#while crowds of people wave their american flags and hes like oh we need to protect our beautiful nation

[oflgtfol]

see like this whole thunderbolts storyline seems almost politically intelligent, especially back in #110 era where it was critiquing the american news cycle, particularly sensationalism and nationalism as a way for politicians to gain power, and the idea of this secret police force (the thunderbolts themselves) who are like beyond corrupt and violent..... but then you have these little moments of like, oh, stereotypical hippie college students calling for world peace, arent they so irrational, lets make sure they throw the word "fascist" around in especially silly ways to undermine the idea of antifascism, lol tee hee

#then again this wasnt thunderbolts proper so maybe it can be chalked up to being a different writer than the main line #like idk these comics kinda suck but sometimes they almost have a spark of political intelligence that is a breath of fresh air #so then to have that fucking shit in this crossover comic was just like a slap in the face. girl what the fuck #brot reads marvel comics #secret invasion (2008) 6 #<- finished number 8 so im done but im still on this. lol #because like they have the idea of osborn playing with the news cameras to make himself look like a hero #while crowds of people wave their american flags and hes like oh we need to protect our beautiful nation #like theres the idea here of nationalism as a ploy for a power grab #hes corrupt as fuck but everyone thinks hes a hero bc UWU MURICA #so its like you ALMOST have the right idea #BUT THEN THE WHOLE. ANTIFASCIST COLLEGE STUDENT THING. WHAT WAS THAT?

[leiwritess-moved]

Brazil Holds Gifts - Hinata Shōyō (Part 2)

Pairing: Hinata Shōyō x Oc, Hinata Shōyō x black!fem!reader

Genre: fluff, a teensy bit of angst

Warnings: swearing

Word count: 2,804

Author’s Note: Thank y’all for reading, liking, and reblogging the first part! I had so much fun writing this, and to know people actually enjoyed it? The tears!! Hope you like this one just the same (or even more teehee). 

Part 1 | 2 | 

*

Day 63

September 2017

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

About a month in, Cee was seeing Shouyou at least once a week for language practice after Caribbean Lit classes.

It started as jokes on the beach after Shouyou’s morning meditation, and then, Cee decided to give her his pitch. Shouyou was jealous that he didn’t come up with the idea first. 

Dinner was their time of study. It made the most sense. They were both busy during the day. Shouyou had intensive volleyball training or deliveries, and she had essays upon essays with a side of group study with classmates. Besides, trying to communicate while stuffing their faces made things ten times more fun, and manageable. 

They never ate by the water—Cee made Shouyou take the main roads even with their bagged leftovers—so most times, their favorite buffet spot by the dormitories pocketed their money. 

Sometimes, Shouyou brought food his boss planned to toss after a shift. Those were Cee’s favorite nights. They ate dinner with Pedro, Shouyou’s roommate, and debated which were the best subbed translations for anime: English or Portuguese. Shouyou normally sat in the center with his chin in the air, quietly humming the Japanese national anthem. 

The language barrier made things complicated, yes, but not enough for them to stop trying. They both benefited from the challenge. The good ol’ Equivalent Exchange. Shouyou got English study outside of manga, Cee enjoyed Japanese, and they were able to mess up without scrutiny. Maybe laughter, but nothing to lose sleep over.

Shouyou’s encouraging attitude helped a ton. He had this way of making any challenge feel like an interactive obstacle course rather than a rocky mountain. 

Google Translate was a third party in their conversations, and some of their best moments together were spent cracking up because of the mistakes it made. 

For general needs, like planning, they used Portuguese. Shouyou became her teacher in that department. He’s lived in Brazil way longer, going on a little more than one and half years compared to her 7 months, and has pretty cool methods to remember key phrases. It became their go-to when they wanted to understand each other quickly.

For example—

“Você gostaria de comer juntos, Shouyou?” Cee asked over the phone while lathering lotion on her legs. 

“Jantar, jantar, jantar...” Shouyou sang to himself before deciding, “Carne.”

“Meat?” She clarified. 

“Sim,” he confirmed.

“Café? Carne. Almoço? Carne. Jantar? Carne.” 

“Sobremesa?!” He added.

“Carne!” They said together and laughed.

“I got you. I know a place,” Cee reassured, and grabbed her Converse’s.

They met at the end of the block, where the dormitories touched the main strip.

As expected, when she arrived, he was waiting. Cee snorted. He was always at the spot before her, no matter how hard she tried to get there first. 

Shouyou sat on the curb, next to a neatly folded shirt, with his head resting on the edge of the building. Eyes closed, and legs wide open, he made his phone jump in his lap with a flick of his wrist over and over again. He looked tired. She wondered where he was coming from. 

When she stepped onto the curb, Shouyou pivoted, and locked eyes with her. The skin over his chiseled jaw grew taut as he smiled, exposing a top row of straight, white teeth. Her body warmed, starting from the pit of her stomach as he softly wet his lips with his tongue.

Chill, Cee reminded herself. She had to play it cool. 

“Hey,” Cee said, flicking his bangs with a finger. “Ready?”

He grabbed his shirt, hopped up, and flung it over his shoulder. “Where we going?” 

Cee just shrugged, and started to walk.

He followed, eager to fill the spot at her side. “Cee! Where we going?” 

They walked to a restaurant that wasn’t too far. Cee frequented the shop with her Carib Lit crew, especially when she was looking for a bit of home for her taste buds. 

It was in-the-cut, and looked sus from the outside, but morphed into a wonderland once you pushed open the doors. 

Shouyou gasped when they stepped in.

“Happy?” Cee asked as he spun, throwing his head from left to right.

“Sugoi...” he praised under his breath.

Awesome, indeed.

It was a small restaurant with reds, greens, yellows, browns, and whites. Paintings of young girls with mahogany to dark molasses brown skin decorated the green walls, each of them wearing fluorescent headwraps, and holding flowers, the colors of leaves in New York during Fall. They were four tables filled up by an older crowd of regulars, all of them either gossiping in hushed voices, or cackling with cups filled to the brim with copper-colored liquor in hand. 

“Welcome back,” an older woman sitting atop a stool behind the cashier counter greeted them. Cee smiled at the woman with chestnut brown skin, and a lazy grin that pressed dimples into her cheeks. She was the owner of the shop. “Patrick, lemme get some chicken curry with the extra roti skin!” She shouted in the kitchen window behind her, and turned back to Cee. “You bring a new friend this time?” 

