#the handshake between them is so intimate I can’t explain it

[sydcarmyfan]

When the chemistry is chemistring

[wenellyb]

I don't know how to explain this but TFATWS reads a lot like “yes Sam and Bucky are romantically involved but this is not a romance so we won't delve into their relationship”.

If you think about it, in Marvel movies, the romance is not at the center of the plot. Even in solo movies, there is usually just one kiss, never more. And it the Avengers, there are usually no kissed between the couples. 

I'm trying to stay away my shipper googles but even then, some scenes don't make sense to me. I love watching movies and TV shows and one thing I like is that dialogues are not put there randomly, the script has a meaning, the words have a meaning, and the scenes they decide to keep have a meaning.

And for some of the Sambucky scenes in TFATWS,  I’m struggling to find any other meaning than “Sam and Bucky had feelings for eachother at some point”.

You can argue that jokes about the 2 partners being more than just friends is a recurring joke in a lot of buddy cop movies, but in those movies, it is usually a joke, just for laughs. The only scenes that would fall into that category in the FATWS are the rolling in the flower field scene and the therapy lesson scene where Sam and Bucky get so close that there legs are intertwined. 

All the other scenes are so emotionally heavy it's difficult to categorize them as only fanservice, or two guys being friends. I'm not saying they aren't any emotional scenes in buddy cop movies, but usually the emotional scenes don't go as deep as what we've seen  in the Falcon and the Winter Soldier. 

I tried to look at all their scenes together and split them into different categories, and I stilll end up with some scenes that point to a relationship that goes beyond friendship between Sam and Bucky:

Scenes that fall into the fanservice category and there just for laughs:

The bickering about wizards and sorcerers in episode 2

The rolling in the flower field scene and the beginning of the therapy scene.

Sam asking Bucky to do something when the Dora Milaje are attacking John Walker in episode 4

Scenes that can be seen as purely friendship:

In episode 2:

 Bucky deciding to follow Sam because I quote  "he doesn't trust Redwing". What is that even supposed to mean? ... He probably meant I don't trust Redwing to protect Sam like he would.

Bucky standing up from the stack where he was sitting on, to go sit next to Sam when they were on the flight back from their mission. 

Sam waiting for Bucky in the police station, even though they try to act as if they're not friends

Sam agreeing to go see Zemo with little to no protest

In episode 3:

Sam making sure Bucky is alright and asking him if he's ok

Sam touching Bucky's metal arm when he’s pretending to be the Winter Soldier

In episode 4:

Bucky saying "I'm going with you" when Sam says Karli wants to meet with him alone.

In episode 5:

The shield practice scene when they have a heart-to-heart talk in episode 5 about what the shield meant for Bucky and Bucky finally apologizing for the way he treated Sam and explaining how as a White man he couldn't possibly know what it would mean for Sam to be Captain America

Sam asking if Bucky is ready for some tough love.

Scenes that make no sense if we see their relations as just friendship:

In episode 2: 

The therapist said she heard a lot about Sam, she wants Sam to stay for the therapy for I don't know what reason, she makes them do a couple exercise, and says it explicitly.

Why would the therapist say she heard a lot about about Sam, that she want to do a couples exercise with them? Those scenes alone are alright, but when you take them together it's quite interesting. 

The couples therapy trope has been used in a lot of Buddy cop movies or TV shows, but usually they don't delve into sensitive topics like they did in TFATWS, the scene was so emotional for a few seconds, I forgot it was a Marvel show.

In episode 3:

When Bucky tells Sam he helped Zemo escape, Sam was furious, and couldn't stop yelling at Bucky about how insane his plan was, and Sam was right. But the moment Bucky looks him in the eyes and basically says, "please do it for me", Sam agrees right away... Excuse me what??? How does this make sense?                                                                              

If my friends ask me to work with an international criminal who just escaped from prison, I wouldn't just stop arguing with them just because they looked at me with puppy eyes. I would continue to yell at them until the end of the mission. Sam was like, “ok, ok, I'll do it for you”? I'm sorry but that is not friendship only, it's something else.

In Episode 5:

 Can we talk about Bucky's reaction when Torres arrived in Episode 5?? The annoyed face when Torres walks in and Bucky walking away right after that, without even saying goodbye? Torres is the sweetest soul on earth, how can anybody hate him? Why would Bucky not like him??? This scene make no sense unless they're trying to tell us that Bucky is jealous or something.

Bucky asking a favor to Ayo, when he's not in good terms with the Wakandans. I'm sorry but do you realize how heavy this scene is? Ayo, just told Bucky that he should lay low for a while, and Bucky understands that, but his first thought is "I need to get a gift from Sam" first. Nope nope nope, you can't tell me this is just friendship. Ok, maybe it is, but I don't understand this filming choice. Plotwise, Sam could have asked for a suit or new wings himself.  I'm sure Sam is in very good terms with T'Challa and the Wakandans... What does it mean that Bucky was the one to ask for it as a gift to Sam, when Bucky was in a already in a difficult situation with the Wakandans due to him freeing Zemo.

Bucky touching Sam's waist to ask him to move when he starts helping him with the boat repair. And Bucky coming from behind to do so, giving us a very short but intimate scene.

Their conversation about Bucky staying over for the night: Bucky saying he doesn't want to make things weird with Sam and his family by staying over, and Sam saying how the people in the town are so open-minded. Why would they have that conversation if Sam and Bucky are only friends? Sarah knows about Bucky and his past, she know that he and Sam are friends (sort of), why would a friend staying over make things weird between him and his family? Why would Sam need to say that the people in this town are open-minded?

The video montage of them building the boat the day after. Anyone knows why they would show us that if they were only friends, and with THAT music choice? 

The extra long handshake at the end of their training scene, when they kept holding hands and looking into eachother’s eyes while talking together, and Bucky basically says he'll be there for Sam whenever he needs him.

I’m sorry but it doesn’t seem to me that they are being portrayed as just friends

Usually in buddy cop movies/ TV Shows, there are always joke but in the FATWS, some scenes are so emotional that I feel like I'm missing something. Bucky has this whole passive agressive behavior with Sam and yet he's unable to let Sam go on a mission on his own. One thing I really can't understand is that Bucky always seems know where to find Sam, as if he had been keeping tabs on him. 

So yes, there's definitely chemistry between Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie, due to their friendship but it’s not only that. The writers and director have made the choice to keep some scenes and some dialogues ambiguous.

In some of the scenes we can see that there's more to Bucky and Sam's story than we know.

And they're not the first Marvel couple to have a similar treatment: Wanda and Vision's relationships was very subtle at the beginning, same for Natasha and Bruce, we rarely see them together explicitly but we knew they had a relationship.

It's the same for Sam and Bucky, some of the scenes only make sense if there has been a romantic relationship between Sam and Bucky at some point.

To me it's really like Sam and Bucky are set up as a couple or at least two people who have been romantically involved in the past, but the show won't expand on that because this is a superhero show, not a romance.

In an action movie, you would see some couples, or people who are obviously in a relationship or hints that there is something going on between them, but rarely would you see a kiss, that’s what I feel is happening here.

Last point: if Sam and Bucky had kissed in Episode 5 after their talk, it wouldn't have been out of nowhere and it wouldn't have changed anything to the plot. That's how I know my theory isn't that far-fetched.

I would love to hear your thoughts about some or all of these scenes (especially the Torres one, that one is driving me crazy)  and see what you think about it?

If you see their relationship being portrayed as pure friendship, I would like to know why. And would also love to hear how you guys interpret their other scenes together and if you have some different point of views about the scenes in the show.

[baya-ni]

The Queer Appeal of Sk8

Recently @mulberrymelancholy reblogged a post of mine with a truly galaxy brain take about how Sk8 “is a show made for queer fans” and generally how sports anime often depicts love and relationships in a way that’s more accessible and relatable to ace/arospec people than other mainstream media does.

Just, *chef’s kiss* fucking brilliant. I urge you to read their post here (note I’m referring to the reblog not the actual post).

And basically, it got me thinking about this concept of Sk8 as a Queer Show, and the kinds of stories and dynamics that tend to attract queer audiences in droves, regardless of whether its queerness is made explicit or hell, whether that queerness was intended.

And that’s what I’ve been pondering: What are the cues, markers, or coding, in Sk8 that set off the community’s collective gaydar?

I obviously can’t speak for the community. So here’s what aspects of the show intrigued me and what, for me, marks Sk8 as a Queer Show beyond the subtextual queer romances: a punk/alternative aesthetic, Found Family, Shadow as a drag persona, and The Hands.

1.) The Punk Aesthetic

All three of the above screenshots are taken from Ep 1, and every single one of them depicts background characters. They’re nameless and ultimately unimportant characters, yet each of them designed so distinctly and so unique from one another, one could mistake each of them for the main character(s) of another story.

Of what little I know about Punk subculture, I do know this: that the ethos of Punk is heavily built around a celebration of individuality and non-conformity. Sk8 seems to have incorporated this ethos into the very fabric its worldbuilding, and the aesthetics and culture upon which it takes inspiration appeals specifically to a queer audience.

I don’t really need to explain why Punk has such deep ties with the queer community. For decades, queer people have found community and acceptance within punk spaces, and punk ideology is something that I think is just ingrained in the queer consciousness as both lived experience and a survival tactic.

Therefore, a show that adopts punk aesthetics is, by association, already paying homage to Queer culture, intentional or not.

Queer fans notice this- like recognizes like.

2.) Found Family

This also needs little explanation.

Too often, queer individuals cannot rely on their “born into” families for support and acceptance. Too often, we are abused, neglected, and abandoned by those who we were taught would “always be there for us.”

And so, a universal experience for queer people has been redefining the meaning of Family, having to build our families from scratch, finding brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers in people with whom we have no blood relation, and forming communities tied together by shared lived experience rather than shared genetics.

And this idea of Found Family is also built into Sk8′s narrative.

Like, for example, the way that Reki promises MIYA that he and Langa will “never disappear from [his] sight,” filling the void that MIYA felt after his friends abandoned him.

And in the way that JOE becomes a paternal figure for Reki, teaching him ways to improve in skateboarding, and ensuring that Reki doesn’t self isolate when he’s feeling insecure.

And in the whole Ep 6 business with Hiromi acting as babysitter to the Gang.

Hell, even ADAM (derogatory) is associated with this trope. Abused as a child, he finds solace in an underground skateboarding community and culture he helped create- his own found family (or some powertrippy version of it anyway).

Again, queer fans see themselves depicted in the show, but this time in the way that the show gives importance to Found Family relationships between its characters.

3.) Shadow and Drag

This is one that’s more of an association that I personally made. But I was intrigued by the way that Hiromi adopts his SHADOW persona. He wears SHADOW like a mask, and adopts a personality seemingly so opposite to his day-to-day behavior.

Further, the theatricality and general “gender fuckery” of his SHADOW persona, to me, just seemed so similar to a the characteristics of a drag persona (I don’t know a whole lot about drag but enough that I’m drawing superficial similarities).

There’s also this aspect of a “double life” that he, and actually all the other adult characters of the show, have to adopt, which is a way of living that I’m sure a lot of queer viewers see themselves reflected in.

4.) The Hands

Ohhhh the Hands.

One of the things I noticed very early on is the way the show constantly draws our attention to Reki’s hands, which I thought was a little strange for an anime about skating. After all, skating doesn’t really involve the hands, or at least the show doesn’t really draw attention to hands within the context of skating.

I count 3 times so far between Eps 1-9 in which hands are the focus of the frame.

First, when Reki teaches Langa how to fist pump after Langa lands his first ollie, second, when Reki and Langa make their Promise, and finally, when Langa saves Reki from falling off his board.

And you know what they say, twice is a coincidence but thrice is a motif (no one else actually says this I think I’m the only one who says this lol).

I’m not really certain why hands seem to be such a shared fixation among queer people (at least among those I interact with). All I know is that gay people are just fucking obsessed with them.

I have a Theory as to why, and at this point I’d love for other people to chime in and “compare notes” if you will, but I think it basically has to do with repression. And in the same way that queer people have had to redefine the meaning of family, we’ve also had to redefine intimacy.

Being overtly physically affectionate with someone of the same sex, even if they’re your significant other, or often specifically BECAUSE they’re your significant other, can still be dangerous, even now despite the “progression” of society. Queer people know this, this vigilant surveillance of our environment and ourselves, always asking ourselves, “Am I safe enough to be myself?”

Already, Western culture is pretty touch-averse. That is, it’s considered taboo to touch someone unless they’re a family member or a romantic partner. And to touch a person of the same sex in any way that could be misconstrued as romantic (which is most things tbh) is a big no no.

There’s just A Lot to unpack there.

But basically I think that queer people, by necessity, have had to learn to romanticize mundane or unconventional ways of being physically intimate so that we can continue to be romantic with one another without “being caught” so to speak.

Kissing and hugging is too obvious. But a handshake that lingers for just a second too long is much more likely to go unnoticed, braiding someone’s hair can easily be explained away as just lending a helping hand, touching palms to “compare hand sizes” is just good fun.

But for queer people, these brief and seemingly insignificant touches hold greater meaning, because it’s all we are allowed, and all we allow ourselves, to exchange with others.

God, I’ve gone off and rambled again. What’s my point? Basically that the way the show draws attention to Reki’s hands, and specifically how they’re so often framed with Langa’s hands, is one of the major reasons why I clocked Sk8 as a Queer. It’s just something that resonated with me and my own experience of queerness, and I know that I’m not the only one who noticed either.

~

So in conclusion, uhhhh yeah Sk8 the Infinity is just a super gay show, and it’s not even because of the homo-romantic subtext (that at this point is really just Text).

Because what’s important to understand is that Queerness isn’t just about same-sex romance.

Queer Love isn’t just shared between wives/girlfriends, husbands/boyfriends, and all their in-betweens. Queer Love can be two best friends who come out together, queer siblings who rely and support one another, a gay teacher who helps guide one of their questioning students, a queer community pitching in to help a struggling member.

And that all ties with another important thing to consider, that what we refer to as the “queer experience” or “queer culture” isn’t universal. In fact, it wrongly lumps together the unique experiences and struggles of queer BIPOC all under one umbrella that’s primary White and middle class.

So I think what drives a lot of my frustration about labeling a show like Sk8 as Queerbait is this very issue of considering queerness and queer representation within such narrow standards, and mandating that a show must pass a certain threshold of explicit queerness to be considered good representation.

I get that someone might only feel represented by an indisputable canonization of a same-sex couple. That’s fine. But labeling Sk8 as Queerbait for that reason alone ignores the vast array of other queer experiences.

The aspects of Sk8 that resonate most deeply with my own experiences of queerness is in the way that Reki and Langa share intimacy through skating (intricate rituals heyo). For me, them officially getting together ultimately doesn’t matter- I’ll consider Sk8 a Queer show regardless.

Similarly, @mulberrymelancholy​ finds ace/arospec representation in that very absence of an on-screen kiss. A bisexual man might find representation in Reki, not because he enters a canon relationship, but in the depiction of Reki’s coming of age, growing up and navigating adolescent relationships. A non-binary person might feel represented through CHERRY’s androgyny.

That’s the thing, I don’t know how this show will resonate with other members of the queer community, and it’d be wrong to make a judgement on Sk8′s queer representation based on my experiences alone.

That being said, Straight people definitely don’t get to judge Sk8 as Queerbait. Y’all can watch and enjoy the show, we WANT you to enjoy these kinds of shows, and we want you to share these shows and contribute to the normalization and celebration of these kinds of narratives.

But understand that you don’t have a right to tell us whether or not Sk8 has good or bad queer representation.

And even members of the queer community are on thin ice. Your experience of queerness is not universal. Listen to the other members of your community, and respect that what you might find lacking in this show may be the exact representation that someone else needs.

[doubleleoenergy]

v. Blinding Lights, The Princess and the Pogue Series

I've been on my own for long enough. Maybe you can show me how to love, maybe.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, mentions of drug use, mentions of addiction, mentions of suicide, mentions of drinking, swearing

Summary: The events from the weekend bring JJ and y/n closer.

Words: 1820

Notes: I apologize for this coming out this morning, I fell asleep on my laptop last night editing so...here it is!

The first rays of morning light hit JJ’s window, sending beams across the room and onto his face. He groaned instinctively, covering his head with a pillow, a slight headache from the night before lingering and making him groggy.

He was aware of his actions from the night before, and did he regret them? Absolutely. He knew he fucked up with Y/N, bad, but he also couldn’t help it. He had never been in a long-term relationship before, he’d never let things get farther than a casual hookup before with anyone. Ad he had never actually liked a woman long enough to see potential with her, not until he had met y/n. Well, not that they did or did not have potential, that was all up to the game of life. And an apology would be necessary if they were to move forward with even a friendship at that point.

JJ rolled out of bed and onto his feet, his door creaking as he opened it up and peaked around the hallway. John B’s door was completely open, with him and Sarah nowhere in sight. That was probably for the best, he knew if they were there, he would just feel too prideful to apologize.

Stepping out into the hallway, he walked out and into the living room, finding y/n sound asleep on the couch still. The sun shined through the windows, covering her body in a warm beacon of light. She looked angelic, and she was. Y/N was everything JJ felt he didn’t deserve in a woman, and he still had no idea why she even hung out with a Pogue like him.

He leaned back against the wall, admiring the way her body was curled up, her lips slightly parted and her tangled hair framing her face. She was still dressed in her clothes from the night before, having passed out on the couch soon after they’d arrived at the Château. JJ kept his gaze on her for a few more minutes until her eyes fluttered open, blinking away the sunlight and rolling onto her back.

It took her a moment to realize JJ standing there, the hurt from the night before resurfacing as she covered her eyelids with the cool palms of her hands. “Take a picture, JJ, it’ll last longer.” She commented. JJ finally removing himself from the wall where he was leaning, moving over to take a seat to her left beside her on the couch. She immediately rolled onto her right side, facing away from him.

“C’mon, princess, you can’t get rid of me that easily.” He teased, resting his head against the back of the couch. She groaned at the nickname, pulling the blanket over her head.

“Actually, I can. You can fuck right off, JJ Maybank.”

Her tone made JJ frown, not realizing just how badly he had screwed up the night prior. “Look, I know you’re upset, but at least let me explain.”

Y/N sat up with her back towards him, looking around on the floor until she found the backpack she had stuffed with her clothes and toothbrush, picking it up and ignoring him as she headed to the bathroom. JJ was hot on her heels, only stopping when the door shut in his face.

“Y/N, please.” He pleaded, leaning his head against the door as he spoke. Y/N rid herself of the clothes from the night before, tossing them into her bag before slipping on the tank top, jeans, and cardigan she had packed for the day.

“You can’t just ignore me forever. At least let me apologize.” JJ sighed, hearing the water running in the sink on the other side of the door. “I’m fucking sorry, okay? I just got caught up with drinking and the weed and dancing with you and I didn’t know what to do. I thought you wanted me to kiss you, I figured that was why you were dragging me out where no one could see us.”

Y/N abruptly opened the bathroom door, causing JJ to stumble forward, catching himself on the doorframe before he could fall. She passed by him as he caught himself, pulling her hair up into a bun on the top of her head. “You think I’m upset because you kissed me? I was going to kiss you, dumbass.” She admitted, crossing her arms over her chest as she sat back down on the couch.

“Well then, what’s the problem?” He questioned, walking down the hallway and stopping at the end, afraid that if he sat beside her, she’d just get up and walk away again.

“The problem is that you kissed me and then acted like it didn’t happen when we caught up with John B and Sarah.” JJ recalled the events of the night, remembering how he pulled away from her to walk back to where John B and Sarah were standing. He remembered making a joke to John B as to why they were in the woods, lying to him about the fact that they were kissing.

“Well, shit, I don’t know, y/n. I just…I panicked, okay? We have this rule: no Pogue on Pogue macking. You’re part of the Pogues now and I…” JJ sighed, running his hands through his blonde locks. “I don’t know how any of this works. Whenever I’m into a girl it’s just based on hooking up with her. It’s never anything serious. I have a fucked up way of thinking, alright? Is that what you want to hear?”

Y/N looked up at him sadly, meeting his gaze before she reluctantly motioned for him to sit on the cushion beside her on the couch. JJ followed her motions, sitting beside her and leaving some space between them. They sat in silence for a minute before JJ continued.

“Look, my mom left my dad and I when I was young, and my dad blamed me my whole life for it. He was addicted to drugs and used to beat the shit outta me whenever he felt like it. I never grew up understanding a healthy relationship, or sharing feelings, or really any of that shit.” He looked down at his hands, opening and closing them as he spoke. “I’m sorry, I wanted to kiss you, I mean, who wouldn’t? You’re the fucking best, y/n; you’re smart, funny, and incredibly beautiful. And for some reason you like hanging out with a fuck up like me.”

Y/N shifted to look over at him, a small smile on her face as he talked about her. “You’re right, I am pretty great.” She teased, easing the tension and making them both laugh. “You’re not a fuck-up, you know that, right? You can’t control what happened with your mom and dad. I was so young when my dad killed himself, but when I grew up and watched my mom drinking, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was my fault. The truth is you can’t blame yourself for the way others react to situations. Life is shit, I mean, we don’t even make it out alive after all the bullshit we go through. It’s not worth spending your whole life blaming yourself for the actions of others.”

Her words are comforting, soothing JJ down to his core. She made him feel less messed up, like he could be someone better, like he deserved better than the shitty cards he was dealt in life. JJ’s eyes flicker to her lips, leaning closer and closing his eyes before the moment is interrupted by the sound of a car horn honking outside.

“Shit.” Y/N cursed, pulling away from the intimate moment they were having and standing up off the couch. She pulled her backpack to her shoulder, looking out the window at the familiar Dodge Durango. “That’s Bailey, I texted her for a ride home when I was in the bathroom.”

JJ tried not to look flustered, scrambling to his feet and running a hand through his hair again. “I’ll walk you out.” Y/N opened the door, walking out onto the screened in porch before stepping outside while JJ walked silently beside her. She watched her sister’s expression as she looked between the two, raising an eyebrow as she smiled mischievously at y/n.

“You must be JJ.” Bailey noted, rolling her window down and resting her arm on the open space.

“Yeah, it’s uh-it’s nice to meet you.” JJ held out his hand for Bailey to shake, receiving a firm handshake from the woman, glancing back to where y/n stood.

“It’s nice to meet you finally, y/n won’t shut up about you.” Y/N’s cheeks flushed a bright red, her eyes widening as she wordlessly pleaded with her sister to shut up.

“B, don’t we have that place to go?” Y/N questioned, hinting at her sister to play along with her lie after having just embarrassed her.

“Right...yeah, get in kid. It was nice to meet you, JJ. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you.” Bailey watched as y/n walked to the passenger door of the Durango and opened it, Y/N lingering in the doorway. JJ followed her, holding onto the top of the door frame.

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow, yeah?” She asked, biting her lip as she looked up into JJ’s blue hues..

“Yeah, sounds good. It was nice meeting you, Bailey.” He gave them both a salute before heading back into the Château, y/n hopping into the passenger seat of the Durango and shutting the door behind herself.

