego. “My summers were ‘go play soccer and bug off.’”

As a writer who hasn’t been back to her camp, Young Judaea, in New Hampshire, in 25 years, I signed up to learn what’s moving Jews to opt for uncomfortable bunk beds and kosher-style mess halls, in lieu of a real vacation.

Trybal isn’t the only over-21 camp cropping up these days. Nor is it the only Jewish one. Camp Nai Nai Nai, which also operates on both coasts, and attracts a post-college, more conservative crowd. And “55+” Orthodox Jews have been davening at summer retreats for decades at places like Isabella Freedman where campers crochet kippahs and take day trips to Tanglewood, in the Berkshires.

Trybal is arguably the only camp, though, that starts the day with an “Abe Weissman Workout,” a calisthenics routine straight out of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” (Tomato juice refreshers included, but no rompers.)

It’s also, explains Ms. Warsawski, “a place for people who are more -ish than Jew.” Like Molly Shapiro, 28, of Berkeley. ““This is my jam!” she says. “Synagogues today aren’t really designed for us. We want something less traditional, more affordable, more fun. I mean, playing cornhole isn’t Jewish, but we’re playing cornhole together!”

Togetherness is what Trybal is all about. The schedule is packed from early morning to midnight with get-to-know-you-games and group activities like partner massage and mah-jongg, pickling and pool time.

The next morning, I pass up dreamcatcher-making for challah baking. “Oh yeah, this is what I’m here for,” says Abel Horwitz, a young Robert Downey Jr., kneading dough we’ll later braid and adorn with toppings beyond the traditional sesame. Rainbow sprinkles. Peaches. Jalapeños. “Will 20 loaves be enough for all 60 of us tonight,” some Jews worry.

Next, it’s a tossup between the relationship workshop and the ropes course. I decide I like humans more than heights and head over to hear what the visiting Rabbi Sherre Hirsch, has to say. She reads a passage from the 20th-century philosopher Emmanuel Levinas and tells us to partner up. A 26-year-old named Sam and I stare into each other’s faces for a full five minutes. “Sit with the discomfort,” the rabbi urges. Reluctantly, I do. I smile. He winks. I wiggle, examining his wrinkle-free forehead and bushy eyebrows bound to grow bushier in old age, until my awkwardness turns to calm. I’m overwhelmed by a deep feeling of curiosity and compassion for this man, for myself, for humanity.

“That was a good reminder,” Ms. Aghajani says afterward. “To give people more of a chance. To not swipe so fast.”

After a grilled cheese buffet, there’s solar art and yoga and Slip-n-Slide kickball. I head for the hammocks, where a guy with long red hair is lounging in a tie-dyed Helvetica T-shirt that reads “Falafel & Sabich & Hummus & Schwarma.” It’s his third Trybal. He is the camp guitarist, and a rocket scientist in real life.

“I come to be a kid again,” Jeremy Hollander, 34, says. He pauses. “And to, you know, be with my people.” In real life, he doesn’t bring up the fact he’s Jewish. “‘Hollander’ isn’t ‘Schwartzenbaum’. People see me and usually think I’m Scottish or something.” He feels safer that way. Especially today, he says, with rising anti-Semitism. “The flame is being fanned. You never know who has what opinions. Here, I can let my hair down.” (Although, technically, it’s in a ponytail.)

“The only one thing I have to worry about at camp,” he says, “is when am I going to squeeze in a shower?”

Still, before sundown, we all emerge from our bunks neat and clean and dressed in white. “Can you believe I got this for $2.99 at Saks Off Fifth!” exclaims Lauren Katz, a volunteer staffer wearing lace. (We can’t.)

Picture time. “Say Cheese!” the camp photographer instructs. “But we’re lactose intolerant!” someone cries from the crowd.

We gather in a stone-lined grove, to sing and sway and cheek-kiss “Shabbat Shalom,” before making our way to the dining hall for a sit-down dinner of roast chicken. And, of course, plenty of challah.

It’s all so familiar to me. The tunes are different, but the Hebrew words are the same. The trees are eucalyptus, not pine, and Mr. Hollander is not the longhaired, tie-dye-clad musician from my old camp, and yet — he could be.

I agree with what he said earlier. There is something easy and assuring about spending a summer weekend like I used to (albeit for eight whole weeks): with my people. Or, at least with people who remind me of my people. New friends bonded by old memories.

Trybal is like a modern millennial shtetl, where gesundheits fly. And “Hava Nagila” plays at a Hawaiian luau. And campfire stories include, “How I Became a ‘Nice Jewish Guys’ Calendar Model.”

It’s an alternate, insular world where I find myself running through a field, streaked in war paint, chanting: “We have spirit, because we’re Blues! We have spirit because we’re Jews!”

It’s a universe where conversation flows from the Netflix show “Shtisel” to the lack of Jews in Santa Barbara to the universal disdain for online dating (despite the fact that Trybal is sponsored by JSwipe), to whether Ms. Rosenberg indeed met her future husband.

“We’ll see,” she says, smiling. She did make-out at Arts & Crafts with the Trybal barista: a boy she barely remembers being at her bat mitzvah.

On the last night, I slip quietly out of the luau, where the D.J. is rocking “Lean On Me.” I leave the Leavitt ladies in their twin Hawaiian shirts and my Rosé bunkmates dancing the macarena. Mr. Shmutz and the Cabernets are making reunion plans. Mr. Blake is flirting with one of his crushes.

I have an early flight to catch. Back to my husband and kids and, in a way, the future. In the morning, I’ll miss the friendship bracelets and the compliment circle and, like a true last day of camp: tears. For a moment I have FOMO. And then I realize, it’s fine. Sometimes an Irish goodbye is just as good as a Jewish one.

Rachel Levin is a contributor to the Travel section and the author, with Wise Sons Deli, of “EAT SOMETHING,” to be published in March, by Chronicle Books.

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