Cee took out her wallet. When Shouyou reached into his pocket, she patted his arm gently. “Yes Miss,” she replied, handing her a bill. “Lemme get two of them.” 

After paying, they were led to a two-seat table in the outdoor area of the restaurant by their waitress. It was in the far back, lit with torch lights at every corner. The area faced the sea, but was blocked off from the water by a wooden fence. Cee breathed in the ocean water scent as they walked into a group of college kids sipping cocktails, laughing with open mouths, and swaying to Brazilian Funk music around their tables. She felt Shouyou move closer to her from behind. 

“You good?” She asked, as their waitress gestured toward their table. She pulled out her chair, and watched Shouyou sit in his seat with a plop.

“Hungry,” Shouyou said, rubbing his belly, and Cee chuckled. 

“Of course you are.” 

When their plates were put down, Shouyou stared at the chicken and potatoes wading in curry sauce with sparkling eyes. He totally ignored the steaming roti beside it.

Cee picked up her spoon, and Shouyou tapped her hand. She looked up. He clapped his hands together, and placed them in front of his face.

“Oh.” Cee put her utensil down, and assumed the same position. 

Shouyou nodded once, and in unison, they recited, “Itadakimasu.”

Cee watched as he hurriedly scooped the curry. 

“Shouyou.” 

He glanced at her with a mouth full of food, and swallowed it down.

“Like this,” Cee instructed, folding the edge of her roti, and ripping a piece. Then, she picked up the curry chicken and potato so it was wrapped in the roti skin. “You can use a spoon.”

His attempt ended in disaster. He tried to pick up everything with the roti, and it fell over his fingers. He looked at her, apologetically. 

“Here,” she offered her piece to him, and Shouyou peered at his dirty hands before opening wide. Cee raised a brow. Not quite what she was getting at, but she obliged. 

She placed her hand beneath his chin to catch anything that fell. His eyes nervously flicked between her hand and her face. Curry still managed to drip on his chin. She was tempted to wipe it away, but decided against it. 

Instead, she wiped her hands with a napkin, and rested on her palms, waiting in anticipation while Shouyou chewed slowly, not seeming to notice. 

Cee had a habit of looking at Shouyou’s lips, especially when he ate. It was hard not to stare when his mouth was such an active part of his face. They were pouty with a pink hue, and he was always puckering, twisting, biting, licking them clean, or God knows what else, while they talked. From their first scheduled meet, she decided that, if he ever asked what her issue was, she would blame the staring on a cool method off of YouTube that helped her learn pronunciation faster. In actuality, they just looked so soft, and inviting. 

Shouyou purring in praise brought her back to his eyes. 

“Delicioso?” she asked, and he nodded furiously. Of course, he liked it. Everyone liked curry and roti. “My grandmother cooks this,” she explained pointing to her food.

“Grandmother?” he questioned with his head tilted and she Google searched Winry’s grandmother, Pinako Rockbell.  

“Oh! Sobo!” He stretched the skin on his face and said, “Avò?” 

“Yeah. She is from Guyana.”

Cee showed him the-geographically-South American country located right above Brazil on the world map. Shouyou “hoo’d” and “haa’d” with unblinking eyes at the green, red, and yellow of the flag. 

“I like curry!” he declared, performing a little jig with his shoulders. Cee copied him. “Japanese have more,” he explained, ogling the dish. 

Shouyou leaned over the table as he searched up “カレー.” He pointed out the vegetables in the thick curry sauce, and the side of rice added to the meal in his section of the world. Cee shivered thinking of the peas that her Aunt liked to put into roti.

Placing his index on each vegetable, Shouyou described, “Ninjin...tamanegi,” and Cee repeated. Or tried to. The few times she slipped up, he would laugh to himself. 

She made sure to flip him off with a faux sneer. 

“Next one, easy,” he said, and pulled up a picture of white potatoes. “Go,” he commanded. 

Cee pointed to her chest with her brows furrowed. He nodded. She shook her head. He thought too much of her. 

 “You know it, Cee,” he teased her, while waving his head from side to side like a snake slithering across water. 

Cee chuckled at his imitation of her. She did the same when he needed encouragement for a word. 

“I don’t know it,” she retorted, and he squinted his eyes, suspiciously. “Say it,” she urged with finality. 

Potato!”

“Oh, that’s it?” 

“I wish you good luck in Japan,” he mumbled tauntingly in his first language. Cee nudged his foot under the table, and he yelped. She wasn’t too sure what it meant, but it was common for him to whisper the remark after her mistakes. That’s all she needed. 

She looked up at him with a grin, and he returned that blinding signature smile that thinned his eyes. 

“Eat your food, you bum” she commanded, and he dug in.

**

“When is your birthday?” Shouyou asked, and ripped another piece of roti. 

Cee stared at her plate in a quiet daze while playing with her straw inside her half-empty cup. 

“Cee!” Shouyou called and flicked his straw across the table.

It pulled her back to reality, and she looked up.

“When is your birthday?” He asked again with a pout. 

Cee weakly smiled. 

From his rehearsed tone, she could tell this was the question of the week. Shouyou tried to come with at least one newly learned phrase, as did she. The idea was to respond in the other person’s native language.  

That was if she could muster the strength. Why did he wait so late to do this? She was so damn full. 

“Jûni-gatsu?” She responded, slouching in her seat. “In December.”

“Mmm. Nan-nichi?” He followed up casually, and Cee started to sweat. 

What the fuck is language again? Japanese? English? We don’t know them. 

She watched him scoop a piece of chicken perfectly, and toss it into his mouth. He was a pro at it now after ordering a second round. Cee’s attention flicked from the food to his large almond eyes. She winked at him, and a soft blush dusted his cheeks.

“Sanjûichi…?” Cee tried, leaning her elbows on the table. She wasn’t quite sure if that was right until Shouyou corrected, “Sanjûichi-nichi. Festa de Lemanjá?” 

“Mhm. New Year’s Eve,” she said, and groaned, pushing her fingers into her hair. She fluffed the kinky coils, so they covered her eyes. Her brain was mush. 