Bailey backed out onto the road, a sinful smile on her lips. “I can see why you like him; he’s tall, muscular, and those eyes are like staring into the damn ocean.” Bailey hissed when y/n smacked her arm as she drove, y/n letting out a huff of breath as she stared over at her older sister.

“You just had to embarrass me, huh?”

Bailey shrugged, stopping at a stop sign on the road before making a left in the direction of their home. “Mom would’ve done the same if she was here, you know that. Like she did for that boy who took you to your eighth-grade formal.” Y/N smiled at the fond memory of her mother, one of the better memories before her mother’s drinking had gotten worse.

“...Yeah, mom definitely embarrassed me much more than you just had. And that was before I even thought about kissing boys.” Y/N agreed, biting down on her bottom lip and looking out the window. She still didn’t know how JJ felt, he had been leaning in for a kiss, but what was to say he wasn’t going to pull away again or shrug it off as an ‘in the moment’ gesture. Her thoughts are clouded with the what-ifs of her and JJ’s relationship as they drove home, the lingering sounds of the radio playing softly in the background as she replayed the past hour repeatedly in her head.

Tagging those who may be interested. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged/untagged: @midnightf, @serendipityrogers, @fuckandfluff, @eireduchess, @calisamcro​, @moniamaybank​, @astrydis​, @sokovianheadtilt​, @blackwiddows​, @matbarzalschain​, @bigassnocash​, @sspidermanss​

[gods-no-longer-tread-here]

Blades and Bindings

OOF wrote this really fast, but I’m actually proud of it! Prompt generously given by @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher , a most wonderful person!

~

Geralt was tired enough that when he saw the dark-haired, teal-skinned head peeking out of the water of the lake, he was able to convince himself that it was just a hallucination. He removed Roach’s bridle, and she inspected the lake closely, ears flicking back and forth, before snorting and ambling away to search the lush greenery for treats.

Geralt hesitated. Roach had excellent instincts. If there was something strange about the water…

Ah, it didn’t matter. His water bottle had run dry several miles ago and he needed liquid. So he knelt by the lake, submerged his water bottle--and heard the hiss of a blade being drawn.

He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was clumsy with exhaustion, and with a yelp, pitched forward into the lake.

He caught a glimpse of a strong teal body darting around him, before he closed his eyes tight and somehow managed to find the little cliffed bank. Emerging from the water, he gasped for breath, steadying himself against the bank--and saw the rather gruesome aftermath of Roach taking exception to whoever had snuck up on them. There was quite a lot of blood on her hooves and legs, and the person--perhaps a bandit--had a crushed skull. Geralt sighed and climbed onto dry land.

“You have a mean streak, Lady Roach,” he murmured, walking over to lean his forehead against his horse’s neck. She nickered in a sound like a laugh.

A low chuckle, like water over stones, made Geralt straighten and whirl, reaching for his sword--which wasn’t in his scabbard.

The teal being was standing on the bank, holding the sword, grinning.

“I’m glad Lady Roach killed that creature before I had to drown him,” the being said cheerfully. “There’s a few too many bodies in the woods.”

Geralt swallowed hard. “Ah. Who are you?” he asked cautiously.

The being laughed again. Its teeth were sharp and looked rather like an otter’s. “You can’t pronounce my name. It’s not a human language,” it replied dismissively, waving the sword casually. Geralt couldn’t help noticing how muscular the being’s arms and shoulders were. Also he noticed that it was completely naked.

“May I call you by a different name, then?” Geralt asked.

The being swayed on its feet, pouting as it thought. “Hmm. Jaskier. Call me Jaskier.”

Geralt nodded. “You may call me Geralt,” he replied. “Can I have my sword back, please?”

Jaskier gave him another bright smile, and said, “No.”

Roach stomped and snorted. Geralt frowned. “Why not?” he demanded.

Another ringing laugh from Jaskier. “Because we must have a trade,” it explained. “What can you give me that is as precious as your sword?”

Geralt grimaced. “I have some money,” he offered with no enthusiasm.

“Your human money means nothing to nymphs.”

Oh, fuck. A nymph. Geralt felt alarm tingle up his spine and prickle his scalp and ears. He hummed, then said, “Do you have anything in mind?”

Jaskier swung the sword in a figure-eight and bit its lip, eyeing Geralt with eyes so blue they seemed to shine in the dusk. Then it grinned, as its gaze caught on his mouth. “A kiss,” it said. “I’ll give you your sword for a kiss.”

Geralt felt a wave of dismay. His vows to the king forbade such contact. They forbade any intimate touches beyond handshakes, actually. He could not kiss the nymph. “I cannot give you a kiss. Is there anything else you’d take?”

Jaskier’s grin vanished, and it frowned. “Why not?” it demanded. “You humans try to kiss nymphs all the time.”

Geralt ran his hand through his hair and winced as his fingers caught in snarls he hadn’t combed out in a while. “I took an oath,” he answered. “I can’t kiss anyone unless I have the king’s permission.”

“What’s a king?”

“A leader of humans. I have sworn my loyalty to him, and that includes following his rules. I can’t kiss you unless he says I can.”

The nymph tilted its head, then shrugged and said, “So let’s go to your king. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind letting a loyal follower kiss someone to seal a bargain.”

Geralt sighed heavily. “You’re right. He wouldn’t. Hmm.” He started to remove his armor to take off his soaked clothes and wring them out--then noticed Jaskier staring at him in fascination.

“You look like me,” the nymph exclaimed. “Your shape.”

“Yes,” Geralt replied, confused. “Did you not notice?”

Jaskier shook its head. “I’ve never seen a human without plumage,” it said. “Are all humans like that?”

Geralt yanked off his shirt and wrung it out thoroughly. “No,” he grunted. “Humans have all kinds of bodies. By the way, are you a man or woman?”

Jaskier stared at him blankly. “What’s the difference?” it asked.

Geralt opened his mouth to explain--then closed it, frowning. There honestly wasn’t much difference. He could explain body parts, but even that wasn’t a solid rule. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“What are you?” Jaskier asked, tilting its head.

“A man.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier tugged its hair, then grinned and said happily, “I’ll be a woman, then!”

“Ah… alright.” Geralt scratched his head. “Are you… going to wear clothes?”

“Clothes?”

“Plumage.”

“Oh! Yes, that will be easy.” Jaskier crouched and picked a thistle, then stood and passed the thistle from the top of her head to her thigh. With a shimmer, she was clothed in a simple shirt and trousers, both of them glistening green like plants moving underwater. Her skin was white and tanned, but her hair was still short, messy, and dark, and her eyes gleamed blue in the dark.

“When shall we go?” the nymph chirped, grinning.

Geralt looked at his soaked shirt, his armor on the ground, his trousers plastered to his legs, and the goosebumps on his skin from a chill breeze. He sighed heavily. “In the morning,” he said. “I’m not ready to move on, and Roach needs her sleep.”

Roach bobbed her head and butted his chest with her nose.

Jaskier shrugged. “Alright,” she said, and swung Geralt’s sword casually. “Shall I wash Lady Roach’s fierce hooves?”

Roach immediately went to the nymph, nuzzling her face and making her laugh. Her teeth were still strange.

Geralt wondered what those teeth would feel like against his skin and hastily turned away.

When Roach was clean and Geralt was down to his loincloth, the knight and his horse settled to sleep. Jaskier sat a little ways away and sang songs in that liquid tone, songs that brought the hush of waves on sand, the gurgle of fast rivers, the chuckle of swift streams, the patter of rain… Geralt fell asleep quickly and softly for the first time since childhood.

~

Jaskier sighed dramatically when Geralt tried to convince her that he needed his sword to fight and protect them, then dove into the lake (still holding his sword) and emerged five minutes later with a sword that gleamed like mother-of-pearl in the sun, with a golden hilt and a bright yellow gem in the pommel.

“Here,” she said, holding it out to Geralt. “My aunt, the Lady of the Lake, gave this to me after she handed some random human her second-best sword.”

Geralt’s mouth fell open, but he took the sword and held it reverently. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, running his fingers along the flat of the blade.

Jaskier shrugged. “Aunt said it makes the warrior who holds it invincible. Not a very good enchantment if the warrior loses it, or someone else steals it. Still. You might find it useful.”

Geralt stared at her for a moment, and wondered if there was a way to show his gratitude without offering a favor. Finally, he swallowed hard and sheathed the Lady’s sword. “Let’s move out, then,” he said in his best emotionless voice.

Jaskier smiled knowingly, but said nothing.

Luckily, they weren’t far from Camelot; only a few days. On the first day of travel, Geralt kept trying to explain court manners, but Jaskier’s unstoppable questions about why things were like that kept twisting him up. There really was no point to any of these things, except that they were important. They were about respect and the hierarchy.

“Nymphs don’t have stupid rules like that,” Jaskier grumbled, after Geralt’s third attempt to explain why there were different bows. “We’re all siblings and cousins and aunts and mothers, there is no hierarchy. Are you sure all these rules will convince the king to let you kiss me?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, rubbing his forehead. “King Arthur isn’t as bad as some of his vassals, but he’s very stern, especially after the incident with Lancelot.”

“What happened with Lancelot?”

“He slept with the queen.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because for humans, bindings like marriages and unions mean two people are, well, bound. It’s not good when one of them sleeps with another person. And she’s the queen. That’s even worse.”

Jaskier frowned and pursed her lips, then brightened. “So, once the bargain is sealed, does that mean no one can get in between our bond?” she asked.

Geralt stared at her blankly for a moment. Then he managed to say, “No. No, bargains aren’t bindings. Not like a marriage.”

Jaskier huffed and rolled her eyes. “Silly human, kiss-bargains are unions.”

Chills rolled through Geralt’s veins. “You… you want a union in exchange for my sword?” he spluttered. “It’s just a piece of metal!”

“But you love it,” Jaskier replied serenely. “It is old, and you care for it deeply. Therefore, since you lost a part of you in my lake, and I found it, I will give it back if you accept a part of me.”

A burning-hot blush crept up Geralt’s neck and filled his face. He swallowed hard and said, “That… doesn’t seem like a fair deal, though.”

Jaskier scooted over and leaned on Geralt’s shoulder. “You gave me a piece of you. You want it back. So, in exchange for the loss of such an important part of you, I will give you something important to me. Don’t worry, I’ll take it back when you die.”

Geralt’s stomach twisted. Die? Well, he was almost fifty… if he didn’t retire, he would be killed. But Jaskier seemed so nonchalant about it. Had she had unions with humans in the past, and watched them die? That seemed like such a sad life.

Jaskier looped her arms around his. “It’s a fair deal,” she assured him softly. “You just can’t see that yet.”

~

The days spent traveling were, unfortunately, too short.

Traveling with a nymph wasn’t actually that bad; when coin ran short, she amused herself and other people by singing for food, or staging fights. She also stepped in when tempers were hot over stupid things like donkeys or women who weren’t interested. She charmed everyone she met, even though sometimes that had dangerous consequences.

Entertaining as this was, they weren’t Geralt’s favorite moments.

His favorite moments with Jaskier involved her singing softly when it was just them. Combing his hair for him, putting little braids in it. Cooking together, sometimes with her feeding him and laughing when he blushed. Finding shapes in the stars when they lay down to sleep.

Geralt was a little unnerved by how quickly he grew to appreciate Jaskier’s presence. But, well… she was kinder to him than other humans. The mark of his inhuman heritage, his golden eyes, usually scared people away; but Jaskier touched his cheekbones gently and murmured that his eyes were beautiful. His body was bigger and stronger than other humans, and he was often called an ogre behind his back; but Jaskier was just as tall and strong as him, and saw no problem being close. Geralt’s sense of humor made people edge away and look at him askance; Jaskier laughed at his jokes, all of them, and called him quick-witted.

Geralt wasn’t sure what this fluttering warmth in his chest meant, but it made him want to be near Jaskier for more than just eight days. She was wonderful. So bright, so full of life, breaking into the dull drudgery of his life and making it about her smile, not his despair.

Approaching the castle, Geralt began to tense. King Arthur was a good man, but Geralt wasn’t sure which would be worse: being allowed to fulfill the bargain, and then having to say goodbye to Jaskier, or not being allowed to, and dragging them apart, so they couldn’t share their pieces with each other. No, he knew exactly which one was worse--never feeling Jaskier’s soft lips against his, never getting his father’s sword back, never sharing with Jaskier again.

Was this love? Maybe. Geralt didn’t really have much experience with love, unless one counted his shy flirtations with Yennefer, the witch-girl who was about five years older than him and didn’t actually care about him at all.

The pain of Yennefer faded when Geralt looked at his nymph, and he was glad.

Merlin met them at the gate, and Geralt swallowed hard. He’d forgotten the ancient fuck was in residence. Would he know that Jaskier wasn’t human? There was that tale of Merlin’s own uncanny blood--would like recognize like?

Merlin stroked his beard and eyed them both sharply as they stopped a few yards away from him. “Well, Sir Geralt,” the wizard said, “I saw you were coming, but I did not see the nature of your companion.”

“She’s not dangerous,” Geralt replied, a little too quickly.

One eyebrow rose, and Merlin’s mouth curled up into a sly smile. “Why don’t I believe you?” he murmured, then turned to Jaskier. “Welcome, nymph. I am Merlin, mage of this court.”

Jaskier smiled. “Thank you, Merlin. My name is Jaskier.”

“If you two will come with me, I will escort you to the king’s audience chamber.”

Geralt suddenly had to urge to scoop Jaskier up and run away with her, abandon King Arthur’s court, become a wanderer with his nymph by his side--but that was just panic. He had always hated talking to royalty in public.

A stableboy took hold of Roach, who took a moment to nuzzle Jaskier’s cheek before allowing herself to be led away. Geralt ran his fingers through his hair and followed Merlin and Jaskier into the castle. Why did he feel such dread?

Arthur was having an audience with some vassals who were whining about needing more taxes. Geralt, Jaskier, and Merlin waited by the door until the nobles were gone and they were announced.

“The mage Merlin, Sir Geralt of Rivia, and Jaskier, your majesty.”

Merlin and Geralt bowed; Jaskier just tilted his head and looked at King Arthur thoughtfully.

“Who is this Jaskier, Sir Geralt?” Arthur asked, inspecting Jaskier with his gaze, too.

“A nymph,” Geralt said. “She has my sword, and made a bargain that she’ll only give it back if I kiss her.”

Arthur looked pointedly at the sword on Geralt’s hip. “But it seems you have a new one,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a loan until she gives me my own back,” Geralt explained.

“A loan from who?”

“My aunt,” Jaskier answered for Geralt, her voice more uncanny than ever. “The Lady of the Lake.”

Everyone froze. Geralt felt sweat on his face.

“I… see,” King Arthur said slowly, frowning. “And why did you exchange his mortal sword for a magic one?”

“Because it is important to him,” Jaskier replied, as if that were obvious. “The magic one is just magic; the one I hold is steeped in memories and care. Can I kiss him now?”

Merlin frowned and stroked his beard again. King Arthur’s mouth twisted and he looked stern. “Why such a bargain?” Arthur demanded. “A mere kiss for a sword?”

Jaskier smiled brightly. “Because I love him,” she said.

Geralt’s head whipped around and he stared at Jaskier, wide-eyed. “What?” he got out in a strangled voice.

Jaskier laughed and pushed his shoulder gently. “You humans are so silly,” she teased, “You don’t even know nymph custom.”

Geralt could not think of a reply, so he stayed silent.

Merlin chuckled quietly, and said, “Well, that is certainly a twist.”

King Arthur looked just as stunned as Geralt. Then he frowned, and stood swiftly. Geralt tensed, watching the king warily and trying to figure out the best way to escape without putting Jaskier in danger.

The king walked towards them, fists clenched. Geralt stepped subtly forward and in front of Jaskier. He’d rather die than let his nymph be hurt.

“Arthur,” Merlin said suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Do you truly mean to punish one of your knights because an uncanny being fell in love with him? That is not wise, you know; nymphs do not take kindly to such actions.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, then turned back to Geralt and Jaskier. After a moment, he huffed angrily and said, “Fine. You may have an exception to your vow, if only to get your sword back.

“Thank--” Geralt started to say, but he was spun around before he could finish and Jaskier pressed her lips to his.

I love you, Geralt, Jaskier’s voice whispered in his mind. I love you so much.

I love you too, Geralt replied.

Jaskier pulled back and laughed merrily. “Well! Now that the binding is sealed, we can go have more adventures together!”

“I--but my oaths--” Geralt stammered, still a little off-kilter.

“Silly man, I told you all those rules are stupid. Why be knight who has to follow them, when you can be free?”

Geralt opened his mouth, thought for a moment--and began to feel a lightness in his mind and body. “You’re right,” he murmured, almost reverently, putting his hands on Jaskier’s waist. “I don’t have to.”

She laughed again and pulled him close for a second kiss.

[mithranqueersmusings]

The Night Before IV

Chapter: 4/15

Rating: U

Summary: Ringo hangs around after the club closes and meets a stranger.

Tags: Smut, Slow Burn

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr (Background McLennon)

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Daylight crept in through the crudely closed curtains of Ringo's bedroom, it took him a while to wake up fully and his thumping head wasn't helping. He could hardly remember getting into bed with George, yet there they both lay in his mismatched pyjamas. Turning over to his other side, Ringo reluctantly opened his eyes to find George looking right at him. It gave him a start to say the least, his eyes shot open which seemed to startle George too.

"Morning." George said hastily, his voice was a little croaky which somehow made it even more appealing.

"Morning." Ringo repeated with a smile "How long you been staring at me?"

George paused for a second, likely debating whether to lie his way out, but then said "Not long enough."

Ringo laughed "Talk about sappy."

"Honestly I've been dying for a piss but I can't get up unless you move your fat arse." George regained his composure quickly, Ringo figured he wouldn't be easy to catch out.

"Why didn't you just wake me?" Ringo asked, his voice so quiet despite nobody being around to hear them, the softness of the morning felt too fragile to break.

Another pause "Believe or not I do actually have some manners. Don't let last night fool you."

Ringo felt his cheeks flushing at the thought of what they indulged in, he only hoped it wouldn't be a solitary thing. He smiled at George then shifted out of the bed, stretching his arms upwards as George followed his lead. The flat felt considerably colder than the warmth of the bed, and Ringo suddenly regretted getting up and ending the intimate moment between himself and George.

"Actually... Do you mind if I have a quick shower? I'm still a little sticky, so to speak." George asked tentatively.

Ringo couldn't deny that George looked rather adorable in one of his old, baggy Rolling Stones shirts. He remembered how happy it made him when George picked it out from his vast array of ragged band shirts, far too many than he necessarily needed but they held fond memories of his youth and could never really part from them. Part of him suspected that he was going to see George again after today, but the last thing he wanted to do was get his hopes up only to be disappointed, he wished he hadn't experienced it so many times before in the past but that wasn't the case.

"Yeah, of course." Ringo answered "Let me see if I can find a clean towel."

Fortunately the bathroom was in considerably less of a state than the rest of the flat, he only fixed a couple of things like the overflowing clothes bin and the variety of towels strewn about the room. Managing to find at least one relatively dry and clean one, he hung it up on the back of the door and returned to his bedroom where George was scanning over his belongings inquisitively. He had a few photos of himself, John and Paul dotted about the space which seemed to pique George's interest. When the door shut George shot upright, clearly getting absorbed into some thought or another.

"Being nosey are we?" Ringo asked playfully, moving closer to see exactly what George had been looking at: a picture of the three of them at a festival, John looked completely manic with his shirt being discarded long ago, Paul's face was covered with glitter while Ringo was clinging onto the both of them for much-needed support.

"Cute friends." George replied a little coldly "Look like a lot of fun."

It warmed Ringo to think back on those fond memories "Yeah, it was a good time... Anyway, the shower's ready for you. Do you want a cup of tea or anything when you're done?"

"I'd love one." George smiled though his eyes seemed distant "Milk and two sugars, thanks."

Ringo nodded, returning the smile. George sauntered off into the bathroom, taking off the shirt as he went; Ringo couldn't deny himself the pleasure of watching him, his shoulder muscles tensing and his arse packed nicely into his tight boxers. With the door shut, Ringo headed into the kitchen to start work on the tea. If he wasn't feeling so rough, and if his fridge wasn't so barren, he'd probably try and cook something for the both of them but it was probably for the best, he didn't want to overstep and end up scaring George away. Waiting for the kettle to boil Ringo started tidying up his living room, picking up his discarded clothes and searching for his phone. It was always a relief to find that he hadn't recklessly broken it on a night out, the only negative being that it had depleted its battery some point in the night.

Heading into his bedroom in search of a charger, a familiar knock sounded on the door. Before Ringo could even straighten himself up a little, trying to conjure how he was going to explain the man in his shower, the door was swung open intrusively without a care.

"Your door's unlocked." Paul announced, stepping into the flat like it was his own and crashing down onto the sofa.

"Good thing you don't have anything worth stealing." John strut inside, clutching a bag of fast food "We got you breakfast."

"Correction, I got us breakfast." Paul stated firmly "Figured you could use it. What time did you even get in last night?"

Ringo took the bag from John eagerly, clutching a hash brown and digging into it. The sound of the shower running reminded him to save something for George.

"I don't know really..." Ringo started, sitting down next to Paul "But I, er- I've got company."

John threw himself down on the sofa "Good on you, Ringo lad! It's about bloody time."

"You didn't meet them at that dodgy place did you? What's it even called..." Paul couldn't mask the concern on his face.

"No, no. I met him outside the club actually, though I'm not sure if that's any better." Ringo chuckled, it didn't feel real trying to retrace his steps last night.

"Well we can get out of your hair if you'd like, don't wanna make things awkward." Paul offered, sipping on a milkshake.

John interjected immediately "Not before I get all the goss, I wanna know everything."

"Can it wait? He is literally in the shower right now, don't wanna risk-" Ringo began but was cut off by a voice behind him.

"Talking about me, are you?" George was standing with a towel wrapped around his waist, his chest bare and glistening with water.

All three of their heads spun around instantly, Ringo was feeling a little speechless at the sight. John got up from the sofa eagerly and approached him with a handshake, George looked at him suspiciously but accepted it nonetheless. Paul groaned in embarrassment, a sound Ringo had grown very accustomed to.

"Nice to meet you, Ringo's told us oh so much about you!" John was shaking his hand enthusiastically, George looked over at Ringo for some support.

"Am I meant to know who you are?" George asked, cocking his eyebrow as he managed to free his hand from John's grip.

"Ouch." John feigned an expression of sadness and took a step back.

"George, this is John and Paul." Ringo gestured his head respectively "John and Paul, this is George."

Paul nodded at George with a smile "Nice to meet you. You want some greasy breakfast?"

George seemed to relax as soon as Paul spoke, far from the first time he had to relax someone who had just been introduced to the character that was John Lennon.

"I'd love to, but I should probably get some clothes on." George chuckled shyly "Ringo, do you, um.... Know where they are?"

John snickered as Ringo leapt from the sofa to pick up the pile of George's clothes he'd left on a table in the corner. Paul slapped John playfully, although Ringo suspected there was an inkling of seriousness to the gesture. Getting closer to George, Ringo couldn't help feeling a little flustered again; his hair was pushed back, making the severity of his eyes stand out all the more.

"You gonna be alright in those trousers?" Ringo asked in a hushed tone, not wanting John to hear "I can lend you some of mine if you like."

"I'll be fine, thanks. Not the worst thing if the whole of Liverpool knows what a slut I am." George nudged Ringo lightly after taking the clothes, then shut the bedroom door behind him.

Ringo was thankful for the sudden exit because there was no way he'd be able to think of anything moderately appropriate to reply with. Turning back to his friends, John had a knowing grin on his face which could never mean anything good. Ringo slunk back to to savour another hash brown, the grease let him know just how bad it was for him but there's nothing else he'd rather eat with a hangover.

"Quite the looker." Paul commented casually, his face was hard to read but there was a glimmer in his eyes.

"Fucking hell, Rings. How'd you manage that?" John asked far louder than necessary.

"I dunno..." Ringo laughed "He came up to me actually, if you can believe it."

"Pft, not very likely." John retorted "You must've spun him a whopping lie to get him in bed with you."

"Thanks for the support, John, as always." Ringo smirked sarcastically.

John opened his mouth, likely for yet another comical remark, but was silent when George returned into the room. The marks on his trousers looked worse than they had the night before, Ringo only hoped that nobody would notice. Even looking this dishevelled, George still looked irresistible to him.  

"I'll have to pass on the food, I'm afraid." George announced, his jacket was pulled on as his headphones were wrapped around his neck "Completely forgot I had plans today, so I best be off."

"Oh..." Ringo failed to hide the disappointment in his voice "Alright then, if you're sure."

"It was nice meeting you both." George smiled at John and Paul, already making his way to the door "I'll see you around, Ringo, yeah?"

"Yeah, see you around." Ringo's voice faded into quiet, but he still managed a relatively believable smile.

George just nodded his headed and ducked out of the flat, the door shutting behind him seemed to echo through the room. Nobody said anything for a while, Ringo found himself just staring at the door as though George was going to suddenly reappear. Paul just sat drinking his milkshake, unsure of what to say. John focused his attention on rustling around in the bag for some more food, waiting for his boyfriend to take the reigns. Had he done something wrong? Ringo wasn't sure, everything seemed to be going so well until Paul and John arrived. Had John scared him off? It was entirely possible, but it wasn't exactly plausible for Ringo to start seeing someone who couldn't put up with John's antics. Ringo let out a heavy sigh, there was no use dwelling on the fact, he supposed.

"Don't beat yourself up, Ringo." Paul broke the silence with his gentle voice "You probably will see him around, I don't think he was just saying that."

"I guess." Ringo huffed "I might head back to bed, you know... The hangover's really starting to settle in."

Paul looked over at John and gave him a small nod "Alright then, give us a ring if you need anything. Keep the food, I don't even need to look in your fridge to know it's empty."

Ringo let out a morose laugh "Thanks guys..."

The two of them said their goodbyes and before long Ringo was alone again in his flat, the silence feeling way more imposing than it ever had previously. Ringo finished off the coffee John had left behind then tossed the cup into his bin, which was in desperate need of emptying. Slinking into his bedroom, he pulled the curtains tighter together to stop even the smallest amount of sunlight from getting through. Letting out another heavy sigh, as though the air would expel the growing fatigue in his body, he pulled the covers over himself and reached for the water he'd left on the bedside table. Lifting his head, he noticed a small piece of paper with some scribblings on it, he had to turn on a lamp to even be able to read it:

call me (i mean it)

     george x

Below the words were some hastily written digits, the sight of them filled him with a joy that shot right through his impending hangover. He searched for his phone charger desperately, the sooner he could put George's number into his phone, the better. Knowing when to call him would be a problem in itself, but for now Ringo could get some much-needed sleep knowing that he'd been right about George after all.

[revolution-john]

Madam Dixon

by STEVE LAMBERT

What set the whole thing off was Sam Heintzman leaving a vase of long-stem roses on her front step. It was early still, around seven, and she heard something outside the front door. She peeked out the window and saw Sam waddling back towards his place across the street.  They were beautiful, the roses, and the ring in the middle of the vase were all open and singing, and the ones around the lip, for some reason, huddled in on themselves like little old ladies wrapped in shawls.  A tiny card taped to the vase read, “Let me know if you need anything.  My deepest sympathy.  –Sam.” She leaned in, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

Sam, who had been an engineer at the Cape, was recently retired.  His job had been something to do with making the tiles on the front of the space shuttles.  But now he alternated between working in his yard and sitting in a lawn chair in his driveway, drinking canned beer and admiring his landscaping while the sprinklers ran. He had almost no fingernails, and his fingers were nubby at the ends.  Nubbiness, she’d often thought, was his defining feature. On more than one occasion, she’d seen him pop a beer tab with his house key. She couldn’t imagine “needing” anything from him.

Rich and Sam hadn’t exactly been friends, but living so close to each other for so many years, they’d became steady acquaintances, treated each other in that excessively cordial way that people do who don’t know each other intimately; all those handshakes and nods and winks and courteous chuckles—affirming gestures, like two salesmen.  Plus they both spoke the dull Latin of lawn care.  She recalled how on late afternoons the two of them would walk slowly around their or Sam’s yard, each with a can of beer in hand, pointing at various imposters, pulling them up and naming them: tickseed, dollar weed, chick weed, etc., etc.  She didn’t know the language.  It was an easy way for them to be, but she saw the way Sam looked at her sometimes.  She thought Rich noticed, too, but he was not the jealous type.  Never was one to get territorial.  

              She didn’t really feel like visiting, but probably should, she thought, go thank him for the roses before it got too late.  For some reason, she thought about how hard she’d found it to be alone at night, especially not being a sound sleeper. That was the most pronounced absence she felt in the wake of Rich’s death—his not being there, next to her, when she lay in bed at night.  It was just her now when she’d wake up at two or three in the morning; her and the intermittent sounds of the night settled down around the house, gently crushing it into the dirt, like a child slowly pressing its soft, fat hand down on a toy it has decided is no longer fun to play with.

She glanced over at the vase of roses on the bar, where she’d put them, and decided to walk over to Sam’s and invite him for lunch.  Why not? She thought. It’s a neighborly gesture. It would be an imposition for me, to go to lunch, but it would probably mean a lot to him. Anyway, it’s the right thing to do.  

 He answered the door in his usual attire: plaid shorts, white V-neck and flip-flops—big grin on his round face.  “Madam Dixon,” he said in a voice like a retired boxer’s, and bowed, his rubber flip-flops squealing under the strain.  

“Sam,” she said, “the flowers are lovely.  Thank you for them—and the card.  It was very nice of you.” She didn’t mean to sound dismissive but thought maybe she had. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“Come in, come in,” he said, moving to the side, and she reluctantly stepped into the dark living room. She found herself wondering if was her first time inside his house. A couch hunkered to her immediate right, and a small hallway stretched out beyond it.  Light funneled in from the back of the house. Particles floated and swirled around in the rays of light like nebulae.

“Thank you,” she said.  No, I must have been in here before, she thought, but couldn’t think of a single time she had.

“Have a seat.” He pointed to the couch, and then touched a stout finger to his nose, as if nudging it into place.

“It’s rather dark in here, don’t you think, Sam.”

“I guess it is if you’re coming in from outside,” he said, and he opened the blinds. Light slanted in in thin layers. He winced a bit.

“How’s that, madam?”

“You don’t have to call me that, you know,” she said.  Now that Rich is gone, she thought, it seems silly somehow.  She had been “madam” to his “Colonel.”  

“Oh, it’s just for fun,” he said.  “Would you like something to drink?  A cold adult beverage, perhaps?  I have some Busch in the fridge.”

“No, thank you, Sam. I just stopped by—”

“I believe I’ll have one, if you don’t mind.”

While he was gone she noticed a very large framed photograph on the wall, opposite the couch, of a space shuttle blasting off of a launch pad.  She pointed it out when he returned with his beer.

“Oh, her.  She’s the Columbia. A real beautiful craft.  The first to go to space.…April twelve, nineteen eighty-one.” He clicked his tongue then sipped his beer.  She found it mildly irritating that he referred to it as “her,” but didn’t dwell on it because she realized something.

“Rich took me to that launch, Sam.  We were there, at the—what do you call it—where the bleachers are? Where everyone watches?”

“The Causeway?” He slightly tipped the beer can and slurped, like he was trying to be extra careful not to spill any.

“That’s it. The NASA Causeway.  That’s where we were. We’d been transferred to Patrick about, I don’t know, a month prior—from Barksdale, in Louisiana.  He was so excited about that—getting to see that first shuttle launch.”

She remembered: on the way to the Cape, Rich driving huddled up close to the steering wheel, pointing up at the sky, and her just sitting there listening. “Folks who’ve been to rocket launches say you can watch it the whole way up. You can see everything: the glint of sunlight on the metal, the tower of smoke, like a string of popcorn, like on a Christmas tree—everything.  Takes maybe an hour to disappear, to dissipate.  Course, this’ll be a little different.”  Neither of them knew exactly what a shuttle was, but he made it sound much more interesting than she would have found it all by herself. The car swerved a little under the strain of Rich’s excitement.

And it was something. And crowded with people—people with binoculars and telescopes and wearing sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats and men in shorts and Hawaiian-print shirts, open at the front.  One woman chased a little boy, who was about three, in circles.  She was short, but pretty, and had on a black one-piece bathing suit.  The little boy chuckled as his young mother chased after him, one hand keeping her sun hat on her head. And they all watched it lift off and go up and it all seemed so slow, but it wasn’t slow, it was fast, hundreds of miles per hour, but from where they stood everything was happening in slow motion, beautiful and vivid and big.

“It was a big deal, Madam. Very exciting.”  Sam walked closer to the photo, swigging as he moved, like a kid with a glass of milk. She half expected him to start blowing bubbles in his beer. “Who knows,” he said, “the guy or gal who took this picture might have been standing right next to you.” He looked away from the photo. “Barksdale,” he said, and scratched at the top of his blotchy bald head. “Seems like I’ve been there…”

She watched him and wait for more, but nothing followed.

“Sam,” she said, “I was wondering.  Do you have any lunch plans?” It seemed absurd the second she said it. Of course he didn’t. She imagined him opening a can of tuna and eating straight out of it with a fork.

“Oh, well,” he said.  He put the beer can down on the coffee table and scratched at his head again.  He moved closer to the wall with the photo of the shuttle on it. He put a hand on the wall, like he was bracing himself for a dizzy spell.

This can’t be happening, she thought.  He isn’t even attractive. He’s an old troll. I don’t like him a bit, to be honest. Drinking beer this early in the day.  She got a flush feeling and her face felt warm.  He thinks I’m a sad, pathetic old widow.

“I do, as a matter of fact, Marie.  I’m going out to the—” He looked at his watch.  “And won’t be back till—Maybe we can—”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said.  She stood up, shook her head.  “Really. It’s fine.”  She thought she might start crying, which was completely out of the question.  This is not a rejection, she told herself. It’s just bad timing.

“Well,” he said, and he smoothed the palms of his hands across his shirt front.

“No need to explain, Sam.  It’s fine,” she said, smiling. She found that she was pressing on her hair with one hand. She made herself stop. “Rain check,” she added, without having thought about it beforehand.

“Yes!” he said, happy to have a word for the awkwardness he felt.  “Rain check, indeed, madam.”

 She watched from her living room window as Sam got into his burgundy Chrysler and pulled out and sped off down the road and out of sight.  Where is he going so fast? She thought.  She picked one of the roses from the center of the bouquet and smelled of it.  Its scent was so faint that she couldn’t think of a word to describe it.  He’d said he wouldn’t be back till late.

 She’d loved Rich, she often thought, because he made her feel like somebody. In the beginning, when they were dating, she’d felt unfamiliar to herself when she was with him. Later, after they were married, the wife of an Air Force officer, she felt confident and important. Initially, anyway. She loved him for that, for that gift he probably didn’t even consider a gift.  She loved it better than any jewelry or flowers or exotic getaway. It felt almost permanent, and it was real. But things always change. Things didn’t get better or worse—they just changed.  They were two people in a habituation together. She continued to love him, and she supposed he still loved her.  But towards the end it wasn’t a gift so much as an ill-fitting pair of jeans you can’t bring yourself to give away because you are sure you’ll fit back into them some day.

 She waited till dusk.  She put on dark clothes and her old running sneakers and grabbed the flashlight out of the catchall drawer in the kitchen. She preemptively took two Ibuprofen. If I have to do any climbing or crawling or anything I’ll be sore tomorrow, she thought. It was very quiet outside.  

She checked his side door, the one that goes into the garage, and it was unlocked, of course. No one locked up in their neighborhood. There was no need to. It smelled like gasoline and fertilizer in the garage, and the smell made her feel lightheaded.  She lifted the mat at the foot of the door that led from the garage into the house, but didn’t find a key. she shone the flashlight around until she saw a little metal hook on the wall, to the left of the door, with a ring of keys hanging on it. She tried five before she found the right one. Before she turned the key in the lock she took a moment to consider what Rich would think of this.  Presumably, she thought, he could be watching me at this very moment.  What do you think, Rich? she whispered. It gave her the creeps to hear her voice in the dark, stinky garage.  She heard something scurry and thought rat or possum and inserted the key and quickly entered the house.

In the yellow glow of the flashlight bulb the photograph looked mythic. She immediately had an urge to cry, standing there looking at it with what amounted to a spotlight on it.  For the first time in a month she was feeling the full weight of her grief. Before she knew it she was sitting on Sam’s couch looking up at the photograph, sobbing—like a proper widow, she thought.  What an odd place for mourning?  But the photo captured something, and not just the shuttle launch—that was secondary—but the color and feel of that day, that point in time.  The quality of light.  A small bit of her life, as it had been once, paused—a crystalized memory she’d forgotten she had.

She got up and walked over to the picture and put the flashlight right on it. Maybe if I look long enough I’ll find us, she thought, me and Rich, with our hands shielding the sun from our eyes, watching the shuttle climb up towards space.  Maybe I’ll find the petite young mother and her little boy. She looked and squinted and searched the photograph.  But she needed more time with it.  Most of the onlookers were blurry. It was too dark now. The shuttle, lifting off, and the dense exhaust, were the most vivid things. She stared so hard that things got distorted and she started to zone out. She imagined Sam ripping his nubby fingernails off and sticking them to the black nose of the spacecraft.  He ripped one off and stuck it on and went for another one.  Then he took a sip of beer. Disgusting old troll, she thought. Who drinks beer in the middle of the day, anyway?  

A few minutes passed and she pulled herself together. She sat and stared at the huge thing hanging there on the wall until a light from outside grew and intensified and she realized that it was the headlights from Sam’s car, shining in through the window as he pulled into the driveway.

She wasn’t sure what to do. She heard the car door slam. She turned off the flashlight and put it in her back pocket and carefully hoisted the photograph off the wall and crept, bent over, to the door that let out to the garage. From inside the garage, she heard the key in the front door, heard it turn and the door open. Sam sighed as he closed it. She slowly put the keys back on the hook by the door in the garage. She paused and heard an interior door, a bedroom door. She left the garage and stole quickly across the street, tip-toed home in the dark, the picture under her arm, like a cat burglar.  But what I’ve done doesn’t feel like stealing, she thought, as she sat the photograph against the wall in her bedroom. She took the flashlight out of her pocket and sat on the edge of her bed. It feels like something else. Feels like a resurrection.

()

Steve Lambert’s writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Saw Palm, Chiron Review, New Contrast (South Africa), The Pinch, Broad River Review, Longleaf Review, Emrys Journal, BULL Fiction, Into the Void, Cowboy Jamboree, Cortland Review, and many other places. In 2015 he won third place in Glimmer Train’s Very Short Fiction contest and in 2018 he won Emrys Journal’s Nancy Dew Taylor Poetry Prize. He is the recipient of four Pushcart Prize nominations and was a Rash Award in Fiction finalist. He is the author of the poetry collection Heat Seekers (CW Books, 2017), the chapbook In Eynsham (CW Books, 2020) and the fiction collection The Patron Saint of Birds (Cowboy Jamboree, 2020). His novel, Philisteens, will be out May 2021, and his second full-length poetry collection, The Shamble, will be out in October, both with Close to The Bone Publishing. He lives in Northeast Florida, with his wife and daughter, where he teaches part-time at the University of North Florida.  

[lokiondisneyplus]

In late March, when Robert and Michelle King convened the writers room for their supernatural drama Evil, they plotted out a second season premiere in a haunted New York City subway station.

Now, more than two months later, as the novel coronavirus continues to ravage so much of the world, the idea has been scrapped at the behest of their line producer, who warned that filming permits would be hard, if not impossible, to come by. When the CBS series does return, the season opener will explore the spiritual consciousness of its characters instead, with a storyline devoted to the "God helmet" and its virtual-reality-meets-peyote-style impact. It's a plot perfectly suited for a post-pandemic world, explains Robert King, because it relies heavily on visual effects. "You have to look at scope in a different way," he says, in this case referencing the scope of the brain rather than scope of a subway.

In virtual rooms all over Hollywood, writers like the Kings are being asked to rethink what could be feasible once production resumes. Many are waiting to actually tweak their scripts — "I don't want to have to rewrite everything six times while the guidelines change," says Shameless' John Wells — while others are already avoiding or scrubbing crowds, hugs and handshakes. Sex scenes and fight scenes will need to be carefully considered, too, and in some cases reconsidered as storytellers along with their line producers and studio bosses navigate an unknown future.

"What we're telling our writers is 'Don't be dumb,' " says one studio executive, who suggests that an elaborate crowd scene with dozens of extras would surely qualify. "We're not going to be able to shoot it, so don't write it."

Regardless of directives, which vary by studio, more than a dozen producers who spoke with THR say their anxiety lies largely in the uncertainty. "It's very hard when you don't know what the future looks like," says Marta Kauffman, showrunner of Netflix's Grace and Frankie, whose situation is made more complicated by the fact that the youngest of her four leads is 79 years old. She has yet to go back into her scripts and start making the necessary changes, but that's coming, and she's dreading it. "We had scenes at our assisted living facility with a crowd, and, well, we can't do that anymore. And we know we certainly won't be doing lots of kissing with elderly people, but it may have to go beyond that."

Though Kenya Barris' actors are several decades younger than Kauffman's, he's having trouble wrapping his head around how he'll make his Freeform series Grown-ish, which takes place almost entirely on a college campus. "It's literally about a place where people gather," he says, "and you can only do so many [contained] bottle episodes before it starts to lose the tone and feeling of what the show is." Meanwhile, Mythic Quest's Rob McElhenney was smack in the middle of shooting a scene set at the E3 gaming conference when production shut down. "There were literally thousands of people in the audience, and that's not going to happen anytime soon," he says. "So I'm going to have to rewrite it and reshoot it."

The days of doing a dozen extra takes are likely over, laments another producer, and shooting long just to have it, too. In fact, one executive suggests scripts could soon be five or six pages shorter ultimately, to make room in a show's budget for pricey protocols like crew-wide testing. There have been rumblings of putting line producers into writers rooms as well, though writers with any modicum of power are likely to resist additional infringement on the creative process. ("It's a terrible idea unless you have an irresponsible showrunner," says Kauffman.)

Writers will also be asked to lean on fewer characters along with special effects to provide scale. As one producer explains, if a pre-virus scene was set at a backyard birthday party full of children, the post-virus one will have two or three characters sitting around a kitchen table talking about the party — and any flashes to it would largely be CGI.

"The technology that brought you dragons and exploding people is the same technology that will be bringing you ordinary crowd scenes on shows you wouldn't expect [to use] visual effects," says You's Sera Gamble, who suggests CGI will be of little help on her intimate scenes, which she isn't interested in writing out. "We're not at the place in 2020 where we can talk about using visual effects to fake a kiss between [You stars] Penn Badgley and Victoria Pedretti — that's a separate issue and one we have to figure it out."

In recent weeks, writers such as Gamble have been looking abroad to see and study how productions elsewhere are grappling with the same challenges. All eyes are on Australia's long-running soap Neighbours, which announced it's resuming without extras or physical contact between castmembers. The show's producers have said they'll cut away before a kiss or punch, relying on the audience's imagination to do the rest. It's a strategy that some will consider stateside, too, particularly when it comes to intimacy.

Other approaches being discussed involve facilitating separate shoots, which can then be pieced together in post, and quarantining participating talent for 14 days, with testing done regularly, before shooting the scene in full. The actors involved with the latter would have to be OK with that plan, of course. "And if they're not, you're fucked," says one executive, "because you can't force an actor to do something that they're not comfortable with." At least two more predict those kinds of conversations about comfort levels — both general and specific — will start to happen with No. 1's on every call sheet in the coming weeks, if they haven't begun already. And the responses are expected to vary, particularly among the older and more vulnerable set. Regardless of how many safety measures are put in place, there will be some who simply won't feel comfortable and, as one network head warns, some shows could go away as a result.

For the time being, writers seem to be relying on their own gut to guide them. Barris, for instance, won't be writing in handshakes anytime soon, since he cringes every time he sees one on TV now. "I'd be less offended if you came up and cupped my girl's boob than shook her hand," he jokes. Curb Your Enthusiasm boss Jeff Schaffer agrees: "The handshake is gone," he says, "it's the VHS of salutations." And McElhenney's partner, Megan Ganz, reveals she'll be editing out a pre-pandemic line in which Mythic Quest's lead characters are asked, in response to their slacking, "What have you been doing for the past six months?" because it no longer feels right.

Studio and network execs must rethink their choices, too: Some are looking to their own libraries for contained shows that might be worth rebooting, while others are exploring potential series add-ons where only a couple of characters are needed. Working in their collective favor is an overwhelming desire among most casts and crews to get back to work. Says Black-ish showrunner Courtney Lilly, "If [our show] ends up being a one-act play for 21 minutes between two characters so that people can work and America can see characters they like onscreen doing something that isn't a repeat, we're going to find a way to do it."

It's a sentiment shared by many — just not all. Robert King falls among the skeptics: "Oh my God, network shows can't be made more boring," he says, horrified by the notion of having to scale Evil or The Good Fight down to a series of two- or three-character scenes. "You need to find ways that are visually interesting and inspired, and if you start limiting things, it'll just be, 'Why do I want to watch that? I'll wait for the newest Netflix thing that's shot in Hungary or somewhere where they will let people sit on each other's laps.' I just think everybody needs to calm the fuck down and not write with the idea of limitations in mind — or [at least] not as the guiding force."