It wasn’t long before she heard the scratching of metal on porcelain. 

“Hinata Shouyou,” she growled, and his giggles danced into her ears. She pushed her hair back just as he pierced her last piece of flatbread with his fork. He gave her an innocent look. “Take it,” she said.

He stuffed it into his mouth. 

There goes her leftovers. 

“I’ll be in Brazil doing final exams on my birthday,” she explained slowly so he was able to hang onto every word. He listened, attentively. “It will be my first birthday without my family.”

He swallowed. “Without your family,” he repeated, squinting his eyes.

“Alone? Like by myself,” she emphasized, and Shouyou hummed with an unreadable look. 

Maybe he didn’t understand. Cee started to pull out her phone, but he shook his head. 

“I know,” he reassured, boring his eyes into hers. “No family means no grandmother.”

Cee raised her eyebrows. Of course, he knew. Shouyou had been abroad for nearly two years. He was familiar with those lonely nights when a FaceTime call wasn’t enough. He knew the hopelessness that washed over you when not even Google Translate could smooth out a conversation. And, he knew about missing the taste of home.

“Yeah,” Cee said, and looked down at her empty plate. “But, it’s cool. I have friends in Brazil,” she dismissed with a shrug.

“Me,” Shouyou declared. Cee lifted her eyes as he reassured her, “I’m a friend.”

Her heart jumped in her chest. 

“Yeah, you are,” she agreed with a smile.

“Here you go!” The waitress returned, placing two opened beers on the table with a clunk.

Both Cee and Shouyou jumped at the noise, looked at each other, and nervously laughed before Cee looked between the waitress, and the drinks. 

“Um, we didn’t order these,” she said as Shouyou grabbed the neck of his bottle anyway. Cee reached to slap his hand, and he pulled it to his chest. 

“It’s a complimentary drink from Miss,” the woman explained as Shouyou stuck his tongue out at her, and took a sip. “She said she hopes you enjoyed your date. Can I get anything else for the couple?”

Shouyou choked and spat the drink, while Cee’s eyes bulged. 

“Kappuru?!” He exclaimed.

“W-we’re not...together,” Cee stuttered out, and Shouyou froze in his seat.

His eyes darted to the waitress, and shook his head. “No, no, no.”

The waitress covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Let me take these back,” she said, and started to scoop them up, but Shouyou kept his beer tight in his hands. 

Cee slowly grabbed hers too. “It’s cool. We’ll pay.” 

She could die. She was going to die. 

Cee placed the cooled drink down, pushed her fingers on both temples, and sighed. 

Looking up at Shouyou’s red face, she said, “Leave?”

He nodded. 

“Você primeiro,” she whispered. “Go first. I’ll follow.”

“No. You,” Shouyou shot back. 

“You.”

“Not me. You!”

“Shouyou, I swear to God.”

**

Cee looked at her phone, reflexively. Midnight. “You liked the food?” 

He nodded and bowed. “Arigatō gozaimashita.” 

Cee grinned, and leaned on the doorframe of her apartment. Shouyou popped back up, and tucked his hands deep into his pockets. She stared into his face as he rocked back and forth from heel to toe. It was a nervous reflex. She understood. 

They’d never stayed out this late before, and due to that, they usually parted ways at the end of the building where they met. It seemed the longer they embraced the night, the more peculiarities it offered back.

Ever since they’d left the restaurant, Cee felt something thick, and tense in the air between them. It rested, soundless, underneath the night critters, and touchy Rio heat. It made her ball up her clammy fists, and draw her eyes away from Shouyou’s chapped lips. His lips that he just couldn’t stop licking, pressing, and biting before gritting his teeth, so his jaw defined beneath the streetlights. 

Cee let out a deep breath through her nose as he locked eyes with her just as his tongue glided across his bottom lip. 

She grabbed the door knob. “Well, good night, Shouyou,” she said suddenly, and his mouth gaped. 

“Mate!” he ordered, and placed his foot in the door. Shouyou inhaled deeply and belted, “Please come to my match!” in Japanese, and Cee flinched. 

“Pardon?”

“Bīchibarē,” he muttered. Cee nodded slowly as he shivered, trying his best to find the words. “I have game. You...come?”

Oh. He wanted her to come to a volleyball match. Not to chill with Pedro or piece phrases together over dinner, but to watch him play the game he loved enough to travel halfway across the world for.

Cee tried to suppress the smile forming on her face. She failed horribly as she said, “I mean, that’s cool. Y-yeah. Sure.”

#Hinata Shouyou scenarios #hinata shouyou x black!reader #Hinata Shouyou x reader #hinata x reader #hinata shouyou x oc #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu!! x black!reader #Brazil!Hinata

[theshedding]

Don’t tell people not to laugh.

Friends, today is not a day to be shamed of your joy and hope. Wave your flag HIGH. Some people would have you to believe you should hide your glee, your excitement or your elation at finally seeing the caravan of retribution, cosmic justice and old-fashioned “reaping and sowing” reach the gates of its own demise. You should not. The universe is doing what it’s doing and, acknowledging that as the only “justice” we can be sure to have, or hope for, is well-earned and beyond our control. But just in case you still feel a bit self-conscious about the universe’s timing:

Remember the children  -as young as babies- in distress, traumatized from parental separation, with ID numbers written on their arms as they’re shipped around the US quietly on night flights, lodging in Best Western hotels while this administration claimed they are “keeping families together”. Remember how their family members -pre pandemic- were packed in cages so tight no one could even lay down and SLEEP and how lawyers went to COURT on their behalf to advocate for them having access to basic hygiene products and influenza medications.

Remember the "shithole" Bahamians (a former Caribbean free-slave society with "Black Leadership") that were denied temporary refuge in the US after a monstrous hurricane stalled over their island homes for nearly 3 days-destroying their entire habitat, food/water supply & livelihood. Think of all the Republican politicians & White Americans who then joined in to support and affirm this un-neighborly treatment, who hide their tax-free profits in their banks and HAPPILY vacation there each year but proudly expect the service of Bahamian people during their pseudo-Caribbean "getaways”.