[sincerealyy]

The Intensity of a Heartache: It has been over a year since I have experienced a heartache that made me feel like shards of glass pierced through my left ventricle. I say left ventricle because the left ventricle is a part of the heart that is known to pump oxygen rich blood through the aortic valve and then to the rest of the body. That is how this heartache felt like. It was like someone destroyed that, and as the blood is no longer being pumped throughout my body, I could feel my heart gradually weaken and then ultimately fall into a state of paralysis. I felt numb inside. And this all happened from a guy. A guy that I handed my heart on a silver platter to, only to have him dissect every secret and every truth until it was of no longer of use to him. I know I’m using a lot of biological metaphors but it is because I want to address the extent of this pain. I am only going through these measures to explain to you because it is the kind of pain that you could not imagine to feel unless it happened to you. Unless you went through it the same way as I did. It all started off when I was attending religious school and my friend introduced me to this guy who she decided to lie about a secret admirer that is after him. My friend requested I play the nonexistent admirer for the sake of their friendship to not fall apart, and so I did. I don’t remember why I did, but I know now, that if I had even a glimpse of what that decision would have led me to back then, I would have instantly refused without giving it a second thought. That being said, I accepted the role and I went along with the play. I was never looking for a friendship, let alone a relationship, but life as usual, took a turn. One year later, this person not only became someone that defined the love I felt, but he was my bestfriend. I couldn’t remember what my life was like before him, but I definitely knew that it was never as great as it was with him in it. Throughout my life, I never let anyone truly get to know, therefore, they never really truly saw me. And I was okay with that, because I knew the moment you let someone truly know you, is the moment you’ve risked your entire worth and happiness altogether. I had bestfriends growing up, but there was always a side of me that I concealed for the sake of protecting myself and my heart. Five blissful years later, things began to feel different. The effort that was always given was slowly starting to disappear. The love that was always visible in his eyes began to fade away. It was only then, I mustered up the courage to question whether or not his feelings still exist for me. I remember exactly how the conversation went, “Did you lose feelings for me?”, I said. “Lol it’s not that serious”, he said. “Did you?”, I asked. “Yes”, he said. In that moment, that “yes” was enough to create a deep wound to my soul. At that moment, tears welled up in my eyes, and I only pleaded inside that it was not true..that I was dreaming..please..let me be dreaming. For days after that, I cried myself to sleep every night. I would scroll through social media, waiting on an apology of some sort or just anything that could indicate that he did not mean it. That I still meant everything to him. That I’m still the love of his life and I’m still his forever. This all sounds very cliche, I am well aware, and I cringed a little bit writing this but that is how it played out. In July of summer 2019, I met him for the last time. We agreed that we would go our separate ways and be on good terms when we do so. As our date ended, and I was exiting his car to head to mine, he gripped my wrist and I turned around. Suddenly, for that moment, he had that sparkle in his eyes. He had this look in his eyes that told me that deep inside, he is still in love with me. I believed it and it gave me hope. I engraved that hope onto the chambers of my heart and preserved it for a long time. As we gazed into each other’s eyes, he asked me, “Can I have a last hug? I’m really going to miss you”. I immediately hugged him and we held onto each other for ten long seconds. It’s going to seem very lame as I say this next part, but since then, I haven’t hugged anyone. The reason being is because I am afraid once I do, this final moment he and I shared will be remembered and trigger my pain. So I just greet people the usual way, a handshake or a fist bump, or just a simple ‘hey’. It was January 2, 2020, when I recieve a notification from him. Instantly, without hesitating, I opened it, excited that he remembered me despite the amount of time that has passed. But this message was worse than the “yes” I had gotten a year ago. This message had me spiraling towards my inevitable downfall. This message revealed that he had begun dating again and he had moved on. I was heartbroken, because throughout the months of his absence, I held onto hope, but this message was enough to demolish the hope that was engraved in me. I kept thinking that I shattered my morals and my values for him. In my religion, you are not allowed to date a guy, let alone be intimate with him. But I let myself do that. I can’t even have the audacity to blame it on him, because I let myself open up to him, and I didn’t even try, at the very least, to protect myself. I relied on the concept of ‘he and I are meant to be together forever’, to justify every wall I let crumble down and every promise I broke. To have sex is not a big deal to people in the modern world today, but, considering the religion I am born into, it was the worst possible thing to commit, next to murder. For days, I couldn’t bear to look in the mirror because all I saw was filth. It sounds harsh to describe it that way, but I felt dirty. I felt that I had lost every part of my modesty and dignity, and I felt worthless. This worthlessness resonated with me for a very long time. Weeks later, I stopped attending lectures and visiting my friends and would constantly ignore my friends calls and messages. I would wake up everyday, and decide that I don’t want to be anywhere except in my bed. It was easy to get away with it because my parents both worked, so they had no idea that I stopped attending my classes. It was only then, my professor whom I’ve built a strong relationship with from the beginning of the year, sent me an email questioning my absence and expressing her concern. I ignored the email. But that didn’t stop her from continously emailing me repeatitively. I finally gave in, and told her that I will return to class next week. And I did. I don’t know how I got myself out of bed that day, but I guess I was tired of being alone..feeling alone. I attended the class of that professor and as I was about to walk out, she announced my name on the mic, requesting that I stay back. For that moment, I was scared. I knew that my grades were all going downhill and I was afraid that I had dissapointed her. But what did I care? I thought that since I felt like a dissapointment so I might as well be one. I approached her podium and I said, “Yes Professor Nick”, She responds, “I’ve noticed you stopped attending lectures, I’ve heard from my colleagues that it is not just my class, so that makes me feel a bit better” I laughed, but didn’t say anything. “Is everything okay?”, she asked. “Yes, don’t worry, everything is fine”, I said. “Sit down”, she immediately said. Shocked that her tone suddenly got intense, I immediately sat down opposite to her. “For a moment, pretend I am not your professor. For a moment, think of me as your friend. A friend with no judgements, only a friend that wants to help” “Nothing is wrong, I swear. I promise I will start getting myself back on track from this week”, I said, completely ignoring what she said. “I have no classes for the rest of the day, so know that I am not afraid to hold you in contempt”, she says as she smirks. I admired her sense of humor so I smirked back, but I remained silent. “As an English professor, I am going to try a different approach. If you write what you honestly feel right now, if you pour out everything that has been going in your life right now onto this piece of paper I am giving you, I will deduct your failed tests and assignments from your final grade.” I sat there, shocked. I was desperate. I knew that I was failing a few of my courses, including this one, and I knew that if I fell into probation, I would lose my status in Co-op. So I took the paper, and I wrote everything out. Every pain, every event, everything. By the time I finished writing, it was 9PM, and I got up from my seat and gave in the paper and exited class. No words were exchanged between the professor and I, except a friendly nod. My mom was waiting for me outside the building, so as I was walking towards the car, I felt my heart feel a little lighter. I think it was all the feelings that I had bottled up, which I poured out onto the paper, that made me feel like that, but all I knew in that moment, is I felt better than I had in six weeks. I have Professor Nick to thank her for that, because the next day, I visited her during office hours, thanking her for the opportunity. She only responded with a lecture that consisted of my potential and how much determination she sees in me, and how much admiration she has for my strength. She concluded saying, no one should have the power to depict your happiness. You are independent, intelligent and strong, and no one should have the power to strip you of that. She said that pain should never be let to define us, only meant to make us stronger and wiser. I believed every word she said, and I’ve reminded myself of her words everyday to this day. From that day on, I began to approach my other professors, begging them for opportunities to revive my mark back. Because every one of them knew me and recognized the dedication I had towards their classes, they provided me with some leniency. By the end of the semester, I achieved an overall grade GPA of 3.8 and I could not have been more proud. It made me realize the strength I have and the potential I possess in achieving my goals and overall success. I finally bought myself some closure and reassessed my future and what I intend to gain from it. Once I did that, I reassured myself that, at the end of the day, my life lies in the hands of God and I no longer doubted my self worth once I forgave myself and put my trust in the Most High. At this moment in my life, I can tell you that I am content. I have no guilt or burden weighing me down and life could not be better. At times, I collapse back into a state of depression, but I’ve learned to cope with it in healthier ways. I have only to thank my friends and my teachers and Professor Nick for igniting the hope that I thought I had lost.

autobiography I had to write for an assignment

[capricornus-rex]

Playing Pretend (5)

Requested by @calkesttiss​ | Prompt:

Hi! I just watched isi & ossi (rich girl and poor boxer boy AH) on netflix and now i cant stop thinking about cal and fake dating. Do with that what you will 😂

Cal Kestis x Reader

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Next: Part 6 | Masterlist

5 of ?

You couldn’t stay still while sipping on champagne. At the corner of Tazha’s eye, she takes notice of a boy who seem to perfectly fit the description of the boy you first met days ago. She tapped you repeatedly on the shoulder.

“Look over there, [y/n],”

You turn your attention to the direction where Tazha’s eyes are. You froze and your eyes widened in sheer surprise, you almost fell from losing balance on your heels, and the word that you wanted to utter became just a choked grunt.

“Oh my God…” was all you managed to say.

You strode down the stairs, tailed by Tazha, you pushed and excused yourself from the large adults that stood in your way until you could get to Cal.

“Cal?”

When he turned to look at you, he was just as surprised as you are. He wasn’t wearing a fancy suit or outfit, his jumpsuit was black—contrast to the blue one that you remembered him wearing when you met him.

“[y/n]? What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,”

Cal explained that he and his companions were proxies for some of the guests that didn’t make it. He also said that one of his companions personally knew Senator Bail Organa.

“Who invited you?” the clueless redhead asked.

“Who invited her?” Tazha repeated mockingly, warranting attention from both Cal and you. “Her dad is responsible for this shindig. She lives here!”

At that moment, you felt like the floor would crumble under your feet anytime. You were pushed into a corner, no thanks to Tazha’s unsolicited reply. Your quick wit couldn’t even save you from that revelation.

“Is that true?”

“Yep. Sorry, I didn’t exactly specify where in Alderaan I lived,”

Suddenly, the lightbulb in your mind flickered on.

“Look, I’m sorry in advance but this is probably gonna be the weirdest thing but… Could you be like my boyfriend for a few minutes, please?”

“What?”

A lump got stuck in your throat that you can’t seem to swallow away, your palms were sweating, and your own heels are trembling at the mercy of your stilettos—all happening at the same time.

Oh, suck it up, [y/n]!

“Tomorrow at the Tipsy Taun-Taun. Meet me there at 0300,”

Logan appeared in the corner of your eye, you saw him looking for you in your general direction. You inhaled sharply, stepped closer to Cal, clutching him by the arm, and then kissed him on the cheek—close enough to give off the intimate façade. Even Tazha was surprised with this bold move of yours; she also noticed Logan standing a few meters away but is in full view of you and Cal together in the dance floor.

When you pulled away, he was simply taken aback, at a loss for words. It took him a few good minutes before his mind registers what just went down. He didn’t have the chance to object—as a matter of fact, he never had the time.

“Please at least tell me what you’re planning on doing, [y/n]?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Tazha? I’m sabotaging my own arranged engagement,”

The next morning, you felt a hangover coming on even though you didn’t have much to drink, though it was more of an emotional one. When you woke, the words that you’ve let go were still fresh in your mind—as if you’ve only said them moments ago—you also thought the whole scene last night was kind of funny, you fight your incoming laughter by chewing on your cheek.

You contemplate whether to go or not.

“What have I go to lose anyway?”

You bring yourself out of bed, get dressed and ultimately miss breakfast with your parents and had a bowl of cereal as brunch instead. You ponder about your parents’ next possible move—predicting that they’re finally working on the campaign, another heated argument either over dinner again or in the living room is likely to happen. Though you didn’t let that linger in your head that much so you sneak out of the house to meet Cal.

Along the way, you were worried that this plan was silly and pointless. Should it come through, it will be short-lived. Out of all the things you’ve planned in your entire life, this is possibly the most badly-thought, the most desperate, and perhaps your only fighting chance.

When you got to the pub, the barkeeper greeted you only with his eyes, then gestured you to the farthest side of the pub—at the booth of the left side of the building, the ends of his hair were poking out of the couch’s tall backrest.

“You made it,” you say as you approached the booth and took a seat.

“Well, that was the only clear thing you ever said to me last night,”

“Right, about that, I guess I owe you an… elaborate explanation,”

“Obviously,”

“I’m engaged,”

An awkwardness lingered between the two of you, it hung around the air like the small cheap chandelier suspended above your heads. Cal’s eyes shifted from left to right, he twiddled his thumbs together while deciding the most appropriate thing to say to that.

“Uh… congratulations?”

“No!” you groaned in great vexation. “I didn’t want that engagement in the first place.”

“You don’t wanna get married?”

“Not to that imbecile they’ve paired me with,” your face cringed at the thought of Logan as a husband which he clearly is incapable of being. “So, no, I am not putting a ring on that.”

Cal’s silence as a reaction to that implied you to lay on your plans involving him and why you uttered those words to him last night at the party.

“Be my boyfriend until it convinces my parents well enough to cancel the engagement,”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Well, what do you want?”

Cal shifted in his seat, he leaned back some more into the couch, and knew that this was an opportunity to help Greez with his loan problem. What’s holding him back is his moral compass.

“A friend of mine has a problem. He’s taken a loan and the shark is after him, we only got into this planet via an alias. It’s a loan for the ship we’re using to go around places,”

“So you want me to cover what’s left of the payment?”

“Smart girl,”

“No, it’s just plain logic, dude. But sure, I’ll help. How much do you guys need anyway?”

“We’re short on 40,000 credits,”

The amount didn’t faze you, although you wondered what kind of ship they have to garner such a price in the loan. It didn’t take long for you to think hard about it, you simply agreed to help Cal with his friend’s ship loan problem.

“Okay, that seems doable, but only if you play along with what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

You shrug one shoulder and eyeball your right side. “Be my boyfriend. Or pretend to be—until my parents blow of the engagement because they’ll think I’m too in love with you.”

Cal smacked his lips, “Okay then, that’s… possible.”

Both of you were awkward about this but were willing to make ends meet. One needed something from the other. A simple cycle, a classic pattern.

“Maybe one of these days, you’ll show me to the ship, if that’s okay.” You said demurely.

Cal shrugged his shoulders, “Sure, no problem. Who knows? You might like it.”

“Do we have a deal?” you extend your hand across the table to him.

He shakes on it.

“Alright, we got a deal then.”

Your handshake slowed down but neither of you seem to be letting go of each other’s hand. You had to take the initiative. Cal cleared his throat.

“Okay, so how does this work?”

“What does work?”

“The whole fake dating thing,”

“Pretty much like what you’d do in a real relationship, Cal. The hugging, kissing, cuddling, hand-holding—typical stuff.”

You chuckled, thinking that it was silly enumerating things couples normally do as if it was rocket science. But then again, you’ve never been into a relationship before. For what it’s worth, this could be your first actual relationship—despite it being a charade deal hybrid.

You were the first to break the ice, you didn’t even realize that you freely spoke about anything you wanted to him. He lent his listening ear and sometimes continue the flow of the conversation. Starting off with basics such as homeworlds, hobbies, and what you did growing up, it eventually shifted to the interests you’ve developed as you grew up. That’s when you’ve become more animated and vocal with your stories.

Cal was observing you across the table that you didn’t even notice it. He watched you ramble on, maintaining eye contact with him as you talked, and making slight gestures with your hands as you continued telling stories. Unconsciously, the corner of his mouth curled as he listened to you speak.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I’m rambling! I just got carried away with the stories and stuff,”

“No. It’s not a problem, I mean… that’s the first step, right? Getting to know each other,”

You shyly smiled, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

Coy smiles exchanged with one another over the table. Thinking of other things to talk about, Cal decided it would be a good idea to show you the Mantis—the exact thing that you’re fulfilling your end of the bargain for.

“Come on, [y/n], my turn to show you something,”

“Really?”

“Come on,”

He stood up, you didn’t expect him to extend his hand to you but you took it anyway. The two of you left the pub and followed him to the place where the Mantis was docked.

[omgjasminesimone]

Juvenile Delinquents Part 3

Logan x MC (Ellie)

Previous Part: Part 2

Next Part: Part 4

NSFWish (implied)

Word Count: 3000

When he lets himself, Logan can almost feel her fingers threading through his hair. The feel of her plump, full, and somehow fully moisturized despite her imprisonment, lips on his. The way she bit down softy on his lower lip while simultaneously tugging just hard enough on his hair.

The feel of her body pressed up against him, pert breasts pushed right up to his chest. The way she’d looked at him when she pulled away.

Logan wakes with a start and groans when he sees he’s hard, again. While he’s in juvenile detention it’s not like he can take care of that in any enjoyable way. Not with his cell mate Gabriel in the bunk below at any rate.

Logan squeezes his eyes shut, thinking unsexy thoughts.

Dead puppies. Elderly people. How hard and uncomfortable this prison bed is. How Ellie never looked back as the guards took her away.

He frowns, remembering that important detail. Did it even mean anything to her? Unlikely, since he hasn’t gotten any letters or emails from her since she was released.

He knew she couldn’t visit, as a condition of her parole, but she could have written. He would have loved to hear from her. The last two weeks in detention were almost unbearable without her bright smile and witty commentary to get him through the long days.

He passes most of the time thinking about the kiss, thinking about Ellie, wondering what she’s up to. He’s hopeful she’s staying out of trouble, but he knows her well enough at this point to know she’s probably not. He wonders if they’ll reunite when he’s released. He tries not to get his hopes up.

…

There are few bright spots to Ellie being gone, like how much better he can focus now. Although a welcome distraction, she was definitely a distraction nonetheless.

Without her around, Logan really buckles down on his GED studying.

He also spends more time cultivating strategic relationships that might be useful once his fellow detainees are back on the streets. He’s still worried about Kaneko letting him back into the crew, Logan thinks things might go better if he has valuable connections to offer.

He also starts working out more, desiring to be bigger, stronger, scarier. The kind of guy no one is going to want to mess with, coupled with his new street cred from being incarcerated.

 The days pass slowly, but eventually Logan serves his four months and gets a release date.

…

“Sign here, and here.” The correction officer instructs.

Logan signs his full legal name and is then handed his property. He thanks the officer with a nod of his head before going into the bathroom to change back into his civilian clothes. They feel oddly unfamiliar after so many months in the juvie issued greys. Logan slips his wallet back into his jean pockets and puts his sparkplug necklace back on. His thumb drifts over the jewelry, glad to have that reminder to be careful and stay in control back in his possession.

He heads towards the door.

“Sanchez!” CO Thompson calls. “Stay out of trouble. I don’t want to see you back here.”

Logan flashes her a charming smile. “I’ll try.” He promises as he pushes the door open.

He turns his face upwards to the sky and breathes in the fresh air. It’s a beautiful sunny day in Los Angeles, and Logan feels optimistic about the future for once. He closes his eyes, just enjoying the warmth of the sun after so much time locked away.

“Logan!” She calls out, and his eyes immediately fly open.

She’s wearing a white dress, making her look much more angelic and innocent than she actually is. She smiles brightly at him before launching herself into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. He catches her instinctively.

Before he has time to comprehend anything that’s happening or ask her why she’s been radio silent for the last month, she’s kissing him. At first, it’s rough and hard, but then they gradually both start to calm down, playfully nipping at each other’s lips, tongues lazily twirling around each other.

He digs his nails into the bottom of her thighs when she rolls her hips against him, giggling when he groans. “I’m still…half expecting…someone to…yell…at…us.” Ellie reveals between greedy kisses.

Logan smiles against her lips, readjusting his grip on her a little to bring her up higher. “It is very weird to be able to touch you as much as I want.” He murmurs against her strawberry lip gloss covered lips.

Ellie gives him one last lazy kiss before pulling away, one hand moving away from the grip she has on his neck to tangle in his hair. His eyes fall to her slightly swollen lips, and he aches to make them plump further with more kisses and teasing bites. “This is all the touching you want?” She asks suggestively, rolling her hips against him once again.  

“Fuck Ellie.” Logan mutters before he’s kissing her again, one hand moving from her thigh to cup her backside and give it a firm squeeze.

The amorous pair is interrupted by Kaneko clearing his throat. “Logan.” Kaneko greets.

Logan sheepishly allows Ellie down to the ground. “Hey Kaneko.”

“Did you still want that ride? Or is your friend here going to drive you?” Kaneko asks, raising a brow.

Ellie offers her hand for a handshake. “Ellie Wheeler, and I can’t drive so a lift would be great!” She says cheerfully.

“Wheeler? As in famed LAPD Detective Joseph Wheeler?” Kaneko asks, a hard edge to his voice. He cuts a look at Logan, wondering what this girl knows. Logan responds with narrowed eyes, communicating that he’s not stupid and he hasn’t told Ellie anything.

“Ahh, I see my reputation precedes me. But nothing to fear if you don’t like my dad. I don’t like him much either, so we have that in common.” Ellie quips.

Kaneko gives a small smile, eyes calculating. He’s clearly considering ways having Ellie around might be handy for him and the crew. Logan shuffles uncomfortably, not liking how his boss is looking at his…. what exactly? Girlfriend? Friend with benefits?

Logan’s thoughts are cut off by Kaneko’s suggestion. “Well Ellie, I wouldn’t want to cut your reunion short, but I need to get back to the garage. Why don’t you come along?”

Logan is about to object, but Ellie is faster. “That sounds great! I can finally see the car Logan couldn’t shut up about.”

…

After introductions to the crew (and Colt, who is still around and refusing to go to college), and what was supposed to be a quick stop to see the car that ended up being an hour because Logan needed Toby to explain every single thing he’d done to his most precious possession, Logan finally brings Ellie up to his loft.

“Well, this is it. Home sweet home.” Logan says as he closes the door behind them.

Ellie slowly peruses his room. “This is a nice view.” She notes at his window.

“Right? I can see any cops coming from both Western and 92nd.” Logan brags.

Ellie laughs, walking back over to him and wrapping her arms around his torso, burying her face into his chest. “That is so not what I meant.” She stretches up on her tip toes and he leans down to kiss her.

This kiss is different than any of the ones they’ve shared before. It’s the first time the two are truly alone together, not out in public, with no one to interrupt their intimate moment. The kiss is slow, passionate, it communicates without words what’s about to happen next.

Ellie takes the lead, walking him backwards to his bed and then giving him a hard shove so he falls back onto it. She promptly climbs on top of him, straddling his waist. She leans down to kiss him again and starts tugging at his jeans.

Logan turns his head away to break the kiss, gripping both of Ellie’s hands to stop her.

Ellie looks confused as she puts some distance between them, sitting back up. “What’s wrong? Do you…. not want to?” Her voice sounds more hurt and vulnerable than she wanted it to.

“Of course I want to Ellie. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you.” Logan insists.

“Then we seem to be on the same page, so what’s the problem?” Ellie asks again.

“Why didn’t you write to me after you got out? How’d you even know I was getting out today, since you basically went MIA on me?” Logan questions.

Ellie’s eyes widen. “I did write you. And email. Did you not get any of those? I was wondering why you weren’t replying, thought maybe you lost your letter privileges or something. I had to look up your release time on the public records site since you never responded to my email asking about it.”

“So, you did care then?” Logan asks hopefully.

“Of course I care Logan, can’t you tell?” Her eyes narrow as she puts everything together. “My dad. That asshole. I bet he’s behind none of my letters getting through. Well, fuck him. He can’t stop me from being with you.”  

“Ellie, I don’t want to be some guy you fuck just to piss off your dad.” Logan reveals, looking deeply into her eyes for her reaction.

“If I wanted to piss off my dad, I would fuck you in his bed.” Ellie counters. Logan rolls his eyes at her making light of the situation. “Hey.” Ellie soothes when she sees that she’s irritated him, placing a soft hand on his stubbled cheek. They wouldn’t let him shave in juvie. “This has nothing to do with anyone besides me, and you Logan. I really like you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I can see a future with you.”

Logan can see a future with her too, and that’s scary. He’s always been on his own, nothing tying him anywhere, free to run whenever he needed to. But he doesn’t want to run from her, even though he knows he should for her own good.

He puts those troubling thoughts out of his mind when she leans down to kiss him again, and this time he doesn’t stop her when she reaches for the zipper of his jeans.

…

The afternoon sun casts a glow through the skylights of the loft. Logan lazily traces patterns into Ellie’s bare back as he stares blankly at the wall, the crumbled sheets wrapped around their waists haphazardly.

“I’m hungry.” Ellie reveals, breaking the silence that’s descended on the room.

“I don’t think I have any food here.” Logan reveals.

Ellie turns her head up to look at him, kissing his jaw. “Let’s go grocery shopping then. I’ve been dying to see you drive anyway. Just make sure not to get us caught in a high-speed chase from the police.” She teases.

That’s what he eventually told her about his arrest. He left out details about the crew, the gang, saying that he had just been illegally street racing, and then tried to outrun the cops.

“I’d never get caught with such precious cargo.” He flirts, kissing her lightly. He tries to deepen the kiss, but she slips out of his bed, throwing her dress back on.

“No more sex until you’ve fed me.” Ellie insists, offering him a hand to get out of bed.

He accepts the help, and quickly pulls his clothes back on. He hesitates for a second, but then he offers Ellie his hand. She smiles up at him as she intertwines their fingers, giving his hand a comforting squeeze.

Logan leads her back down to the garage. They weren’t exactly quiet earlier, and Colt shoots them a knowing look from the kitchen as they make their way to Logan’s car. Logan blushes a little, but Ellie just smirks at Colt in a challenging manner.

Logan opens the passenger side door of his Devore GT for Ellie, who rewards him with a winning smile before he gently closes her door and hops through the open driver’s side window. He’s still got it.

…

He drives in a manner people likely think is reckless, but he’s completely in control as he cuts through LA traffic smoothly. Ellie seems to like it, judging by how she climbs into his lap and kisses him hungrily when they make it to the parking lot.

When her stomach growls, they end their make out session and enter Kelso’s, one of the crew’s favorite lunch spots. Ellie seems very impressed by the quality of food for the price. She doesn’t normally frequent this side of LA, and she seems to be taking in the different types of people as the couple eats, soaking it all in.

“You’re looking at him like he’s an animal at the zoo Ellie.” Logan critiques when she looks at a heavily tattooed and heavily pierced man for too long.

She blushes, averting her gaze. “Sorry. It’s just very different.” She finishes her food and then moves across the booth to cuddle up with him as he finishes his last few bites.

After Logan pays, the two head off to the grocery store so Logan will have food back at the garage.

Logan’s eyes narrow as he watches Ellie stealthily slip a granola bar down her shirt. He walks up behind her, gripping her arm. “Put it back.” He murmurs, voice low.

She gives him her most innocent expression, turning back to look at him in surprise. “Put what back?” She plays dumb.

Logan sighs. “Come on Troublemaker, I mean it. Don’t mess up your parole over something so stupid.” Logan presses.

Ellie rolls her eyes but fishes the granola bar out of her shirt discreetly, tossing it into his basket so Logan can pay for it if he wants to so badly.

“You’re acting like my dad.” Ellie criticizes.

“I just don’t understand why you would steal something you can pay for.” Logan counters.

Ellie raises a brow. “Why would I pay for something I can steal?”

“I don’t know, maybe because it’s wrong? And could get you locked up again?” Logan mocks.

“Says the illegal drag racer.” Ellie retorts as they head for the cashiers.

“Ellie, I’m just trying to look out for you. Because I care about you.” Logan insists.

Ellie sighs, irritation dispelling at the emotion behind his words. “I know. But just remember I don’t need you to look out for me. I know what I’m doing Logan.” Ellie insists.

He doesn’t bother to tell her she actually has no idea what she’s doing, associating with known gang members and potentially ruining her life.

He knows he should bring her home soon, but first, he wants to show her the sunset from near the Hollywood sign. He drives his car through many roads marked not accessible to the public, parking it just as the sun starts to dip below the horizon.

He takes a seat on the hood of his car, and she gingerly sits beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. After a few moments of silently watching the sunset, Ellie speaks. “Do you bring girls up here a lot? Does it get them all hot and bothered, and then they let you have your way with them in your car?” She’s teasing, but there is some actual jealousy in her tone.

“Nah, I don’t have to put this much effort into getting a girl hot and bothered.” Logan answers cockily, winking at her playfully.

“You’re lucky you’re hot, otherwise you’d never get away with being so undeniably full of yourself.” Ellie retorts, but she’s smiling fondly.

“Yeah? How’d you like to be full of me?” He drops another line, and Ellie can’t help but scoff.

“You were hotter when you were going for that whole dark, broody, mysterious bit. Now that I know what a dork you are, you’re going to have to work harder.” Her actions contradict her words though, as she slips off the car to slip into the back seat.

“Noted.” Logan replies as he follows her, maneuvering so he’s lying on top of her in the cramped space.

After round two, the teens shimmy back into their clothes before climbing back into the driver’s and passenger side seats. “What’s your address? I should get you home before your dad starts to wonder where you are.” Logan reluctantly says.

She gives him the address, and he takes her home. She sighs when she sees her dad’s patrol car parked in the driveway. “I was hoping he’d be at work.” She reveals. “Well, I guess we’re in for another famous Wheeler house shouting fest.” She mutters, dabbing some concealer onto a hickey he’s left on her neck. She starts to get out of the car.

“Wait! What’s your number?” Logan asks. Ellie chuckles when she realizes that she almost forgot that they’ve never exchanged numbers, taking his phone and typing in her number. She then texts herself a series of emojis, so she’ll also have his number.

She gives him a hard kiss goodbye, tugging not so gently on his hair, which causes him to let out a pleased groan. She smirks at him as she leaves him wanting, hurrying into the house.

He glances down at the text she sent.

To: Ellie Wheeler 💘😈🚗 😘👮🏽‍♂️👫

 …

Taglist: @choicesarehard​​​​ @ifyouseekheart​​​​ @brightpinkpeppercorn​​​​ @regina-and-happiness​​​​ @drakexnadira​​​​ @flyawayboo​​​​ @fairydustandsarcasm​​​​ @alesana45​​​​ @umiumichan​​​​ @maxwellsquidsuit​​​​ @lahelable​​​​ @god-save-the-keen @mrsmckenziesworld @paisleylovergirl​​​​ @iplaydrake​​​​ @sinclaire-made-me-sin​​​​ @choicesgremlin​​​​ @lovehugsandcandy​​​​ @desiree-0816​​​​ @cora-nova​​​​ @justdani14​​​​ @emceesynonymroll​​​​ @emichelle​​​​ @badchoicesposts​​​​ @client-327 @riverrune​​​​ @liamzigmichael4ever​​​​ @princessstellaris​​​​ @mskaneko​​​ @anxious-arliah​​​ @zaffrenotes​​ @iam-ankita​​

[yoon-kooks]

Blossom🌸- pt.2

Pairing: Stripper!Jimin x Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Stripper!AU, College!AU

Summary: You decide to give the strip club another chance when your stripper neighbor promises to give you a special treat afterwards.

Warnings: lap dances, stripping, dry humping, blindfolds, thigh riding

Word Count: 4.9k

⤐ Story 2 in the Blossom!Universe; Read Blossom-pt.1 on my masterlist!

A/N: i cant believe i actual wrote d** h****** but it be like that sometime 😔

You’re not one to believe in love so easily, but your latest art assignment calls for something with “pure love”, and what you’re witnessing comes pretty close. So you casually pull out your sketchbook and begin outlining a rough sketch of the scene in front of you.

Your subjects wrestle around, unaware of your gaze, drowning each other in kisses and affection. She sits on top of him as she nips at his skin. He chuckles as he blocks her little bites until he can no longer resist, succumbing to her demands for more attention.

The giggles only stop several minutes later when one of your subjects finally takes notice of you with your pencil in hand.

“Drawing me again, huh?” Jimin sits up on his bed and glances over at you while his white puppy continues to lick his chin. “What’s the assignment this time?”

“To draw something that symbolizes pure love,” you wave the boy over to come take a look at your sketchbook. Intrigued by the topic, Jimin hops off the bed.

“Oh? Am I what comes to mind when you think of pure lo-” He meant to tease you about your potential crush on him, but he can only laugh when he sees your idea of pure love. Him playing with his puppy.

“So pure, right?” You point out a couple of things you’re especially proud of, like the details on the puppy’s paw pads and the feathering of its wagging tail.

“Right…” His lips slowly fall into the shape of a pout as he examines your sketch further. “But why did you draw her so much better than you drew me?”

You know he’s just messing with you, but the dedicated artist in you takes Jimin’s criticism to heart. Looking back at your sketch, it’s true that his body came out looking a lot more underdeveloped like a stick person next to a very realistic puppy with individual strokes of fur. And as funny as it is to look at, it’s a technical issue with your art that you’ve been trying to fix.

“I already told you I have a lot more experience drawing animals than I do with humans,” you explain. It’s not that you’re necessarily terrible at drawing humans, but your lack of comfort with them really shows in comparison to animals. That’s why you’ve recruited your stripper neighbor as your muse to help you find that comfort.

“I guess you just need more experience with humans then,” Jimin cocks his head to the side, not-so-subtly taking your hand into his. He attempts to interlace his fingers with yours, but you can’t take a hint so he settles for a very friendzoned handshake. “Think about it: you started with drawing only animals, then you drew me a couple of times, and then you moved up to animal-to-human interactions. Shouldn’t the next step be human-to-human interactions?”

“You have a point,” you nod, rather enjoying the pleasant feeling of holding his hand. “But I only have one human model, aka you.”

The boy stares your hands still clasped together and laughs, “Are you not a human?”

“I can’t be my own model and draw at the same time…” You do a messy scribbling gesture with your free hand.

“You don't have to draw at the same time,” Jimin captures your free hand and pulls you down onto the bed with him. You’d think laying on a bed with a stripper would be overwhelming for someone as wholesome as yourself, but you do get a sense of ease with him. Maybe it’s his eyesmile, or the clumps of dog fur on his dark shirt that remind you he’s still your dorky boy next door. Either way, you feel comfortable because it’s him you’re with. “Just experience it with me.”

“Experience what?” You feel his warmth radiating towards your body. Another pleasant feeling. “Handholding? Hugs? Kisses? Cuddling? Sleeping together? Se-”

“A lot of things if you’d like,” Jimin shushes you with an alluring stare. “Do you want to do all those things?”

“That would be ideal, yes,” you nod eagerly. If it means your art will feel more authentic and sentimental, you’d gladly engage in these interactions with Jimin. “For science, of course.”

“Right… for science…” He gives you a thumbs-up, although the corners of his lips seem to curve downward.

The frown doesn’t sit well with you, so you wiggle your hands out of his grasp and simply mirror them against his palms. Slowly you interlace each of your fingers between his, one-by-one until there’s no finger left behind. You pay special attention to the boy’s expression when you do this, but it softens less than you had hoped.

“Actually…” Jimin say, breaking the handhold. He runs his fingers through his hair a couple of times before rolling off the bed. “I forgot about work.”

“Oh right…” It’s your turn to frown. You forgot about it too. Not just the fact that the boy has work in an hour, but also that his job requires him to satisfy the naughty needs of other people besides yourself. You’re not the only one who wants a taste of Park Jimin. “I should let you go then.”

Jimin watches as you gather your art supplies off his desk and crouch down to say farewell to the white puppy. He doesn’t say anything until your hand is on the doorknob. “You can tag along if you’d like, Y/N.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I really shouldn’t g-” Your eyes and mind drift away as the boy strips his shirt off with his back to you. You never knew back muscles could look like that—good to know for future reference. After he throws on a clean shirt free of dog fur, however, you push the boy’s toned body out of mind to finish your sentence. “I shouldn’t go since strip clubs aren’t really my thing, remember? Besides, I need to work on this art assignment some more. It’s due in a week.”

“A week is more than enough time,” Jimin raises his eyebrows at you and your sketchbook. “And do I need to remind you that the strip club is where you found art inspiration in me? So it couldn’t hurt to go again, right?”

You don’t answer him because you feel like it could hurt to go again. Not in regards to your art, but to something else.

“If you come, I’ll treat you to something really special afterwards. How about that?” He holds out his hand, giving you one last chance to change your mind. The special treat is tempting, especially if it’s your favorite sweet dessert. Besides, you’ve been working diligently with your art, so you know you’ve earned yourself a treat of some sort. And if Jimin is thoughtful enough to offer you that treat, who are you to refuse?

After a back and forth debate in your head, you finally take his hand and allow yourself to be pulled back to the place where you and the boy first met.

“What’s this special treat you’re talking about?”

“Oh you’ll see,” the boy snickers in a rather sinister tone.

-

Something about the strip club has changed since your first visit. There are still attractive strippers, there are still generous tippers, and there’s still your favorite spot in the secluded corner of the room. But it’s the whole vibe that’s changed. You don’t feel as intimidated by the sweaty bare bodies of the strippers or the thirsty screams of the audience. It could be because, unlike before, you know you’re not alone this time.

Jimin sits you down at your favorite spot and waits for you to get all situated with your sketchbook. “Can I buy you a drink before I have to go get ready for the show?”

“Just some water, please,” you say. The boy only laughs at your innocent response before disappearing into the crowd to fetch your requested beverage from the bar. After a short minute, your eye catches him striding back with a fancy glass of ice water in hand. He isn’t doing anything special, but he still manages to look stunning amongst everyone else. You even notice he’s turning quite a few heads, despite all the on-duty strippers vying for their attention. It’s as if the spotlight’s on him.

“Y/N, you’re already drooling and I haven’t even performed yet,” he teases as he hands you your water. You chug it down, hoping to relieve your thirst, but it’s not enough.

“Then go,” you give him a light shove with a hmph to send him off. “I’ll be waiting for my special treat afterwards.”

“Anticipate it, Kitten.” He has the audacity to not only call you Kitten, but also give you the cockiest smirk you have ever witnessed before heading backstage. You suppose that’s just his flirty stripper switch turning on.

Once you finally have some time to yourself, you sip on your water, casually people-watching from your quiet corner. The rest of the room is flooded with excitement, flashing with sparking lights, a mixure of moving color. If you had to pick a color palette for a strip club, what would it be? That depends on whether a certain boy is in the room or not.

You glance over to a familiar mint-haired stripper getting intimate with a gorgeous female in a nearby booth. She bites her ruby red lips, snaking her arms around his waist and pulling him closer to slip a generous handful of cash into his ass pocket. As thanks, the stripper hovers over her lap with swaying hips to the beat of the stereo as he lets her hands explore his bare upper half. Their eyes are locked, exchanging looks of… lust? Satisfaction? Greed? As a mere bystander, you’re unsure of the mood, so your color palette would be a rainbow muddled with a lot of grey area.

“Oh I remember you, Baby Picasso.” The mint stripper somehow made his way over to your corner while you were busy swatching your palette. The nearly blank page in your sketchbook catches his eye. “Here to draw our Jiminie again?” Yes.

“Not necessarily,” you say. “But he was the one who brought me back here.”

“Ah, customer loyalty at its finest,” he nods. “That kid attracts most of our regulars.”

“Is he really that popular?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed the aura’s different when he’s on stage.” He leans over your table and points at your grey-toned swatches in the corner of the sketch page. “Doesn’t it feel like the club becomes more… vibrant when Jiminie’s around?”

“It does, doesn’t it,” you press a finger to your lips as the wheels start turning in your head.

“But don’t let yourself get too caught in The Jiminie Effect. Otherwise you might end up getting hurt.” The mint stripper shrugs at you before the arm of a bold customer swipes him away. “Let me know if you ever want a taste of The Suga Rush, Baby Picasso~”

You wanted to ask what he meant by “getting hurt” from Jimin, but you’re pretty sure you already know. Jimin is an incredibly charming boy with a way of captivating an entire room, and you’re happy he’s found success as a popular stripper. That being said, you can’t help but also feel a little disheartened that there are so many others who share the same feelings for him.

Regardless, you’re at the strip club to support Jimin and collect the special treat that he promised you. Surely your relationship with the boy holds a bit more weight than the others. So you decide to get out of your own head.

Scarlet red. That’s the color you see when Jimin comes out onto the main stage with a silky red blindfold covering his eyes. The first thing you think is: wow, how the fuck is this guy not tripping or falling off the stage when he can’t even see in front of him? The second thing you think is: tiddies.

His open blazer flashes his nipples (and the rest of his gorgeous chest) as he graces the stage. It honestly looks more like a sensual take on contemporary dance rather than stripping at first. Even his hip thrusts have a flare of elegance to them. After all, Jimin’s a contemporary dance student, but the way he incorporates such a graceful genre of dance into his stripping performance shows how much of an artist he truly is.

But once the blindfold comes off, so does everything else. Jimin’s killer gaze, in addition to his taunting tongue, earns him a shower of bills on the floor of the stage as his performance comes to a close. Unlike the other strippers at the club, he does not interact as closely with the audience or make his rounds through the room. Instead, he makes a proposal.

“Tonight, I’m doing something a little different.” He picks his blindfold up off the floor and strokes it as he speaks to the audience. “I’ll be giving one lucky person a private lap dance and-”

An eruption of screams fills the room along with a surge of money being waved around before Jimin can even finish his sentence. He waits for everyone to quiet down, but the aroused crowd does the opposite. The rowdiness persists because everyone’s trying to be louder than the person next to them in order to catch their favorite stripper’s attention. That must be The Jiminie Effect.

And although the boy never got to finish his explanation, you assume the private lap dance has something to do with the red blindfold in his hand and will most likely be given to the highest tipper. Lucky them, you suppose.

Rather than throw some of your nonexistent money at the boy, you instead take the opportunity to do some quick sketches of Jimin’s contemporary performance while it’s still fresh in your memory. You want to capture his fluid motions and his undying passion for performing. With all of this and the blindfold in mind, you decide on a color palette. Scarlet red, a color of burning passion and sensuality, is an obvious pick. However, there’s another color you wish to incorporate-

When you take a peek back up at the stage for that other color, you’re surprised to see Jimin staring right at you, despite a huge sum of money being waved right in front of him by an expensive-looking woman. He mouths something for you to interpret.

“You,” his lips read.

“Me?” You don’t exactly know how to feel about the situation, but it doesn’t sit well with you. “Not me.”

He nods at you, still wanting it to be you.

You shake your head to end the conversation, but when people start turning around in your direction to see who has Jimin’s attention, you get up from your seat. Not to take Jimin up on his offer, but to excuse yourself from the club. You dislike strip clubs after all.

-

Back at your dorm, you sit at your desk, fleshing out some of your sketches of the blindfolded Jimin. You sculpt out his toned body and shade in a vibrant red flare to emphasize his illuminating aura on stage. Even then, your sketch is missing something. You’re missing something.

Knock. You check the time on your clock. It’s just past midnight, right around the time you’d assume strip clubs close for the night.

“Hi-” Jimin tries to say, but you close the door as soon as you open it.

Knock. You don’t open the door this time, so the boy starts talking from the other side.

“Y/N, I know you’re mad at me, but I-”

“Of course I’m mad at you,” you make a tsk sound. “I can’t believe you were going to choose me over all that money in front of you. Didn’t you see that Gucci lady at the front waving the wad of cash with your name on it? You almost gave up all that money for me. Fool.”

There’s a pause of silence before Jimin tries another attempt at getting you to open the door. Knock.

You open the door this time. The boy has a puzzled expression on his face.

“Wait, you’re not mad that your special treat went to someone else?” He blinks at you.

“A lap dance was the special treat you were talking about earlier?” You give him a duck face because you’ve made a grave mistake. “I thought we were getting ice cream or something.”

“Uhh well… we could get ice cream if you really want to? But my intention was for you to take that lap dance. It was meant for you, you know,” he chuckles over his failed plan.

“I really didn’t realize it was meant for me… I guess I’m really that dense, aren’t I?” Now you feel bad for thinking you’d be getting ice cream over a lap dance. Jimin was only trying to show that you were special to him, and you rejected him like an oblivious idiot. “I’m sorry, Jimin. If I had known, I’d-”

“We can still do it if you’d like.” He pulls out a silky red cloth from his pocket. “Perks of having a stripper neighbor, right?” You nod.

Waiting on your bed, you watch as the boy tries to hype himself up with the blindfold in his fists.

“I can help you tie it behind your head if you want.” You hop up from the bed to help him, but you’re wrong again. He backs you up until the back of your knees hit your bedframe and your ass falls onto the mattress. Suddenly his thighs surround your lap and his abs are in your face. Thankfully he decided to keep his shirt on for this one.

“Can I put the blindfold on you?” He dangles the red cloth before your eyes. It was for you, not him. And as intimidating as it is to make yourself so vulnerable, you’re intrigued.

“Sure… but you don’t want me to watch you?” You take one last look at his seductive gaze and voluptuous lips before your eyes are covered by the soft yet very kinky fabric.

“It’s something new that I wanted to try,” Jimin speaks in his normal voice before switching over to a lower, more suggestive tone. “As an artist, you rely a lot on your sight, right? Well I’m curious to see which senses will come alive when we take away your sight.”

Right away, you sniff out an alluring aroma of warm spices with naughty undertones. The blindfold must be drenched in cologne, but why are you only noticing it now? Or perhaps it’s the boy’s own intoxicating scent that you’re being enticed by. Either way, you must really like the scent because your nose is twitching like a bunny to get a better whiff.

The aroma continues to grow stronger as you feel finger tips graze ever so slightly against the back of your hand. The chilling sensation tickles more than anything, but then the boy lifts your hands and places them right at his waist.

“Tug if you want me closer, Kitten,” he whispers into your ear to give you a taste of the closeness before leaning back. Naturally, your eager little fingers curl into the threads of his shirt and tug as suggested. There’s a smooth shift in the boy’s body hovering over you. The soft sounds of his clothes rustling give you an indication of how close he must be.

To put it in perspective, you decide it’s a good idea to paint a picture of the scene in your head. A gorgeous boy is performing a lap dance on top of you as you sit blindfolded on the bed. His hands are pressed into the mattress on either side of you, his hips roll in a fluid motion, and his body grinds against an invisible wall that separates his crotch from yours. The mere thought of being under him is making it difficult for you to sit still.