Remember the Puerto Ricans 🇵🇷 (& Vieques, Culebra, USVI 🇻🇮) who were told they were too "Lazy" to deserve adequate FEMA relief; relief that was sitting in cargo bins and supply ships stuck in port for weeks while surviving families, children & the elderly scoured around the island for water & food. Remember how the big ‘White Man’ and his posse flew in on a PR gambit to cover-up administrative incompetence. How they forced the hand of local government officials to “erase” lives by agreeing to concede lower death counts. How he threw paper towels at human beings in need of food and water from across a room, delighted with the televised spectacle of groveling survivors to cover-up an ill-prepared disaster response. How he required literal “thanks and praise” for benevolently distributing resources which they are entitledto by law, then flew back to the states, lied on those same leaders and then told the citizenry (overriding the NOAA) the same monstrous hurricane was "changing course" to Western Florida and Alabama because he knows better about meteorological science.

Remember the families of Paradise California-having lost all their life’s possessions, standing in the ashes of torched forests, had to acknowledge the welcome of a man who couldn’t bother to offer condolences let alone research the name of the very town he traveled to for a photo op. How he then minimized their devastation by recommending those agencies and families "rake leaves" like the Scandinavians do-to combat a Climate Change phenomenon he believes is a hoax. 

Remember Heather Heyer, who lost her life, run over by a speeding driver in a crowd-on film, who's mother wasn't offered so much as a condolence card for the loss of her only daughter during a protest against Nazis HE STILL WONT CONDEMN, that descended on her hometown to spew epithets, obscenities while terrorizing ethnic, religious and sexual minorities with old-fashioned torches one fine Friday evening. Remember how it looked and sounded to witness the chilling resurrection of the chanting ghosts in our country’s violent, barbarous history be welcomed in equivocal affirmation by a head of state, staff and colleagues.

Remember Khzir Khan, his wife and fallen son who are to this day still mocked, denigrated and roundly dismissed for their immigrant history and military service-to this country's ideals and imperialistic motivations in their own places of birth -whilst simultaneously offering up White soldiers and their families who served in the same wars as the epitome of American valor, respectability, 'legitimacy' and political currency. And how he later condemned his own Defense leaders as being hungry for war to satisfy a “military industrial complex”.

Remember the vile ‘mysogynoir’ directed at Rep. Fredrica Wilson (FL) by his Chief of Staff, himself a gold-star military father, caught blatantly lying about material facts he used to denigrate her concerning the death of a Black soldier and his grieving widow. How he defended a callous condolence call and gaslight an entire press corp to bolster an unpatriotic narrative of a Black soldier that "He knew what he was getting into"...and never apologized for it.

Remember the Trans women and men serving in the Miltary who woke up one random morning to read on Twitter that their hard work and dedication was now a distraction and “threat to cohesion” because their identity had become "too expensive" to sustain. This after being assured their jobs and “LGBTQ rights” would be honored beyond 2016. Remember the grift of inter-agencies, the re-allocation of Defense funds towards a border wall “Mexico would pay for” and the $84 Million in subsidies for erectile dysfunction medications for male military officers (in contrast to “overspending” claims on Trans hormonal care). Remember this vulgar scapegoating to satisfy a group of mysogynistic theocrats and non-profit “interest groups” self-defined by Biblical “principles” and simultaneously bearing the most false of witness against these their neighbors.

Remember the show hearings with Dr. Ford, a victim of sexual abuse, white patriarchy and the most acute manifestations of rich, male, Christian privilege, who was not be afforded a thorough background investigation into her abusers and the veracity of her case; who was eventually mocked and discredited by grinning Senators eager to affirm a petulant, entitled drunk of a pious Juris Doctor, just so he could rule in favor of a “Muslim Ban” from a guy who pledged a “total Muslim ban” before being sworn-in to office. And the irony of discrediting Ford’s testimony on ‘insufficient’ evidence while being employed as a result of 10 years of election campaigns exploiting fears of coming “Sharia Law” they claim mistreats women places like Iran and Afghanistan.

Remember the nearly $110 million dollars for a 2017 Presidential inauguration still unaccounted for but nevertheless was somehow needed to hire acts like The Rocketts, the “US Border Patrol Pipes & Drums”,  celebrity season winners on “America’s Got Talent” or the high-priced “1st Calvary Division Horse Calvary Detachment”. Remember how he got an inauguration: through outright lies, mockery, demonization of Latinos, the Disabled, the American Indigenous (remember “Pocahontas”?) and Blacks/African-Americans…before insisting the public believe an easily refuted lie about crowd and attendance.

Remember the dead that are still being killed overseas in various theaters of war: the dead Kurdish people (a.k.a. our “allies”); the dead soldiers for whose lives someone received a $100K bounty payment from Putin; the dead migrant adults and children who succumbed to abuse, infection and disease in holding cells (pre-Covid); the charred bodies trapped in their neighborhoods from fires raging in the West; the traumatized and/or dead protestors shot by sanctioned White vigilantes in cities “protecting businesses”; Black/Latino men and women shot by law enforcement or the 72 y/o Buffalo man with a permanent brain injury pushed to the ground by a “task force” of colleagues dutifully walking away as his blood spills on the sidewalk; the 205,000 DEAD of Covid-19, a purported “Democratic Hoax” that would miraculously disappear by Easter 2020, yet could be sufficiently treated with ultraviolet lights, “injections” of cleaning solution and for which -according to this man- “no one” has died even from (including your friend or your family member). He calls them “no one”.

Oh, and lest we forget-he is said to have only paid $750.00 in Federal taxes as a BILLIONAIRE…in the 10 years. Not to mention having allegedly RAPED or SEXUALLY ASSAULTED over 25 WOMEN. 

As you tell me and everyone else not to “laugh”, dismiss or revel in this President’s current status, or that of his staff and family, REMEMBER THAT.

-R

#TrumpHasCovid Covid19 2020 TSMadison Retribution

[darrenhen98]

The Descendants

The Descendants

Book 1:

Genesis

Chapter One:

November 4th, 2024. Edison New Jersey, Earth.

We had done it. The efforts of hundreds, if not thousands of people had come to fruition: a landslide victory for the brand new Equalist Party of America. Diya Anand scanned around the party office, taking in the momentous joy that had suddenly erupted amongst the volunteers and workers.

Just moments ago, the last state still counting their votes finally finished, putting the Equalists well ahead of both the Republicans and Democrats. It was assured, Dominick Moore would be the nation's second African American President, and her the first female Indian American Vice President.