You tug again and recline your back for Jimin to follow. The seams of his jeans drag gently along your outer thighs. His hot breaths tickle the exposed skin down your neck. “Do you want to feel me like this?” No, you want more.

Your fingers stray away from the boy’s hips, following the paths defined by his toned abdominals. Even through his shirt, you can easily map out the structure of his muscles, so you flesh out the details of the visual in your mind. This is much more engaging and “hands-on” than an anatomy textbook, you nod to yourself. But there seems to be a missed opportunity if the shirt stays on.

“Can you take off your shirt? For scientific purposes only.” You surprise yourself with the bold request, but the blindfold has made you feel some type of way. Shameless.

“Are you sure all of this is purely for science? Because I see you’ve already spread your legs out for me.” You hear a shirt being tossed aside before the mattress suddenly dips with something solid between your thighs. You assume it’s his knee when he nudges it into your crotch. Whatever it is, it’s making your body squirm for more contact.

“Maybe it’s a little more than just, uh, science.” You attempt to maintain a sturdy voice, but it’s hard not to pant when you’re overwhelmed with a heat you’ve never felt before.

“A little?” He questions you as his knee digs further into that spot between your legs. Oddly enough, you’re quite satisfied with the hot sensation created by all that friction, and you hope it doesn’t stop. “I think you’re more than a little wet down there, Kitten.”

“Oh,” you try to say, but it comes out more like a weak moan.

And of course, as soon as you show any sort of evidence of pleasure, Jimin decides to stop moving without saying a word. He stands there silently, probably smirking at how turned on he’s made you. He has to be teasing you, and you have to admit it’s working.

With his knee still wedged at your crotch, you situate yourself more towards his thigh and squeezes your own thighs around him. Your hips start moving on their own by instinct to find any sort of stimulation. It’s starts off as modest rocking back and forth against his body. You try to be subtle about it, as if the boy isn’t aware of your intentions. Surely riding his thigh whilst rubbing your wet lewd scents all over him won’t give it away.

“Oh, that’s your kink?” He sounds rather impressed. Once you finally find a good method and pace fore stimulating yourself on him, however, he pulls his knee back. “Let’s switch places.”

Next thing you know, your ass is sitting on top of Jimin’s lap with your legs wrapped around his waist for support. Without even thinking, your body continues to pleasure itself against boy, grinding and yearning for the wonders of sex.

You’d paint yourself a visual of the scene at hand to make everything more vivid, but you don’t really want to know what you must look like in such a helpless state. In times like this, you’re thankful for the blindfold-

“I wish you could see yourself, blindly humping and panting like a horny little puppy.”

You freeze at Jimin’s vivid narration of scene, regretfully imagining it as told. “Can I take the blindfold off?”

Unsure of whether you want to continue or end the stripper shenanigans once the blindfold comes off, the boy swiftly removes the cloth from your eyes and blinks at you. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the bright lights of your room, but when they’re back to normal, you remain seated in his lap and blink back at the shirtless boy.

For as intimate and steamy as it was a moment ago, neither of you know what to do or say. It’s a comfortable silence, although you do feel a bit embarrassed for showing the horny little puppy side of yourself to your neighbor. Besides that, you’re content. Your body finally relaxes, loosening its hold around the boy’s waist.

When Jimin comes to the conclusion that the stripper shenanigans are over, he lets out a chuckle to break the silence.

“What?” you pout.

“Nothing!” He throws his shirt back on, but not before you catch one last look of his tiddies and blossom tattoo. “Didn’t you say you wanted to get ice cream?”

-

“What were you laughing about earlier?” is the first thing you ask after taking a lick of your ice cream.

“You’re not gonna let that go, huh,” Jimin sighs into his strawberry sundae. “I was just laughing at you. Is that a crime, Officer?”

“But why?” You’d think you were holding an interrogation at your local late-night ice cream parlor. The boy in question rolls his eyes.

“You know how chemistry students always have to wear goggles during labs?”

“Yeah and when they take them off, they have this funny red imprint around their eyes,” you recall your old days in chem class. “Wait, are you trying to say I had funny red marks around my eyes after taking the blindfold off?”

Jimin shrugs.

“And that was funny to you?” You want to be annoyed by his childish humor, but you’re more so relieved that he wasn’t laughing about anything that happened while the blindfold was still on.

“It reminded me of how you always say it’s all for science,” he says, carving out a spoonful of strawberry syrup off the top of his ice cream with such precision. You know what he’s talking about—it’s your infamous excuse for wanting to get closer to the boy.

“Is it a crime for me to indulge in my scientific research, Officer Park?” You lick the ice cream off your lips with a playful tongue.

“Only if you abuse it,” he points at you as if to evoke fear before softening his expression. “But in your case, no.”

“Good.” You swipe a scoop of the boy’s sundae right in front of his face. “I don’t want you to think I’m just using you for your body so I can pass my art class...”

“I know that’s not the case, Y/N. Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered with the whole blindfolded lap dance thing.” Jimin points to your ice cream cone, so naturally, you let him have a taste of it. “Because what’s the point of a handsome stripper giving you a lap dance if you can’t see what’s going on?”

“To feel things that you wouldn’t otherwise notice if you were too distracted by a naked body dancing over you?” you start munching on the waffle cone. “And by ‘feel things’, I mean emotions, not sexual pleasure. Just FYI.”

“Right, because you totally didn’t feel any sort of sexual pleasure while riding my thigh,” he nods.

“Right,” you nod along with a pretty good poker face. He’s on to you, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing what effect he has on your body. “Thank you, though, for not one, but two special treats.”

“There could’ve been a third if we’d just kept going-”

“Anyway,” you say, pulling out your sketchbook to change the subject. “That lap dance did give me some new art inspo.”

“It was quite the experience for a human-to-human interaction, huh.” Jimin scrapes the last bit of strawberry ice cream, watching as you flip through your sketches of him until you reach the ones from earlier that evening. You have a new color to add to the palette.

“Mhm,” you say, shading in the same color of the boy’s ice cream, the same color that his blossom tattoo represents. “But what do you think about this human-to-human interaction?” You wiggle your index finger back and forth between you and him.

“You mean us chatting over ice cream?” he asks and pauses for a second to think. “I like it. It’s a lot less, uh, intense than some of the other things you and I have done. But I like that.”

“Same. I think regardless of whether you’re a half-naked stripper or just a college kid eating ice cream, the world becomes more vibrant with you in it.” You flip your sketchbook around for Jimin to see.

“You drew me as a Super Saiyan?” He’s referring to his wicked blonde hair and the reddish-pink flare that surrounds his buff body. “Super Saiyans do make the world a better place, huh?”

“My human anatomy could still use some work, but you get the gist.” You don’t know whether to laugh or be offended by his weeb reference. Either way, he has a smug look on his face, as if being drawn as a Dragon Ball character is something to take pride in.

“Somehow the abs look super realistic though…” He strokes his nonexistent beard. “I wonder how that happened.”

You have flashbacks to when your fingers outlined a whole ass map of each individual muscle hiding beneath his shirt. You suppose your mental map translated well onto paper. “Yeah, that’s weird.”

“Let me know if you’re ever in need of another anatomy lesson,” he hums. “For science, right?”

“For science.”

[presleepthoughts]

Would you take a bechloe fake dating prompt? Love your work 😍😭

A/N: Thanks for the request. Sorry for the long wait. If you have the time please, leave some comments behind.

“…No, I’m fine…” Chloe fondly shakes her head as she’s cooking dinner in the kitchen and hears Beca thumping down the stairs, talking to her Mom. Mrs. Mitchell has been calling her more and more lately, trying to get her daughter to visit her during the summer break. “…What kind of question is that?…”

Chloe glances back and smiles at the way Beca’s face is scrunched up and pops on the counter behind her. 

“Of course, I’m eating. Do you think Chloe would let me not eat?” Beca rolls her eyes as she sees Chloe nods her head silently. “Yeah, the job is going…good, I guess.” 

Chloe frowns in sympathy as Beca’s voice lower in volume. She knows the kind of pressure Beca has been under, trying to climb up the ladder and show her boss that she’s talented enough to make it in the business. Chloe can’t believe he didn’t see it the first time he met Beca. The girl carries more talent, dedication and love for music than Chloe has ever seen in anybody. He should’ve hired her right then and there. 

“…Mom, I don’t know my schedule…No, you won’t die soo - Alright, fine! I’ll go.” Beca takes in a deep breath in preparation. She knows the script of this story because it happened more times that she could count. Knows the next line that her Mother is going to say and she knows the immediate ‘no’ that she’s going to reply with. 

‘Are you seeing anybody?’ 

She has heard that question since she turned sixteen and the answer remained the same. She hasn’t dated somebody that was worthy of being introduced to anybody especially to her Mother. Jesse hasn’t even been to her hometown, let alone allowed in her childhood home. 

But she’s tired of hearing that question over and over again and the pestering she goes through at every family event that she attends without a date.

And the question comes, like she’s predicted, she lifts her head and her gaze lands on the one person in front of her that has been there for her from the beginning. In that moment, Beca realizes that Chloe has meant more to her than anybody before and the words came out from her mouth without a second thought.

“Yeah, I am actually. It’s Chloe.” 

Chloe turns back around at the sound of her name and looks at her questioningly but Beca averts her eyes as her Mom’s delighted voice sounds from the phone. 

“No! I won’t give her the phone - Mom! Stop!…” Beca slaps her hand on her forehead and shakes her head. Fuck, this is not going to end well. “…You’re so stubborn…Fine…Here…” 

Beca quickly covers the speaker and jumps down from the counter. Chloe looks at her confusedly. “Okay, long story short, you’re my girlfriend.” She murmurs quickly and thrusts the phone to Chloe’s ear before the redhead could do anything else. 

Chloe looks at her in bewilderment. “Beca - “

“Just go along with it.” Beca pleads and pouts, her palms put together in prayer and Chloe hesitantly raises the phone to her ear.

“Um…hello?” She’s still looking at Beca as Mrs. Mitchell greets her kindly. Despite knowing Beca for over a year, she has never met her mother in person, only hearing her voice once or twice over the phone. 

“Hey, Mrs. Mitchell…I’m good, thank you…” Chloe frowns at the brunette. “…um, ye-yes, it’s true…We are dating…” Beca gives her a thumps up but her confident expression fades when Chloe’s raises her eyebrows. 

“Dinner on Saturday?” 

Beca could not shake her head more violently. Chloe pauses for dramatic affects before a teasing smile crosses her face. 

“We’ll be there.” 

“Okay, so I got my first tattoo when I was sixteen. I once stole my mom’s car to try to go to New York with my friends but she caught me and I was on house arrest for five months. My friends and I hid in the gym and stayed overnight in our high school in my senior year. I got a scar on the back of my neck because of a fall - don’t ask - and I threw a party while she was away and somebody almost set the house on fire.”

Chloe’s mouth hangs open as Beca stops speaking as they stand in front of the brunette’s childhood home. Beca has been quizzing her on the ‘Mitchell-trivia’ - as she likes to call it - for two days now and Chloe can’t say that she didn’t enjoy getting to know her better. Beca can be so closed off sometimes that Chloe had trouble getting to know the most basic information about her in the beginning. 

Like she didn’t know that her name is actually Beca, not a nickname from Rebecca for the first six months of their friendship. 

Chloe pulls her hand back and slaps Beca’s shoulder with her brows frowning on her forehead. 

“What the - “ Beca’s eyes widen but Chloe interrupts her.

“The first thing you’re going to do is apologize to your mother for what you put her through when we go in.” She says sternly and Beca’s jaw drops and waits to see if Chloe is joking but the redhead is dead serious. 

Beca involuntarily pouts and rubs the soar spot on her arm as she murmurs. “Damn, now I know who would wear the pants in the relationship.” 

Chloe shakes her head, trying her hardest not to smile as she rings the doorbell and quickly grabs Beca’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Beca’s eyes drop at the contact before her brain realizes that they are in love. Pretending to be in love.

The door isn’t fully open yet before her mother breezes through and wraps her tightly in a hug. She drops Chloe’s hand and hesitantly returns the embrace. Their relationship hadn’t always been the best, especially while Beca was growing up but her Mom always tried so hard to mend that bridge between them. And now that she’s out of the house, Beca’s been trying to change as well.

“Oh, I haven’t seen you in so long.” Her Mom gushes as she pulls back but keeps her at arm’s length, her eyes bouncing up and down on her body and Beca fights the urge to break free. “I was right.” She announces and Beca frowns. “You haven’t been eating.” 

She rolls her eyes so hard but quickly pulls Chloe closer by her arm to change the subject. “Mom, this is Chloe. Chloe, this is my Mother.” 

Beca sees Chloe immediately put on her charm and stretches out her arm for a handshake but her Mom won’t have it. She pulls her into a warm hug similar to the one she gave Beca. 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Chloe.” She smile before she steps out of the embrace and chuckles. “Sorry, honey, I’m a huger.” 

Chloe gasps in shock and her head whips back to Beca. “But…you hate hugs.” 

Mrs. Mitchell puffs out a laugh and wraps an arm around Chloe’s shoulders. “Oh, I’ve tried to teach her how to do it but she just keeps flapping her arms around.” She explained teasingly and Chloe laughs at the joke. “She can’t do it.” 

“Alright, we’re leaving.” Beca announces dryly as the two continues to make fun of her but her Mom just waves her off.

Chloe raises an eyebrow, her eyes full of mirth. “We’re just joking, baby.” 

Beca sucks in a deep breath at the added pet name and doesn’t understand why her heart flatters. Regardless, as her Mom pulls them inside the house she prepares herself for the worst. 

As she predicted, Chloe passes the test with flying colors. During dinner, Chloe sells her part perfectly, playing the loving girlfriend, chatting with her Mom happily and everything just feels so normal…too normal that Beca has to remind herself that they aren’t actually dating. That Chloe is acting and this is all fake.

But the thigh rubs under the table, the kisses pressed against her cheek, the loving smile and happy laughs makes it hard. 

Somehow they end up in her childhood bedroom before dessert, just Chloe and her and Beca’s terrified. She never let anybody in her room before, no friends, no relatives and especially no significant others. 

Beca just watches as Chloe walks around the space, her fingers lightly brushing against picture frames, book covers and an old dusty guitar in the corner. Chloe silently observers everything and as she reaches the photos on the shelves, it feels entirely too intimate. 

She smiles at one of the photos before turning to Beca. “Why are you sitting on a fence?” She asks laughingly and Beca can’t help but smile slightly, walking closer. 

“There was an abandonment hospital in the next time over and we decided to go explore it.” Beca smiles when Chloe winces at the thought. “We thought we were super edgy. Everybody climbed over the fence fine but you know me…” Beca scrunches her nose up as she shakes her head. “My feet got caught and I ended up falling over, somehow hitting the back of my neck on the edge and that’s how I got my scar that I was talking to you about earlier.” Beca shrugs as she watches the picture. 

Chloe bit the bottom of her lip. “That was really dumb. It could have been worse.” Her voice is almost concerned and Beca looks at her.

“I know. I’ve grown out of that phase, though. I wouldn’t do that shit anymore.” Her eyes are earnest and Chloe gives her a small nod. 

Silence wraps around them as both gets lost inside their heads, the only sound coming from the downstairs radio in the kitchen. Beca’s eyes roam over the remaining memories on her shelve, thinking about her different her life is now then it was three years ago. 

“Can I touch it?” Chloe’s murmured question breaks the silence and Beca frowns.

“What?” 

Chloe’s eyes are darker than Beca remembers. “Your scar.” 

Her mouth falls open slightly at the request as her heart picks up speed, beating loudly in her chest. Before she could overthink it, her arm reaches out and softly grasps Chloe’s, pulling the redhead’s hand all the way up to her neck and lets her fingers thread through her hair until she feels the familiar bump on her skin. 

“There.” The word comes out like a rush of air as she feels Chloe’s thumb slowly caress the spot and - when did she get so close? 

“Does it still hurt?” Chloe whispers as her eyes bounces between Beca’s eyes and lips, never settling on one. 

Beca’s mind is feeling overwhelmed as Chloe’s toes touch hers and Beca feels like she’s in a trance, unable to move. But before she could answer the question, the hand on her neck tightens as Chloe suddenly closes the gap between their lips.

The kiss is soft and deep at the same time as Beca’s mind throws out all rational thoughts swinging in there that this might not be the best idea when Chloe lets out a small moan, pulling her closer than before. 

“Girls! Dessert is ready!” 

Reluctantly, Chloe pulls away and Beca fights the urge to chase after one more kiss. Beca’s eyes pops open and the most beautiful ocean eyes greets her paired with a shy smile.

“What was that for?” The question doesn’t hold any anger or fury just curiosity as the hand leaves her neck and Chloe steps away and starts toward the door. Beca turns around to watch her.

“For practice.” Comes the reply as Chloe backs out of the room, but not before she sends Beca a wink over her shoulders.

The brunette is still frozen to the spot as her thumb runs over her lips. Everything happened so fast that Beca has trouble remembering how they got here. She rubs her hand harshly on her face, trying to come back to reality and breaths out sharply before she follows her downstairs. 

[nikkoliferous]

He doesn’t bother explaining why he’s here.

This is early on, late May, a few months into the race, but he is already of the belief that he is doing something extraordinary with his presidential campaign — something that’s never been done before. The trouble is describing it. There’s no word for this in modern politics. It is, he believes, “a new way to communicate with the American people” — though he won’t say this until later, and only when asked. Even now, long after he’s put this work at the center of his campaign — at his events, in ads, on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube — he won’t talk about it much. He isn’t sure it’ll work, or if people are “picking up on what we’re trying to do here.” The media, he believes, has always believed, can’t fathom what’s at the heart of this.

So when he arrives at the house, a small mobile home 40 miles outside Montgomery, Alabama, over the Lowndes County line, in one of the poorest places in the country, with five reporters and his own camera crew, he steps through the front door, greets his host, and begins with no clear mention of what he hopes to accomplish here or how it will help him become president.

Pamela Rush, a 49-year-old mother of two, is showing him the problems with her home: the floor tilting visibly to one side, the sheets of plaster peeling off the wall, the broken pipes, the broken cabinetry. He stops in the room where her daughter sleeps. “Do you guys wanna…?” He motions for everyone to come closer. His videographer shuffles forward. On the bedside table, there’s a ventilation machine, the kind used for sleep apnea. A tube of ribbed plastic connects the device to a mask resting on the bedspread, which is patterned cheerily with tiny elephants. Because of mold in the house, Pamela’s daughter needs the device to breathe in her sleep. “How old is she?” the candidate asks. She’s 10. Pamela holds up the mask so he can see up close.

“Show them, not me,” he says, gesturing toward the camera.

She shows the camera the mask.

The visit continues like this. “Show them,” he keeps saying. “Show them.” He speaks only to ask questions, prompting Pamela to “explain” this or that, pointing her to an unseen audience on the other end of his camera lens. It’s like he’s directing his own video — except the video isn’t about him or his campaign or his policy agenda. He is, it seems, somewhere offscreen, an omniscient narrator, felt maybe, but not seen or heard. This is not a public event. There is no crowd. There is no podium, no speech. Mostly, there is silence. The leader of the political revolution — a man who has spent 50 years of his life trying to talk about his ideas — is not saying much at all.

In his first campaign, a third-party bid for US Senate in 1972, he lugged around a 2,000-page, two-volume study by the House Banking and Currency Committee, liberally quoting its findings to the people of Vermont. He spent that year telling anyone who would listen about the fact that a mere 49 banks were trustees of $135 billion and held 768 “interlocking directorships” with 286 of the country’s largest 500 industrial corporations. To him, the phenomenon of interlocking directorships was not arcane or irrelevant to daily life in Vermont. It was an urgent outrage.

In Congress, he developed “the oligarchy speech,” a bleak overview of income inequality in America. The speech became the basis of his public events, his lengthy posts on Facebook, of an entire book — title: The Speech — consisting solely of the transcript of an eight-hour speech he delivered on the floor of the Senate.

And in 2016 — the rallies? The arenas? He had 2,600 in Iowa’s hulking Mid-America Center — largest crowd of the caucus season. He hit every city he could: 5,000 people in Houston, 8,000 in Dallas, 10,000 in Madison, 11,000 in Phoenix, 15,000 in Seattle, 27,500 in Los Angeles, 28,000 in Portland — plus overflow! All those people showing up to hear an hourlong speech they already knew by heart: wages down, median income stalled, one family with more wealth than the bottom 130 million… As he spoke, they’d mouth along to their favorite lines: “Congress does not regulate Wall Street—” “WALL STREET REGULATES CONGRESS,” the crowd would shout back. “Enough is—” “ENOUGH!” they roared. The succession of grim facts — “but let me tell you what is even worse!” he’d say — became a ritual. When a small bird, later identified as a common house finch, once landed on his lectern, an entire stadium full of people cheered wildly, mouths open, their arms raised to the sky, eyes turned upward — not to God, but to the image of the bird and their candidate on the Jumbotron. There was power in the speech. He believed, aides have said, that he was literally changing a generation, person by person, line by line, with every rally.

That was the whole thing — Bernie Sanders, talking.

This is something different.

“Pamela,” he says gently, “why don’t you explain it.”

“And be loud so everyone can hear you…”

Bernie Sanders is sorry for your troubles, but that’s not the reason he’s asking you to talk about them — which he is, everywhere he goes. He wants you to talk about your medical bill — the one you can’t pay. He wants you to talk about losing your house because you got sick. He wants you to talk about the payday loans you took out to keep your kid in school. About the six-figure student debt that’s always on your mind. About living off credit cards, or losing your pension, or working multiple jobs for wages that won’t be enough to support your family.

He would like you to talk about this publicly, in detail, and on camera. He will ask you to do this in front of reporters, or in a room full of strangers at one of his town halls. Of course, the Bernie Digital Team will be there — they are always there — taping your story on camera, or streaming it in real-time to his own mass broadcast system on YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter. On any given day, he is capable of reaching millions of people.

“Who wants to share their story?” he’ll say. “Don’t be embarrassed. Millions of people are in your boat.”

He has, it turns out, built an entire presidential campaign around an open invitation to speak — to talk plainly about the “reality of life” in this country — to be “loud so everyone can hear.”

His suggestion, by asking you to speak up about your private anxieties, many of them financial, is that you and the millions of people in the proverbial audience will begin to see your struggles not as personal failings, but systemic ones. He is less interested in explicitly presenting solutions than naming the problem — that “we have millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world who are struggling every single day,” which is a phrase he repeats daily, almost like an exhortation, as if to grab the American working class by its shoulders. He doesn’t deal in pity or reassurance. Yes, he’ll give hugs — one arm, from the side, other hand still clutching the mic. But mostly he’ll just listen and nod, gaze lowered. Or he’ll shake his head at the crowd, like can you believe this? And then, from the gut, a clipped scoff, like of course you can believe it. That’s the point. He has heard your story before, because it’s all part of the same story: a broken system, driven by profit and greed, built to reinforce the notion that if you’re bright enough, if you work hard enough, then you can travel the path to the middle class. And if you don’t make it there…well, maybe you’re the problem. And who wants to talk about that?