As Diya walked amongst her colleagues, they began congratulating her on a job well done, wishing her the best of luck in the years ahead and most commonly, saying how happy they were to see a new face in the White House. Diya smiled, nodded and thanked all those who came up to her fervently shaking their hands and even shed a tear for one.

What she was really trying to do was transverse the crowd to get to the podium where Dominick was standing, since it is customary and necessary to address the people as their new leaders. As she reached the top, Diya smiled wide,

“Congratulations on your victory, Mr. President” , being sure to emphasize his new won title.

“Congratulations to you too, Madam Vice President” he said, returning the respect with a hint of playfulness which was hard to catch through his thick Nigerian accent. “Are you ready to change the nation for the better?

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t Dom you know that” she replied. He began to say something else but just then news reporters pushed through the doors and poured in to stand in front of the podium. Like normal, they started barraging them with a multitude of questions, about how they felt, what would be their first actions and others that were lost in the torrent of sound.

After a few moments, Dominick finally got them to settle down as they needed to soon broadcast their victory speech. The camera’s soon flickered on, streaming their image to every news station in America and world-wide. Both Dominick and Diya were dressed in their cultures traditional attire: a well tailored Dashiki and Sari respectfully. The usual suit and tie and gown and pants had been thrown to the wayside at least for this instance. The American people needed to see the ethnic leaders they had voted for, and the new reality that was about to set in.

Dominick took the mic in hand, pushed his mask to the side and began, “I’d like to begin with stating how overjoyed I am. Not about winning the election but at the resolve of the American people. For the past eight years, we have had to fight countless battle after battle: wildfires in the west, massive storms and earthquakes in the Midwest, hurricanes and flooding in the east and two pandemics that changed the very core of our society. The past administrations had failed us, and we sought out new leaders, a new vision for the country. One that would let us tackle the challenges of climate change and other life changing issues…”

While Dominick kept speaking, Diya stood behind him smiling and nodding to the cameras whenever he said something that fell within the party’s platform. He was a great speaker, unlike her who most of the time did exactly this, stand behind him as he ran the show. But then it was her time to come up next to him and share her thoughts. As she did, as she spoke to millions of people across the world she couldn’t help but remember one thing in the back of her mind. She never even wanted the job in the first place.

As Diya was driven home by her security detail, she began to ponder how she had gotten to where she was now. She had been a judge, the closest she had ever wanted to come to politics. Many questioned her, how being in government meant you weren’t political but to her it was the best place to be apolitical. 

You didn’t have to conscribe to any agreed upon base of actions, when a case reached her desk she went at it with the ethics she cultivated through her life and an understanding of the law she so fervently loved. But it all changed in 2020.

Everyone knew the presidential election was going to be a decisive one, but no one knew just how much. No one could tell who truly won, over a dozen states were flagged as “improper” because of their voting systems. The problems worsened as the incumbent president refused to leave office in a gambit to maintain power and the resulting riots tore through the nation. Every major city was hit, hundreds killed, thousands inquired and billions of dollars in property damage. 

Through it all, Diya had stayed home wanting to weather out the crazy climate with her parents and siblings. She could still remember the fear in her families eyes, how they were utterly convinced this was the end of the life they knew. And as the riots raged, more tragedy struck.

Since so many young and capable people had been out protesting in such large numbers, another massive pandemic swept through the country. And then a super-hurricane hit Florida, an massive earthquake in the four corner states and… A lot of tragedies at once.

The next four years had proven to be one of extreme change and humanity for us. People started to band together like never before. Every place that was hit with something was helped by the very people in it. It was the citizens who helped themselves out of flooded homes and crushed buildings. It was parents and children who constantly made meals and clothes for the hundreds of homeless and sick. We didn’t ask our governments if we could, we just did. 

And so Diya did just that, help all those she could. She quit as a judge and began organizing everything under the sun. Foodbanks, marches, fundraisers, if it was an event she was behind it. It was this type of cross-cultural, apolitical connectivity that the Equalist Party liked. They had formed under the noses of everyone, suddenly popping up around the nation with aid for all those ailed by the tragedies. No one really knows how they formed, but everyone knew how much they helped. In the end, the support they garnered was immense.

By 2022, the amount of support from the polls put them around 20% of the population. The following year, over 50% of the population. The online rallies broke the communication industry, almost every new politician that switches parties immediately gained thousands of followers. Which is where Diya's’ interactions with the Equalists started.

Having to coordinate resources and capabilities from her volunteer organization with the Equalists own outreach efforts, Diya virtually became a superstar overnight. Not that she wanted to in any way shape or form, helping from the shadows was her go to plan for the future. Work hard, help everyone, retire old, die older; that had been the plan.

Diya stepped out of the car waving a farewell to her driver only to be escorted into her home by the home security detail in front of her house. She smiled to the bodyguard as he held the door open and she walked in as the automated lights flickered on. She was about to put down her bag and wind down when her cell phone began to vibrate within.

“Hello?” she answered inquisitively, as she hadn’t known the number.

“Hey Diya, it’s me Leo,” the caller said.

An unexpected but gratuitous call. Diya immediately smiled and perked up a bit at the sound of his voice. Diya had met Leonidas, or Leo, over four years ago during one of the outreaches she had organized. They had immediately taken a liking to each other, having an unexplainable connection from day one. They had stayed in contact over the years, but with so much going on in his and her life, calls became less and less frequent.

“Oh it's great to hear from you, using someone else's sat phone this time? Diya asked, making the conclusion on her own.

“You got it. I hope this is okay, I just wanted to congratulate you on your amazing victory!” Leo exclaimed.

“Haha yea, amaaazing.” Diya groaned, emphasizing the sarcasm. “But you know what’s new with me and I have been talking about it for hours. How’s things on your end, last we spoke you just finished training”

“Yes Ma’am” Leo replied, realizing now that Diya was technically his superior. “I shipped out about about a week ago with the fleet. We’re somewhere in the Bay of Bengal, waiting to meet up with the Indian and Chinese before we make landfall. I called because I’m part of the second wave.”

“I see… well you know I’m not much for words, but I can make the exception for tonight” she mused.