He believes his presidential campaign can, he says, help people “feel less alone.”

He is trying to change the way people interact with private hardship in this country, which is to say, silently and with self-loathing. He is trying, in as literal a sense as you could imagine, to excise “shame” and “guilt” from the American people. These are not words you hear often in politics, but in interviews this year with the candidate, his wife, and his top advisers, they are central to his strategy to win. He is imagining a presidential campaign that brings people out of alienation and into the political process simply by presenting stories where you might recognize some of your own struggles. He is imagining a voter, he says, who thinks, “I thought it was just me who was struggling to put food on the table. I thought I was the only person. I thought it was all my fault. You mean to say there are millions of people?”

He still has his rallies, but “it’s a different campaign, and we do things differently,” he says. “I can give the greatest speech in the history of the world, but it will not have the significance and the impact that the real-life experience of ordinary Americans will have.” At many of his events, the antiseptic macro focus of the “oligarchy speech” — the anonymous actors on Wall Street, the greed of the American corporation, the rigged system — has been replaced by the most intimate details of someone’s life. The outrage in his voice, a booming rasp amplified across three tiers of an NBA-size venue, is softer now. The arena itself has morphed into a digital platform for one voter’s story.

Show them, he says. Show them, not me.

We understand presidential campaigns, in their most basic form, as a conversation between a candidate and the American people. The conversation is happening all the time, in person and online, directly, indirectly, at every possible scale: It’s a handshake, a speech, a television ad, a sponsored post on Facebook. It’s a policy rollout. It’s the signage at a rally, the way an American flag is steamed and hung just so on a stage. Every dollar of every campaign is spent on shaping or beautifying or amplifying some message from the candidate. Bernie’s first presidential bid, in a sense, was the unprocessed, stripped-down version of that conversation: It was the speech. In terms of the mechanics of the thing, as he put it in late 2016, he wasn’t “reinventing the wheel.”

Four years later, he is attempting to run a presidential campaign that facilitates an entirely different conversation — one between people like Pamela and the American people. The stories he collects and broadcasts across the internet aren’t just voter testimonials produced to validate the campaign or its policies — they’re aimed, in Bernie’s mind, at people validating one another.

After 50 years, this is an unlikely place for the political revolution to land. It’s more human. More empathetic. More personal than what you’d expect from a man who’s willingly played along with his persona as a perma-“outsider” and, as he put it in 2015, “grumpy old guy.”

There’s this idea that Bernie Sanders is “a man of the people who doesn’t like people” — just issues. That’s not exactly right, though the precise balance between the two can be difficult to pin down. “Policy, policy, policy,” says his wife, Jane, who is a strategic partner on her husband’s campaign. “Fight, fight, fight — which is true, but he’s also about people.”

He arrived in Vermont in 1968, full of ideas about movement politics, and began his career by raising his hand at a local third-party meeting. He settled in Stannard, a remote town with no paved roads, populated by fewer than 2o0 people, where he learned to live in isolation. But in politics, he also discovered that he liked talking to strangers about the issues of the day. In the ’80s, he hosted his own public broadcast show as mayor of Burlington. In the footage, unearthed by Politico earlier this year, he can be warm and dryly funny. On the campaign trail in Vermont, he liked to take impromptu walks and kept a pair of trunks in the car in case he passed a swimming hole. In Washington, he kept more to himself. Interviewed in 1991, fellow members of Congress described him as a “homeless waif” with a “holier-than-thou” attitude who “alienates” his potential allies, who “screams and hollers,” one said, “but he is all alone.”

Part of the problem, of course, is that Bernie Sanders is not an open book. He will snap at reporters when they ask him to talk about himself or, god forbid, how he’s changed as a person, because what does that have to do with Medicare for All? “You’re asking about me, and I’M not important,” he once said in an interview. “What’s important are the kinds of policies we need to transform this country. OK?” The conversation was over after six minutes. His interior life, to the extent that it is acknowledged among his campaign staff, is a subject only a few people can address with any authority. A simple question on the subject — have you ever seen him cry? — recently reduced senior aides to various forms of lawyer-speak. “I’ve seen him emotionally affected,” one said after a long pause. Another, as if the question had been unclear and possibly even sinister, said only: “What do you mean?” With Jane, he’ll call from the road to talk about his day, but questions like “How did that make you feel?” are not a part of the discussion. “Oooh, no,” she laughs at the suggestion. “Oh no, no. Yeah, no. He doesn’t do that. No. No. Neeevver.”

He can be harsh with staff — short-tempered and demanding and sometimes rude. “Some people say I am very hard to work with. They say I can be a real son of a bitch. They say I can be nasty, I don't know how to get along with people,” Bernie told his press secretary in 1990, according to a memoir by the former staffer. “Well, maybe there's some truth to it.”

His mood is under careful observation. Aides are always noting things like “He’s in a good mood today.” When he is happy, everyone is happy. When he’s not, everyone is quiet, especially in the SUV, where he will ride shotgun with his iPad, a red Vitaminwater at his side, scrolling through tweets from @BernieSanders, maybe only speaking up to dispassionately observe that people must really care about education in this country because a tweet about education is getting a lot of engagement today. Everyone knows which staffers make him feel most at ease — a special currency on the campaign. Small signs of interpersonal comfort — watching an aide make him laugh, watching another gently brush dandruff from his navy blue blazer — can feel like extraordinary acts of intimacy. In 2016, when discussing the campaign at a bar, some staffers got in the habit of referring to him as “Earl” or “the old man,” because at the end of the day, he is 78 years old. And who would have expected this — the most emotionally driven, intimate, borderline touchy-feely campaign of the 2020 election — from “a real son of a bitch”?

Correction.

“I don’t like the word ‘touchy-feely,’” Bernie Sanders says curtly.

Everyone is sensitive about how to describe this. There’s been a lot of “experimentation” with this, one of his advisers will start to explain — before doubling back to say that, actually, “I think ‘experimentation’ is the wrong word.” There’s no precedent for it. Joe Biden and Elizabeth Warren often invite you to consider your story through the lens of their own. Bill Clinton said “I feel your pain,” but he never asked people to reorient the way they feel about their own pain.

Bernie says he is trying to “redefine our value system.” Jane talks about breaking down decades of societal muscle memory: “It seems to be the American way,” she says. “That we all think it’s our fault — instead of recognizing there is a system that is making it unfair for them.” They are, as they see it, trying to dismantle the ideal of “rugged individualism,” an entire era of political thought. Ari Rabin-Havt, a top adviser who travels with the candidate every day, puts it more tangibly: The campaign is a “megaphone” for working people, he says. Briahna Joy Gray, his national press secretary, has likened the effect to “catharsis” from nationwide “gaslighting.” On the podcast she hosts for the campaign, she compares her boss to Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting: the therapist who tells Matt Damon, a young man who was abused by his foster parent, “It’s not your fault. Look at me, son. It’s not your fault… no, no, no, it’s not your fault.”

It really started late this spring, around the time he went to Alabama. The campaign YouTube page started pushing out stories like Pamela’s: a family living without clean drinking water in South Carolina; a family with inadequate low-income housing in San Francisco; workers at Walmart. On Twitter, he asked people to reply with stories of “their most absurd” medical bill. He got 50,000 responses in a week. By the fall, he was holding more town halls than rallies. In rooms from Iowa to Nevada, one person would raise their hand to speak, then another, and another, and another. “Don’t be nervous,” he’d tell the crowd. “You really are among friends.” Not every event has been as affecting as the next. On one trip, he visited a woman’s home in Des Moines to document her problems with contaminated well water. His host happened to be a fan and prepared two trays of homemade brownies for the occasion. Bernie, already late for his next event, declined to eat a brownie and left after 15 minutes. But more often than not, he is an attentive and genuine listener. At one event last month, a woman stood to say that people are “embarrassed if they don’t think they make enough money.” Bernie told her this had been “instilled” by “the system.” The campaign posted footage of the exchange on Instagram. As you watch the video, bold capital lettering runs across the top and bottom of the screen like an emergency weather alert: “THE SYSTEM WANTS YOU TO BE ASHAMED.”

“What we are doing,” he says, “is really speaking to the working class of this country in a way I’m not quite sure any candidate has ever done before.”

Eventually, when asked, he comes to describe this as core to his strategy to win.

“Here’s the gamble,” Bernie says. The gamble is there are millions of working people who don’t vote or consider politics to be relevant to their lives. “And it is a gamble to see whether we can bring those people into the political process,” he says. “One way you do it is to say, ‘You see that guy? He’s YOU. You’re workin’ for $12 an hour, you can’t afford health insurance — so is he. Listen to what he has to say. It’s not Bernie Sanders talking, you know? It’s that guy. Join us.”

And yet, on a Tuesday night, in one moment, the full force of the political revolution, all 50 years of it, came grinding so unquestioningly to a halt by one blocked artery. He will spend two and a half days in the hospital — and he will lie there hooked up to their beeping machines, and he will yell at the doctors when they try to ask him stupid questions, and he will quiz them about health care policy and obsess over what all this would cost without insurance — and there will be a crisis over what to say in the press release and when to say it and if it can wait until Jane is able to deliver the news in person to the seven grandkids before they see it on CNN, and there will be reporters stalking him outside the building, and all sorts of people will want to visit — and for days, he will say over and over again, “I can’t believe I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine how I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine…” like this is a fact he simply cannot accept, because he feels fine as soon as they finish the procedure and because he’s always had terrific “endurance”... Never thought it’d be his heart to cause him problems… Ran a 4:37 mile in high school...!

But not once, in all that chaos and frustration, will he consider dropping out.

ii.

Here is what Pamela explains to Bernie Sanders: that her family bought this mobile home in the ’90s for a trumped-up price of $114,000; that she lives on $1,000 a month; that she still owes $15,000 on the house; the house she fears will harm her daughter’s health; the house where her mother caught pneumonia and died; the house where, “when a storm comes,” she says, “we have to stay in the mobile home and just pray.” He learns that Pamela’s sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to pay for the county garbage service. Another sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to buy into the sanitation system. He turns to a reporter in the Alabama heat. “Really something, isn’t it?” he says. He is frowning, jowls gathered slightly at the neck, but there is no shock or judgment in his face. It will become a familiar expression over the summer and fall. He is not always an obviously comforting presence, but there is never judgment.

“So this is where the waste goes?”

Everyone is outside now, around back. Sanders wants to see where the waste goes.

He learns that Pamela, like many residents in Lowndes County, is also “straight-piping” her untreated sewage from the bathroom to her yard. She is here with Catherine Flowers, an activist who has worked with Congress on the pernicious tangle of issues facing Lowndes County: criminalized poverty, environmental degradation, inadequate infrastructure.

He peers down at a line of dark, matted grass where, a few paces from his feet, inches from the base of the trailer, sewage flows via exposed PVC pipes into a shallow open-air trench. “Is this uncommon in this part of the world?” he asks, steering the conversation for his unseen audience, and the cameras swing back to Pamela and Catherine.

The sun is beating down. Bernie rolls up his sleeves and starts talking gravely about how this is the richest country in the history of the world... “Today we’re in Lowndes County, Alabama, in an African-American community,” he is saying. “Tomorrow we’ll be in California in a Latino community, or in West Virginia in a white community, and the stories will be the same.” You can see his bald head turning shades of pink and red. Everyone is sweating. Pamela is talking about her mother’s death. It is not an easy conversation. “This is America,” he is saying.

Back in his Washington headquarters, the digital team is waiting for the footage.

In the supercharged world Bernie inhabits, the decision to stay in the race was considered not only reasonable, but obvious. Here, there is no confusion about “what we’re trying to do here.” The candidate moves amid a swirl of people you would classify uncynically as “true believers.” It’s a lot of passion in one place. The stakes always feel high. But the hard and fast question of whether they can win the nomination is, to a certain extent, supplanted by the general sense that the movement is a just and right cause and, therefore, in the end, the cause will prevail, likely in a shocking fashion when no one anticipates it or believes it can be done, à la Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. And so they are always on guard against outside forces — people who will doubt them, or underestimate them, or try to actively destroy them.

This is how things go in “a politics of struggle.”

In “a politics of struggle,” as Sanders explains it in a 2015 foreword to his first memoir, setbacks are expected. There will be defeats before there can be the “breakthroughs” few people imagine possible. In a politics of struggle, the goals are “transforming a city, a state, a nation, and maybe the world.” It is already understood that this is “about more than winning an election.”

It’s in this environment that the advent of the heart attack became another motivational “setback.” Ocasio-Cortez decided to endorse. Supporters only hung on tighter. Campaign staffers spoke in grave tones about the “sheer terror” of a world without Bernie. “What is happening right now,” Briahna Joy Gray told her subscribers on the campaign podcast, “is that an old man is carrying the most colossal imaginable weight on his shoulders.” By the time he is back on the trail, the mission of the campaign takes on newly urgent, almost philosophical importance.

He’s in Iowa — a town called Toledo, Tama County, population 2,341 — coaxing people to talk to him about how they feel. “What about health care?” he says at a local civic center, roaming out from behind the podium. “Don’t tell me what I wanna hear! — I want YOU to think about it. Should health care be a human right?” The crowd, not quite warmed up yet, signals a yes. “WHY?” he replies, voice booming. “Who wants to tell me why? Don’t be shy…”

This is his first campaign swing since the heart attack. Five events in 24 hours.

He has to address the age question, of course, so he does. “I've been criticized for being old. I plead guilty. I am old!” he says at his first stop of the trip. Reporters ask him about it. Pundits analyze why it matters. Dr. Oz, the heart surgeon and television host, provides his unsolicited opinion that Bernie’s “protoplasm is strong,” a you-know-it-when-you-see-it term in the medical community for physiological sturdiness. Voters also weigh in, as if to offer reassurance. “Seniors rock!” a woman says at a town hall in Marshalltown, Iowa. Moments later, a middle-aged man raises his hand to tell the candidate that, by age 39, he’d had three heart attacks, a stroke, and a triple-bypass surgery — “and it doesn’t have to get in the way of living, all right?” Bernie takes these remarks in stride, smiling back gamely. He is in a good mood. Though you get the distinct impression that he would rather not be discussing the state of his protoplasm, or himself, at all.

During the town hall in Toledo, Jane and a few staffers can hear Bernie speaking through the walls of an adjacent hold room. She and Ari Rabin-Havt, the deputy who was with Bernie in the hospital through the whole ordeal, are sitting at a small table talking about the heart attack like family members who, maybe years later, are finally able to look back at the whole thing and laugh. Except here, it’s been days, not years. Jane is going into her own Bernie impression: “He’s like, ‘I feel fine. I don’t understand… You’ah tellin’ me I had a heart attack?? I don’t — I, I don’t understand.’”

The thing that bothered him so much about it was the relative smallness of it — like this was needlessly, stupidly about him, “and I’M not important,” remember? What did his aging body, in his mind a vessel of little consequence, have anything to do with the reality that “millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world are struggling every single day”? The answer, of course, is everything: This, like any endeavor in electoral politics, hinges on the will and presence and personality of its leader. The political revolution is no less human or fallible.

And there he was, having to ask for a chair during an event in Las Vegas — he rarely sits on stage — because of chest pains. “Ari, can you do me a favor?” he looked around the room for Rabin-Havt. “Where’s Ari? Get me a chair up here for a moment. I’m going to sit down here.” Staffers found their jobs suddenly transformed. They were dealing with the questions of a health crisis: Should they take him to the hospital? And which hospital? The closer one, or the one with the better cardiology center? But this was Bernie. Everyone knows Bernie. There would be a scene. People would ask for selfies in the waiting room. Reporters would hear about it. They did not want that. It was Rabin-Havt, in the end, who approached the front desk at the urgent care center behind the MGM Grand and discretely flashed his boss’s driver’s license — 09/08/1941, SANDERS, BERNARD — so the nurses would usher him into the back quietly and without delay.

“They're like, ‘Look, we're gonna have to put him in the cath lab,’” Rabin-Havt says. Jane, seated to his right, hasn’t even heard this part of the story yet. So they got him in the cath lab. The doctor asked, how much pain are you in on a scale of 1 to 10, which Bernie rebuffed as a useless question. Then they asked him to please remove his wedding ring. “Really?” he growled, removing the ring. Then they asked for his glasses. And that’s where he drew the line. “JESUS CHRIST! I'm not gonna do that,” he said. That night, Rabin-Havt and another staffer took turns wearing the wedding ring so they wouldn’t lose it. “Oh my god,” Rabin-Havt says. “It was the scariest part.”

The next morning, when Jane arrived from Vermont, she found her husband unchanged. He was talking about how someone without insurance maybe wouldn’t have gone to urgent care at all because of how much it would cost. “That’s his brain,” Jane says. She turns to Rabin-Havt. “Did he say anything to you?” “Not during,” Rabin-Havt says. “The next day when he woke up, he was like, ‘What do you think this is going to cost?’”

His room became the center of activity in the hospital. He held policy discussions with the nurses. He asked the doctors about the hospital's finances. That was a relief, Jane says — to see “the same old Bernie.” Back in Washington, the press team kept obsessive watch over the news coverage, demanding corrections from reporters who described the stent procedure as a “surgery.” There was no surgery, they said breathlessly. It was a procedure! “I’m talking to the doctors,” Jane recalls, “and they’re saying ‘procedure,’ not surgery. It was not a surgery.” Rabin-Havt nods: Not a surgery. Once they finally got the diagnosis — “heart attack” — they needed a statement. So they hunkered down in a hospital break room. The doctors (multiple) started dictating to Rabin-Havt, who tapped out notes on his iPhone. Their first draft was a bit medical — too much jargon. One of the physicians, an English major in college, cut in: “No, no, no — we can do this so the press understands.” So then that doctor tinkered. Once they had their finished product, Rabin-Havt emailed it to the doctors and asked for a formal reply affirming the statement as their own. Proof in writing, presumably, in case of conspiracy theories.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Jane says, laughing. “Well, it was — it was not fun.”

You might wonder, reasonably so, why a 78-year-old man would rather be here, back in Iowa, still doing this, likely at some risk to his health, when he could also just drop out, endorse Elizabeth Warren, and spend his days at the family home on Lake Champlain. Maybe this is especially true if you also believe that Bernie Sanders stands no real shot at winning the Democratic nomination and probably knows it — but will take his diehard supporters, his loyal 15%, a big enough chunk to influence the debate and stay relevant, as far as they can carry him. But then, of course, you would be ruining his good mood and missing the point entirely.

“Honestly,” his wife says, seated at the small table, “I think things are getting worse. Things are getting worse.” By which she means wages, costs, bills, just not knowing if you can keep a roof over your head. “And this is an opportunity. I don't know that the opportunity was there in 2016, where it was so widespread in the same way, the feeling among people of, ‘Wait a minute. We deserve better. This is not OK. The system is completely broken.’ There were some people who saw it in 2016, but it has gotten so much worse over the last two or three years.”

“We’re losing ground as a people. And that angers him,” she laughs dryly, and from the other room, you can hear that he does sound angry — angry about how people go bankrupt for getting “CANC-AH,” angry about our crumbling “IN-FER-STRUCHRR,” angry about his colleagues in Congress who say everyone “LOOOOVES” their private health insurance. “THAT TRUE?”

He is yelling, yes, but Bernie Sanders is “happiest and most comfortable in rooms like this,” Rabin-Havt says, gesturing to the event across the hall. “When you put him in a room full of political hacks — like, phonies — that’s not his room. He’s not going to like it.”

Jane nods. “And he’s going to be gruff.”

“He’s going to be gruff,” Rabin-Havt says, “and he’s not going to know how to deal with it. You put him in a room with real people telling their real stories and—”

“And he’s a different person,” Jane says. “If you have politicians and, uh, media personalities just trying to play gotcha politics or talk about the polls or other candidates — and never asking the real questions about what's affecting the people, he has no time. He has no time.”

Jane, like most everyone around her husband, is a true believer. The two grew up in the same area of Brooklyn — 10 blocks apart, where her father worked as a taxi driver — but they wouldn’t meet until 1980 in Burlington. She was a community organizer. He was running for mayor. She had never heard the name “Bernie Sanders” when she helped organize a debate for the candidates at a Unitarian church in town. “Nobody liked the incumbent mayor in the community groups. Being a good Catholic girl, I greeted him and made sure he was all set up. I didn't even talk to Bernie! But everybody was interested in Bernie. And then I sat in the second row, and I listened to him, and so did the entire Unitarian Church,” she pauses, then continues slowly, “and I felt that he embodied everything I believed in. The first time I heard him speak. And I knew I would be working with him from that moment on.”

There is a stunning intensity in the belief — one made very real by the heart attack, one held firmly by his staff, his wife, by the candidate himself — that if Bernie Sanders isn’t going to be telling the American people these stories, then no other candidate will.

“It was a gut check for a lot of people,” Jane says. “Everybody was thinking cerebrally, ‘well, you know, we'll see how it plays out. The polls don’t seem to be doing that well right now. Who knows whether it's gonna be Biden or Elizabeth or Bernie…’” She waves her hand in the air.

“And then when people — I mean, I felt it very strongly from so many people — when people heard that he had a heart attack, it was like, ‘Oh my god.’ And envisioning, OK, without Bernie's voice, oh my god, this would be a totally different race. It would be a totally…” her voice trails off. “People understand that he's the one that can affect real change…”

“This is not a, uh, an intellectual discussion.”

At some point, the sound of Bernie’s voice from the other room drops out.

Jane goes silent. The staffers go silent.

Everything is abruptly quiet, and there is an instant, a half of a split second, when the mind imagines that maybe something’s happened — and then there’s the sound of Bernie Sanders speaking again.

“Somebody was just asking a question,” Jane explains.

“Oh, OK,” Rabin-Havt says.

“OK.”

iii.

The video team is still rolling outside Pamela’s house.

After about 25 minutes, the visit is over. They are all standing in the front yard — Bernie, Pamela, and Catherine. Two campaign vans are idling silently in the driveway. Both women have dealt with politicians before: Catherine has worked on legislation with US senators, including another presidential candidate, Cory Booker, to address rural wastewater problems. Pamela has testified before a congressional forum on poverty convened by Elizabeth Warren.

“Thank you,” Pamela tells her guest.

“I want to thank YOU,” he replies. And suddenly, there are tears. Catherine is hugging him, and then Pamela is hugging him too and crying into his blue button-down shirt — and then they are all hugging together. “We won’t forget you,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

After they leave the house, he turns to one of the political reporters with him. “Learning something?” he asks.

The visit is still heavy on his mind. There is some light conversation about the trip — and then you see his face turn to a grimace. The reporter asks about Joe Biden. At this particular juncture in the horserace, there is a thirst for conflict between the two candidates.

“One day at a time…” he responds.

The reporter tries again: “Do you think Biden’s message is resonating in the South?”

“We’ll take it one day at a time, I have no idea. Nor does anyone else.”

He is, of course, annoyed. “You have all heard me rant and rave,” he starts telling the group. “I don’t think that the media is the enemy of the people, that it’s fake news. God knows I don’t think that.”