“Haha thanks Diya, there are definitely a few things I want to get off my chest.” Leo continued. Leo and Diya talked things over for the rest of that night, never truly talking about anything important but that didn’t matter. Anything that could distract them from the different realities they now faced, was a blessing they couldn’t interrupt.

#science #politics #ficiton #science fiction #new story

[freedom-shamrock]

Bi the Pricking of my Thumbs #4

<< Chapter 3

Cautionary note: This chapter includes a references to and conversations with unsupportive queer-phobic parents, some bigotry, and use of straight nonsense. There is also a dildo for comedic purposes.

Also on AO3. If you’re so inclined, feel free to support me over on Ko-Fi

Chapter 4

Ladybug looked out into the colorful sea of Pride celebrants pouring into Place de la République. The energy was amazing, and she couldn't keep the smile off her face. "Oh gosh, check out those wings!" She slapped at Chat's arm to draw his attention to the wire and sheer-fabric construction heading their way. They sat at the feet of the statue of Marianne, where they could catch a good look at the parade while also keeping an eye out for trouble. They'd already delivered two pickpockets, a lost child, and an obvious full-spectrum queer-phobe to the police. The last one had been the most concerning, given that he had a butane lighter and a soaker style water gun loaded with something that smelled highly flammable.

"Wings?" Chat Noir said, frantically looking into the sky.

"No, silly," she said with a laugh. She tilted his head back to the crowd. " Good wings.  Down there."

"I'm kind of surprised people still wear butterfly wings around here," he said, his smile bright as he waved to the shirtless man who had realized his articulated wings had caught the attention of Paris' heroes. "Oh geez, he's hot, too."

Ladybug laughed again.  She just felt so full of happiness, surrounded by this celebration, sharing it with her best friend. "He really is. But I get a feeling he'd be more accepting of your advances than mine."

"Pffft." He snorted. The rainbow wings opened to flash paired male symbols in the upper half of the forewing, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the man was wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at Chat..

"Was it hard for you to get away?" she asked. His father had continued to get weirder as the annual Pride festival approached. Likewise, Gabriel had been increasingly strict with Adrien's schedule, and she worried for both of them.

Chat Noir shrugged. "As far as I know, he thinks I'm in my room binging on anime."

She shook her head, disgusted. She'd already approached her parents about letting Adrien move in with them if he found he couldn't stand it with his father any longer. She wondered if it was time to extend the same welcome to Chat Noir. He deserved it just as much.

"What about you?" he asked. "You’re here with friends, right?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "I'm supposed to be marching with my school's Gender and Sexuality Alliance. I started the parade with them." She shrugged. "Fortunately, I have a reputation as a total space cadet, and in this crowd they won't be surprised to have lost me halfway through the parade."

He gawked at her. "Your friends think you're a ditz?  Ladybug? The genius behind this operation?" He gestured to the two of them.

She shrugged.  "It just reinforces the idea that normal me is nothing like Ladybug.  And that's good. Besides, I'm not the only clever one here."

He frowned. "I'm not sure I'm on board with them thinking poorly of you just for a cover.  You're amazing, Milady. And I'd bet you're just as amazing in your regular life."

She gave him a hug. "And you're a sweetheart." He melted against her, as he usually did when hugged. "If you need more hugs today, there are some forty and fifty-year olds walking around with shirts that say free mom hugs and free dad hugs." Her parents happened to be part of that group, wearing shirts she'd screen-printed.

"That sounds heavenly." He sat back up. "Eew, cultural appropriation to your right." He shook his head, raising his baton to snap a quick picture. "What do Native American warbonnets have to do with sexuality?"

“Nothing.” Ladybug rolled her eyes. "Like anything, this festival can be used as an excuse to cross some lines that shouldn't be. What are you doing?"

"I'm going to make a post about that kind of thing. Later." His head turned the other way, and his hand came up to cover his mouth. "Holy crap. Look. At. Those. Platforms."

She searched for a moment, eventually finding the person in a fluffy white tutu standing precariously in platform shoes that were easily twelve inches high. "Wow.  Those are like… they're nearly as tall as the Chix on Stix stilts were."

"Blister city," Chat said. " Mad respect for them making it through the parade in those."

"I bet Adrien Agreste could handle those," she said, smiling at the thought of Adrien sweeping down the runway in those ridiculous things. He'd grown quite fond of the over-the-top nature of runway, preferring it to the bland studio shoots he did far too many of. And to be fair, he was crazy good at it.

"Really?" Chat grinned at her, then eyed up the person in the platforms again. "I know he's good, Paris' golden boy and all, but those might be out of his league."

Ladybug vehemently shook her head, and opened her bandalore to catch a picture. "He's a god among men when it comes to fashion and presentation."

"You've got that look," he said, arching one eyebrow.  "What's going on in that clever brain of yours?"

"I want to challenge Adrien to walk in a pair of those," she said. "It might take me a few days to figure out how to pitch it, but I think he'd enjoy the opportunity to flaunt his skills."

"Keep me in the loop on that," Chat Noir said. "I want to see how that turns out."

"Will do." She tucked her bandalore away.

"Is your sweetheart not coming to Pride?" he asked, as if suddenly realizing that could be a thing. "I'm not keeping you from something important to them, am I?"

She patted his shoulder. "They don't care for crowds, and prefer to watch the parade and big festivities on TV. They're hosting a party with several of our friends tomorrow, because we know some other queer folk who need a lower key event." She wished she could invite Adrien, but he wasn't ready to share his identity with anyone else. He'd scheduled a visit with Luka, though, so she was cautiously optimistic that his future was going to be brighter. Their friend group wasn’t remotely hetero, and she was reasonably sure they could all keep a secret. Alya had come out as pan and poly shortly after her amicable split with Nino at the beginning of Lycee. She was currently in a relationship with both Chloe and Kagami that utterly baffled Marinette, but as long as her friend was happy, it didn’t matter. Nino had been a quieter about his orientation, but he’d casually dated men and women, and she strongly suspected he was holding a torch for his best friend..

Chat Noir reached to point out something of interest, but a sudden blast of pop music that could only be Taylor Swift drowned out the sounds of the parade. He froze, his eyes wide and his tail stiff with alarm.