“But I do think we have to do a better job in looking at issues that impact ordinary people.”

“There are millions of people in this country…”

Later in the day, he relays Pamela’s story to the crowd at his town hall. The following month, his campaign releases a two-and-a-half-minute video about the trip, titled “Trapped.” Eventually, it hits 750,000 views.

In the middle of an interview, he bats back a question to ask one of his own.

“Do you know what it’s like to live —”

He is about to say “paycheck to paycheck,” but he stops himself. As he sees it, the media doesn’t know anything about that. Reporters, even the well-meaning ones, he thinks, don’t have a clue. “I mean, I do,” he says. “I grew up in that family.” His father, a paint salesman, worked hard but never made much money. The family lived in a three-and-a-half-room, rent-controlled apartment in Brooklyn. Both parents died young. As a young politician in Vermont, Sanders had to borrow gas money to campaign. The windshield wipers on his Volkswagen bug didn’t work. He struggled to pay bills. After his swearing-in as mayor of Burlington, he bought his first suit at age 40. He was, in those days, the same voter he’s trying to reach now. His old notebooks, legal pads fished from the archives by a Mother Jones reporter earlier this year, include rambling notes on his inability to do better for himself and his young son. The internal commentary is scathing and unkind. “Not only do I not pay bills every month — ‘What, every month?’ — I am better now than I used to be,” he wrote, “but pretty poor…”

The secret, it turns out, is that in addition to taking this work very seriously, Bernie Sanders also takes it very personally. The secret is that a mostly solitary man — a man who has spent most of his political career on the outskirts, who’s never really fit into someone’s idea of a politician, who’s “cast some lonely votes, fought some lonely fights, mounted some lonely campaigns” — is now trying to win a presidential campaign, maybe his last, by making people feel less alone.

This is his campaign, his theory of change, though he’s done very little to explain it to a wider audience. “I care less about the coverage, in one sense,” he says. “What I care about is that someone turns on the TV, and there’s someone who works at Walmart, or someone from Disney, or McDonald's. And they say, you know, ‘that’s me.’” He wants those people to do the talking: the people who worry about their electric bill. The people who wonder if they can afford to have another kid. People for whom “the idea of taking vacation” — he scoffs as he says the word — “is not even in their imagination even though they work all the time.” In his mind, he was those people.

He is not among the politicians “whose mommies and daddies told them at the country club that they were born to be president,” as he put it last year. He suspects his parents were Democrats, but he isn’t sure — it’s not something they discussed. So he is not drawn to Washington in the usual ways. Which is not to say that he doesn’t have ego. In 2016, staffers watched him adjust with unexpected ease to his new power and popularity: The guy in the middle seat, coach class, was suddenly flying private and showing up to watch the Golden State Warriors play the Oklahoma City Thunder in Game 7. But he does not have what one former president called “that wretched mania, an itching for the White House.” He is driven by a different compulsion.

You get the sense, without exaggeration, that he will keep doing this for the rest of his life. That he would die before he stops. There are some signs, after the heart attack, that this is playing on his mind. “At the end of the day,” he told his supporters in a seven-minute video he recorded after his release from the hospital, “if you’re gonna look at yourself in the mirror, you’re gonna say, ‘Look, I go around once, I have one life to live. What role do I wanna play?’”

But for the most part, his mood is notably light. His return to the campaign trail, ever since the heart attack, aka “heart incident,” as senior aides refer to it in the press, has been a happy, bordering-on-joyous affair. He starts cracking jokes during his speech. He plays basketball. He hosts his staff at his house in Burlington, demonstrating the best way to build a fire in a tiny stove. He announces plans for his own New Year’s Eve party in Iowa with food, drinks, and live music: “Bernie’s Big New Year’s Bash.” Inexplicably, he ends up dancing at a labor solidarity dinner in New Hampshire. “Our revolution includes dancing!” he declares. And then, to the sound of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” and The Temptations’ “The Way You Do the Things You Do,” he sways his hips from side to side, grinning, and twirls woman after woman across the banquet hall.

The major papers describe this period as a “renaissance” and “resurgence.” In polls conducted since the heart attack, he has either maintained his position or become even more competitive. He has a shot at Iowa. He looks good in Nevada and California. He remains the only candidate with more donations than Donald Trump. And he has some $1.67 million coming in each month from people who have signed up for automatic recurring donations.

On one afternoon in late October, he travels to Brooklyn to do a few interviews.

The plan is to walk up Henry Street to the Brooklyn Promenade, a pedestrian area overlooking the East River and downtown Manhattan, but he makes a turn onto Kane Street instead — spontaneous! — another indication of his good mood, which an aide quickly notes aloud.

He walks a few blocks, greeting passersby, before ducking into Francesco's Pizzeria & Trattoria, where he orders a slice of pepperoni. His staffers also order pepperoni. “See!” Bernie says. “Can’t think for themselves!” Jane shrugs. “Well, I got cheese,” she says.

The guys behind the counter open the oven and pull out a slice of pepperoni, wet and shimmering in its own hot oil. No one is concerned, apparently, about whether pizza is a wise choice three weeks after a stent procedure. Jane doesn’t blink. His staff doesn’t blink. No one blinks. Bernie takes his plate to a corner table, where he sits for a brief interview, giving polite but clipped answers about his decision to stay in the presidential race after the incident.

In one swift hand motion, as if to dispense with this line of inquiry entirely, he lifts the slice from its white paper plate, folds the crust lengthwise, takes a large bite, and swallows.

“This is my life,” he says.

The statement is, for Bernie, as straightforward and uncomplicated as it sounds. Everyone seems to understand this. Of course he should eat pizza. Of course he is still running for president.

“Well,” Jane says a few days later, “I mean, it would be kind of ridiculous if it didn't affect him in some way.”

“I think the way it affected him was, ‘OK, this… This is my mission in life. This is my purpose. I'm here for a reason.’”

On that long flight from Vermont to Las Vegas, she thought about what she should do when she saw him in the hospital. “If he wasn’t doing well,” she thought, she would put her foot down. She would tell him no. “If he was in danger, I would absolutely say, ‘I’m sorry. You can’t.’”

Jane pauses. “But honestly, I don’t know that he would have listened to me.”

[komorebirei]

The Water Was Never Afraid - Chapter 4: Proud

(AO3 link)

“Good morning, Étienne.” Adrien greeted the photographer with a handshake as he stepped out of the elevator, then waved at a woman who smiled at him. “Hello, Mathilde, hope all is well.”

He was in high spirits. His father was testing the merit of his business management degree by putting him in charge of rolling out the fall line—under heavy supervision of course—and the meeting with the staff involved had gone smoothly. Now that his father was teaching him all aspects of the business, they had more to talk about, and Adrien had more chances to catch his attention.

Not that he was running around like a puppy for his father’s approval anymore. Those days were over; too much had changed. More than anything, he wanted his father to trust him enough to lean on him.

As he crossed the lobby, a young woman ahead of him dropped a bright orange-red floral patterned silk scarf and kept walking without noticing. He picked it up and called out to her—a slender woman with dark shoulder-length hair, dressed in a black sleeveless shirt and beige wide-leg pants—just as she was about to walk through the sliding glass doors. “Excuse me, miss! Your scarf.”

The woman turned around, and brilliant blue eyes struck him.

“Marinette!”

Her face broke into a grin. “Adrien! Good morning. You didn’t recognize me?”

He shook his head. He hadn’t seen her in a few weeks, and then only in passing, but that wasn’t the reason. Even though they weren’t close anymore, he was certain he’d recognize Marinette anywhere under normal circumstances. “Your hair looks different. Did you cut it?”

“A little.” Seeming pleased that he had noticed, she turned her head to show off an angled bob that barely brushed her shoulders. He noted with amusement that her bangs hadn’t changed since collège.

“Very cute.” He gave her a thumbs up of approval and held out her scarf, only to realize why she had dropped it in the first place. She was holding what looked to be the entire contents of her purse—wallet pinched between her elbow and her waist, phone and a coffee cup balanced precariously in one hand, a handful of pens, alcohol markers and a bundle of swatches in the other, a sketchpad and a few bound books hugged to her chest. “Wow. Let me take a wild guess. Spilled coffee in your purse?”

Marinette’s face reddened in embarrassment. “How did you know?”

“Really?” Adrien laughed. “That was a shot in the dark, but it seemed like something that would happen to you.”

“What are you implying, Agreste?” Marinette gave him a mock scowl.

“You seem to have a superpower of attracting disasters,” Adrien teased.

Marinette snorted to herself. “Ah, if only you knew.”

“I guess I’ll have to help you.” He stepped closer, holding up the scarf. “How did you have this? Just draped? Loose knot?”

He folded it in half diagonally and hung it around her neck like a cowboy bandana, and Marinette shook her head frantically. “Are you really the son of a fashion designer?!”

“I’m hopeless. I have no talent,” he sighed dramatically. “If I weren’t so photogenic, my father would have disowned me long ago.”

“Fix my scarf this instant or you might not be so photogenic anymore,” Marinette threatened.

“You’re lucky my bodyguard didn’t hear you say that,” Adrien warned, but with a fond smile, he fixed the scarf and tied the corners neatly around her neck, tugging her hair out from under it. “There. That looks nice.”

“It’s a little tight,” Marinette complained, and Adrien picked at the knot to loosen it.

“Sorry,” he apologized instinctively, self conscious of their intimate distance all of a sudden. “I guess I should have just offered you a hand and let you do it yourself. Can I carry something for you?”

“It’s okay. I’m just going to the park down the street to do some sketching. It’s not far.”

“Only 11 a.m. and you already want to escape?”

“Of course not!” Marinette looked unexpectedly mortified, and upon pondering why, Adrien remembered he was technically her boss’s son and she didn’t want to look like she was slacking. Irritation flickered in him, not at her, but at the fact that his ‘status’ was getting in the way of the ease of their friendship.

“Relax, I was kidding. I’ll walk with you if you let me carry something.”

“That’s two favors for me and none for you. That’s not how it works.” Despite her words, Marinette shifted the books in her arms so they tipped toward him. “Thanks, though. I suppose you could take these, if you really don’t mind?”

“It’s my pleasure.” He took the books from her and they fell into step, sliding glass doors parting before them as they exited into the dazzling outdoors.

“The studio is just so busy, I can’t get the ideas to flow. I like going to the park and seeing people pass by. It’s inspiring,” Marinette explained.

“I get that.” Adrien nodded. “So, how have you been? Is my father treating you well?”

“Everything’s great!” Marinette tossed her head to clear a lock of hair that the wind had blown into her face. “I mean, it’s busy, and a little crazy, but I love it. Interning at Gabriel is … literally, a dream come true.”

He remembered his first glimpse of her sketchbook all those years ago, when he’d thought it was Alya’s. He’d been impressed back then, but now, her childhood aspirations had become a reality through her hard work and dedication, and his heart soared with pride for her. “I’m really happy for you. You’re amazing, so don’t get discouraged.”

“I know it won’t always be easy. I’m ready to tough it out—this is what I’ve wanted since I was a kid, after all.”

They crossed the street and entered through the park’s gates.

“And what about you, Adrien?”

“Me?” He paused to think. “Life is good. I was nervous about the meeting this morning, but it went well.”

“You, nervous?”

Adrien shrugged sheepishly. “I’m not used to this yet. I’m worried I’m going to screw everything up and drag my father’s company to the ground.”

“Oh, come on!” Marinette bumped him playfully with her shoulder. “Don’t be paranoid!”

“I seem to attract disasters, too.” He thumbed his ring.

“No you don’t, Mr. Perfect!”

“I am far from perfect.”

“Looks are deceiving.” Marinette dumped her belongings onto a bench and reached out to muss his hair, the way she used to in lyceé. “Okay, now you look the part. Disaster Magnet Agreste.”

“I guess that makes you the disaster,” Adrien joked. Then, catching the double meaning he hadn’t intended, he blushed and smoothed his hair. “Sorry.”

Marinette’s cheeks turned crimson. “No, sorry, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sure because of—you know—you and Kagami, I shouldn’t mess with you in public. Sorry. I shouldn’t have let you help me. We’ve known each other so long—it slipped my mind that you’re famous and you can’t just be doing these things—”

“Marinette!” Adrien put down the books and held up his hands to stop her panicked babble. “It’s really okay. It’s no big deal. I’m glad I could help.”

“Thank you.” As if she’d clammed up, Marinette’s voice was tight and she still seemed uncomfortable.

“How did you hear about Kagami and me?” He didn’t know their relationship was public knowledge, but then again, the rumors had already been floating around the media long before they started dating.

“Ah… I saw you together at the gala.”

“You were there?” Adrien asked rhetorically, mentally smacking his forehead. Of course she was there. She was interning under Camille, his father’s favorite senior designer. Not all interns attended the Gabriel events, but Camille was very proactive in showing her interns the ins and outs of the industry, including social events. He felt sorry for not having anticipated this and sought Marinette out, but since it was his first official date with Kagami, his mind had been preoccupied. “Sorry, I should have known. I’m sorry I didn’t look for you.”

Marinette shook her head. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You wouldn’t have been,” Adrien protested.

Marinette smiled in a way that implied she didn’t agree, but wasn’t going to put up a fuss. “Thanks for helping me, Adrien.”

Adrien twisted a lock of hair behind his ear. “Well… I hope you find your muse.” He paused. He would have liked to continue the conversation. Being with Marinette was like a breath of fresh air, bringing back memories of the way they’d been close back in high school. Together with Alya and Nino, the four of them had been inseparable, but when their paths split in university, lining up their schedules to make time to meet had become a challenge. “I’m glad we ran into each other. Maybe we could grab coffee sometime and catch up?”

“Sure, if Kagami is okay with it.” Marinette crossed her legs, propping her open sketchbook on her knee, and smiled up at him. He had almost forgotten the way her blue irises looked like the surface of a lake with the overhead tree leaves reflected in them.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, but yeah, I’ll ask her.” Adrien stepped away and waved goodbye over his shoulder. “See you later.”

“Bye, Adrien.”

Adrien crossed the park, heading in the direction of the Agreste mansion. It had been about a week since he’d last seen his father, though they spoke almost daily over the phone. He could call him to update him on that morning’s meeting, but figured it was due time to pay him a visit. He could tell him in person.

As he walked, he whipped out his phone and placed a call to his assistant. “Celeste? Are there any purses from last season laying around?” He waited as she checked. “Great. Could you please bring one out to Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng at the park? Uhh… I don’t know… pink? Thank you.”

Pocketing his phone, he made his way to his former home with a jaunt in his step.

[pestopascal]

hum

partial sequel to thunder and applause. 

still flystep, questions about chargestep. and maybe some squint and you’ll see herald/charge. retribution spoilers. identity reveal. 1.8k

“What are you thinking about?”

Even though the question is whispered, lips brushing against her temple, you feel like you’ve filled the room. You don’t open your eyes, feeling the way she tenses a fraction under your hands instead. If you look, you’ll break the spell.

And even though Logan is a master of control, the slow steady breathing almost passing as her being asleep, it’s like a suggestion. Burrowing into your mind, that even with a leg over your hip, head tucked under your chin and fingers curled into your shirt, she was awake.

So were you. Not like either of you could truly sleep after what had happened barely twelve hours ago.

Logan doesn’t so much as give you a notice that she was awake. Some days, you wish you could read her mind. Crack open her skull, and get all those little thoughts out. Always just when you start to pull on a thread, there’s something else. Another hook, pulling you left, right, out.

“He won’t give up on you, you know. Even with the truth.”

That was the charm about Ortega, and you remember magazines plastered with his smile, how they papered your walls. Honest words, in between the waffling on about his suit, and the whispers that he would never be like Hood. Meeting him, after all those years of watching interviews and huddling around newspaper articles never really gave you the full picture. Until he had smiled at you, broad and sweeping, firm handshake and ‘good to meet you, Daniel’.

Whoever that person was, though, hadn’t walked out of your apartment. Hunched shoulders and red rimmed eyes. Hesitating on your doorstep, until you had shut the front door. There he’d stared at the ground. You didn’t have to do this, Daniel. But… I appreciate it. Carefully picked words, plucked from the specific scripts given whenever there was a villain to take down. None of the warm behind them, just the calm indifference he tried so hard to perfect.

You hadn’t mean to lay a hand on his shoulder, to encourage him to look up. Never thought you would see the day that it would be you, getting Ortega to unfurl. Solid under your hand, the hum of life teasing you, convincing you that it was alright. She does love you, Ortega. I know she does.

But where does that put you? An almost haunting question, if you were to let it linger, fester in the back of your mind. Take it one day at a time. Shake your fingers out, when you shut the door behind you. Static striking through your hand, numb.

Logan had cried. Sobbed in the bathroom with the water running, as if you couldn’t hear when you’d finally walked in. Skin decidedly pinker, scrubbed clean, and hadn’t moved from the bed. It had broken your heart, seeing her like this. But you didn’t know what to do. Still don’t.

“Ortega… he loves you, Logan. Really.” You’re not a liar.

You remember magazines. Speculations and gossip columns. Potentially doctored photographs, shoved in between guesses at who Sidestep really was. What they had looked like. Larger than life heroes, and the intimate details of their identities from second hand sources. Back then, it had seemed so fantastic, and you had always wanted to be a part of it, even for a second. Now, well. 

“Not anymore.” 

At her voice, you open your eyes. With that murmur, she has turned, shuffling just out of the way you hold her to rest her head back on the pillow. Nose to nose, and you want to just lose yourself in those dark eyes of hers. Otherworldly (you’re not afraid to be pulled in).

It’s weird, to want to argue this. To fight her, that she was loved, fiercely, by anyone other than yourself. You remember how Ortega spoke, the first day that Logan Walsh, Sidestep herself, was pronounced alive and well. About anything and everything, until Chen had intervened. It was entrancing, hearing it all over again. Caught up in the words, in the time. In him, and her.

Words and films hadn’t done her justice. She smiles, at that, but it’s sad and suffering. You don’t know how to get the message across for her. 

“I can’t read his mind.”

“I know.”

“Then how do you know he does?” The question is soft, but the admission softer still. Far more private than you’d heard before. If you were any other kind of person, you might even say she was scared.

“Because I do. I know how he looks at you.” The same way you did, after all.

Logan is shaking. Sniffling as she turns to rest on her back. You only watch, as tears leak from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” You know what she’s sorry about. Even as you try to brush the tears away, she still cries and cries and cries. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

A back and forth argument that you had been having on and off for a couple of weeks. Same sort of sad looks, as she believed she stood at the crossroads. Didn’t know where to step next. You wanted her to stop hurting, but there was no way for you to stem the bleed. 

“It is. I promise you.”

“Not even you can promise something like this.” 

“‘Course I can. I’m Herald. It’s my job.”

You get a laugh out of her, even if it was tired and bubbled by a sob. Enough to get her to look at you again. “Logan, I get it. I do.”

“I shouldn’t—do this to you. You don’t deserve this.”

“Shit happens.” And you shrug, because it sure as hell did.

“That’s not what this is.”

No, it’s not, you think with a wry smile. Some truth in that. But that was just the way things were, you found, since setting foot in Los Diablos. Five years too late for Heartbreak, not a year too soon to be able to hold Logan in your arms. If the time hadn’t added up the way it did, you know you wouldn’t be here, at this exact moment. 

Three years spent the way it was, leading to this. A lot had happened. “It’ll work out.”

With a sigh, she might not be quite as far, but the tears still fall. Pooling in the pillows, and you only move to get her some tissues. “I know it will,” you reaffirm. Want to push, to get her to hear you and understand.

“I kissed him.”

“I know.”

“More than once.”

“Logan, you told me.” Ortega was not her keeper, she had made that decidedly clear. But neither were you, no matter what she had convinced herself otherwise. A tenuous balance, tipping back and forth. You don’t know what you want.

Her face scrunches up once more. “Stop being so nice about it.” Confusing her. You can hear the accusation ring out loud.

“I’m not going to tell you who you can and can’t kiss.”

Heels of her palms pushed into her eyes, and she lets the silence drag, until: “I’m so confused.”

So you sit up. A little awkwardly, knee still a little stiff. Back against the headboard, pillow under legs. With a sigh, you have to look anywhere but her. Where to from here? Ortega had seen her vulnerable, away from the flashy lights and hardsuit. Wiped away years of assumptions in one fell swoop.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do.” 

Never been the idea or intent from the start. This wasn’t about pity, either, before you see those words fill her face. When she had showed herself, the secret she had been carrying for so long, you had thought of many things later. Questions and answers, but still that biting idea, that Ortega just didn’t know. You didn’t want to push Logan to tell him. To explain. Even though you knew it was always going to be the best and only outcome.

You had a million different thoughts, of how it was going to play out if the truth was avoided. Accidents weren’t really included in the equation. Maybe a broken helmet, or a dramatic reveal. And the dark. Perhaps that was how Ortega and Logan were, coming full circle — accidental identity reveals, and stumbling over love.

Her fingers push your fringe out of your face. “Don’t think about it like that.”

“I can’t ignore it… and neither can you.” Capture her palm, pressing your lips there. Hold her eyes steady. “Things happen, and I’d be an idiot to try and imagine it not happening.”

“I’m hurting you.” Logan sighs, and you’re used to how she presses in by now. Holds your mind gently in her hands, sifting through it all.

But she’s wrong, in a way. Perhaps a first for her, judging by how she tries to piece it all together. Holds your gaze, trying to pick apart your brain.

You know what she was doing — trying to warp it, so that it suited her. Maybe made her feel worse, as there was that crutch in her, a kind that only came out when silences stretched on for too long and when the sun hung low. Trying to reassure herself that she was the reason.

“Logan… you couldn’t hurt me.” Knee notwithstanding, and it twinges at your words.

“But… Danny, this isn't what you wanted. I know it isn’t.”

“Shit happens,” you reiterate, a little more force behind you than you meant to have. “Not even you can control everything. Whatever happens, happens.”

Logan bites her lip, not happy with the response. If this was during the day maybe, a full nine hours sleep and dinner that didn’t churn in your gut, you know you would’ve copped flak for brushing everything off. Being too cavalier. You’re not sure if you wanted that, or the way that Logan was an exposed nerve, no longer bundling herself up and hiding every little aspect to fit into what she thought people needed. 

Quietly, you hear the murmur. “I’m not supposed to feel this way.”

You can imagine the jump in thoughts. Down the rabbit hole, with an emphasis on tattoos and manufactured dreams. She tells herself she’s a machine, but you can feel the way her heart beats under your hand, how she breathes against your skin. You kiss Logan, and it’s not nearly as romantic as you’d hoped, with the tears and the fear. But you hope it reminds her that she’s alive and warm, human. 

She kisses you back, slowly, as if just striving for contact. You want to tell her again and again. Over and over, just what you think, what you feel. It may never be enough, but you won’t tire of it, you’re sure. Logan just had to make it through tomorrow, and then? 

Neither of you know. Settle for wrapping yourself around her, hands rubbing her back, coaxing her to sleep.

(because you know that you wouldn’t, anyway)