"Crapity snacks," Ladybug muttered. "Looks like breaktime is over, Kitty." She rose to peer around the statue to see the akuma. He stood on the taller brick corner tower of a building on the corner of Rue du Faubourg du Temple. He was dressed all in blue, carrying a white flag featuring old school male and female symbols holding hands.

"Odds on it being that piece of trash we picked up earlier," Chat suggested.

"It's either him, or someone just like him," she muttered. “So gross.”

"I'm The Oppressed, and I'm sick of being spit on by the heterophobic queers of Paris!" the akuma bellowed in a magically amplified voice. "You degenerates have infected my daughter with your alternative lifestyles, so today we're going to celebrate straight pride!"

"Ugh," Ladybug groaned. "Such straight nonsense."

The Oppressed waved his flag at the closest group of revelers, and a beam of white light washed over them, changing their clothes into conservative blue suits or pink dresses. Those now in pink had long styled hair, full makeup, and jewelry that many would have considered feminine.  Those in blue had short hair and broad watches and briefcases.

"Oh hells no!"  Ladybug drew back her bandalore, preparing to throw.  "We need to get him the fuck out of here. There are people here with significant gender dysphoria, and we are not letting Hawkass do this to them during their festival." She loosed her bandalore, cutting through the sky directly in The Oppressed's view, and landing on the corner tower across the street from him. "You want my earrings, you ugly bigot? Come and get them!" She swished her bi flag cape at him, hoping the taunt was enough to refocus his attention.  

"Ladybug!" The Oppressed shouted. "You're the worst offender. Your speeches boasting about your disgusting choice convinced my daughter to come out as pansexual."

"I'm proud of your daughter," Ladybug called back. She felt bad for the girl who had this man as her father. "You'd do better to love her for who she is , than for who you think she should be."

"You know nothing of parenting." The harsh voice carrying over the roof behind The Oppressor gave her chills; for the first time in over a year, Hawk Moth had shown up for one of his own fights. "You're a mere child. And children need guidance from their parents."

She wanted to punch that smug look right off his face.

"Children are suggestible and will make foolish decisions at the encouragement of their stupid friends and… heroes." He sneered the last word.

He was furious, and it was obvious. Could she get him irrational enough to make a mistake? Perhaps today was the day they would finally capture the moth. "Awww. You make it sound so personal," she said, pouting at him, hoping to feed his anger. "Wait-wait-wait. Do you actually have kids?" Now that was a horrifying thought.

He scowled. "If you must know, yes. My naive son is here some where, thanks to you and those idiot friends of his." God his words were so very Gabriel. It was like they used the same conservative parenting guide. "You've made him think there's no harm in exploring--" He was cut off by a sudden roar from the crowd of Pride attendees that rose over the chorus of the pop song How You Get the Girl.

A blast of glitter-filled air rose to the rooftops, plastering both Hawk Moth and The Oppressor in sparkles. She glanced down and saw Chat Noir with a group of people including the butterfly man they'd admired earlier. In a coordinated effort, Chat spun his baton to create a strong enough wind to carry a second pile of glitter up to the villains.

"You take care of Chat Noir!" Hawk Moth snapped, coughing out a cloud of sparkly fragments. "I'll handle the bug."

"I do not consent to your hands being anywhere near me," Ladybug sassed. The very idea creeped her out, but he was the one who introduced hands to the conversation. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you that no means no?" She threw her bandalore up. "Lucky charm!" She caught the spotted item glancing quickly at it, then grinning as she looked across the street at the man who had terrorized Paris for years.

Hawk Moth's confident bearing faltered a moment.

"So tell me Hawky, you wanna get lucky?" She held aloft the sizeable silicone dildo, shaking it enough to make it wiggle and almost giggling as he visibly blanched. "I think my miraculous is suggesting that you need a bit of help getting rid of some tension." She heard chaos below, and suddenly Chat Noir was beside her.

"Milady, I bring you the spoils of war." He knelt, presenting her with the hideous flag.

"Oh Kitty, you always know what I want." She traded the dildo for the flag. "Keep tabs on our dear friend for me. I'd hate for him to go fluttering off." She snapped the thin flagpole in half, ripping the banner for good measure. Once the purified butterfly was released, and the few Parisians who'd been modified by the akuma had been restored, she could focus on the rest of this situation.

"Might I trouble you for one of your ribbons?" Chat Noir asked, watching their long time enemy with a look that could only be described as predatory. "I have an idea."

Hawk Moth's composure was clearly shaken, and he suddenly scrambled to the far edge of the tower, clearly planning to drop to a lower portion of the building's roof in retreat.

Ladybug slipped one of her ribbons free, dropping it into Chat's hand. "I look forward to putting your idea into action. I'll keep Monsieur Hate-Filled-Bigot from straying too far, while you do that." She soared over the gap between the buildings. Early in their tenure as heroes, she'd been responsible for all the ideas. While she'd always managed to come through, it had been terribly stressful. It was such a relief to find that her partner had his share of good plans.

Hawk Moth yanked a sabre out of his cane, training the tip on her. "I will not hesitate to pin you to the roof like an insect in a display box," he snarled.

Close melee with edged weapons was more of Chat's thing, but changing the situation in her own favor, was hers. "I'd love to see you try." Her wrist snapped out, wrapping the line of her bandalore around the thin blade. A quick yank pulled the weapon out of his hand, sending it clattering to the roof behind her.

Hawk Moth let out a screech of rage. It was cut off as Chat Noir launched himself overhead, arcing gracefully to land farther down the roof, trapping their enemy between them.

Chat thumped the bottom of his staff against the roof, and the dildo he'd tied upright on the top jiggled in response. "Mine's better than yours," the cat superhero said proudly. He gestured to his enhanced weapon in case the modification hadn't been immediately clear. He twirled the staff in his hands before lunging and jabbing it at Hawk Moth.

Ladybug grinned, realizing her partner's plan as Hawk Moth apparently forgot all about her in his desire to get away from the spotted silicone dick. With a light tug, her cape came off in her hands.  Two quiet steps and she flicked the end out to snap Hawk Moth's cheek.

In a matter of moments, she was able to wrap the man in a tight cocoon of magical pride fabric, only his neck and head free. If Chat's final blow, a slap of the dildo to Hawk Moth's temple, came later than strictly necessary, she wasn't going to mention it.  The jerk had ruined a ridiculous number of her plans over the years. She stared at him for a moment, the way she might assess an akuma in search for the object they needed to break.

“Tie tack,” she said, keeping her grip on the villain lest he should escape when they were so close to winning.

Chat reached out and plucked the miraculous from Hawk Moth's collar, and the costume vanished in a wave of purple light, leaving Gabriel Agreste tightly bundled in a bisexual pride flag. The irony was not wasted on Ladybug.

"Oh." Chat said softly. "Well I guess that makes more sense than it doesn't."

Furious that the man who had been terrorizing Paris for most of her teen years was Adrien's asshole father, Ladybug grabbed his lapels and gave a yank. As he lurched forward, she brought up her knee, driving it into his nose.

"You'll pay for that," Gabriel snarled as blood dribbled down his face. "Brutality of a suspect in your custody is a punishable offense."

"Brutality?" Chat asked calmly. "I didn't see anything. You must've gotten your nose broken during the fight." He shrugged. "If only Ladybug hadn't already cured Paris of your akuma's damage… I guess you'll just have to live with it." He shook his head in mock sympathy. "Oh look!" He pointed to a collection of cop cars, their lights flashing as they parked along Rue du Faubourg du Temple. "Your escort has arrived to take you to your new home."

Ladybug helped Chat Noir deliver Gabriel to the police but had to go recharge while they took Chat's statement. By the time she'd gotten far enough from the festival to feed Tikki, retransform, and return, there was no sign of the cavalcade that had appeared to deliver Gabriel to the station. In fact, it took her another ten minutes of searching to find her partner, sitting cross-legged as he watched the parade continue to fill Place de la République. He looked a little sad, maybe wistful.

"Hey Kitty," she said, alighting beside him.

"Welcome back, Bug." He sighed, leaning into her as she slipped an arm around him.

"So that just happened," she said. It didn't quite feel real.

He plucked the tiny miraculous from one of his pockets, holding it out to her. "It definitely did."

"Do you want to hold onto it until we get it to Fu?" she asked.

"That would be inadvisable," he replied. "But thank you for trusting me."

She slipped the miraculous into one of the pockets she'd demanded when she'd re-designed her suit a few years back. "So Hawk Moth's out of the picture, and we always said we'd do a reveal once that was done," she pointed out.

He nodded, but didn't leap on the idea the way she expected him to.

"I'm kind of in a mood to beat the crap out of biphobic fathers," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "So I may as well find out who you are. And if he's a real piece of work, you can come live with me."

He stared at her, slowly blinking. "Really?"

She nodded. “I’m friends with Adrien Agreste.  I can tell you that now. And I’ve already gotten permission from my parents for him to take the guest room.” She sighed. “I figured he might need an escape from his father, and that was before I knew he was Hawk Moth.”

“And your parents were just okay with that?” he asked, his eyes wide with shock.

“They love Adrien.  They’d adopt him if they could.” She gave him a sad smile.

“I bet he’d let them,” he said softly, oddly choked up.

“I’m sure the same goes for you,” she insisted, already considering logistics. She could take the spare room, giving Adrien and Chat her room to share. “Now are you going to let me know who you are so I can rough up your father, or what?”

He laughed. “You already did, Bug.” He shook his head. “Hawk Moth was my father, and I am totally moving in with you.”

* * * * * * * *

Chapter 5  >>

Inspirations: Articulated Wings Platform Shoes

#Miraculous Ladybug #fanfic #my writing #Pride #Bi Pride #galahadwilder #Bi the Pricking of my Thumbs #Bi-Drien #Bi-Nette #Bi-phobic parent #capes

[solange-lol]

not so typical love song - ch. 5/13

Chapter Title: Love Lies

Words: 4,137

Art by @lizzybizzyo! <3

[ one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight (coming soon)]

read on ao3

—

Nico walked through the gate to Jason’s back porch just as Reyna stepped out the back door. Both of them were fully in costume, so they took a second to admire the other’s choice.

“Nice horns,” Nico commented Reyna, who had gone full Maleficent in all-black, complete with a black cape and staff. Thick black horns were glued onto a headband, and she wore delicate silver wing-shaped studs.

 “Are the wings to symbolize the crow?” he asked, with a vague memory of the movie plot when she had shown it to him.

“No, stupid, I couldn’t get giant wings for her so I got mini ones,” Reyna rolled her eyes, and Nico nodded as more of the movie came back to him. He had forgotten about the wings if they were being completely honest, but he kept that part to himself. “And thanks, though I have to duck every time I walk through a doorway because of the horns.”

“You wouldn’t if you weren’t going on six feet tall.”

“You’re just jealous,” she quipped, and Nico hated that she’s sort of right. Being 5 '4 in a school where every guy seems to be over 6 foot is both a blessing and a curse.

Jason stepped out the door just then. “Nico what the hell are you supposed to be?”

“A dementor? From Harry Potter?” Nico replied incredulously, pulling his hood over his head. It was Bianca and Reyna’s idea, and it meant he got to wear a black cloak, so he went along with it. 

“Haven’t you only seen like, three of the movies?” 

Nico flushed. “Unimportant.” 

“Jason, this is like a new level of laziness for you. Where is your costume?” Reyna interrupted with a sigh, looking defeated. Nico pulled his hood back down, noticing for the first time he appeared to be dressed in everyday clothing.

Jason always encouraged them strongly to dress up, but when it came time for him to find a costume he seemed to go the easiest route. 

“This is my costume! I’m Where’s Waldo?!” he defended, gesturing towards himself. Nico tilted his head and squinted, sort of understanding it with his red and white striped crewneck and the red and white hat, as well as a pair of blue jeans and his normal glasses. 

Without context, though, he sort of just looked like he was dressing for the cold weather. 

Reyna sighed again. “Come with me, I think your sister has a cane from one of the shows somewhere. It’ll at least help instead of making you look like a casual Santa.”

“I do not!” he protested as he followed Reyna back inside.

Nico sat down on one of Jason’s lawn chairs, knowing it would probably be some time before the two came back out. He sort of always suspected that Reyna liked Jason, but unfortunately his crush on Piper was clear to everyone except for him, which ended in some harsh friendzoning. At least Piper and Reyna got along, for the most part. 

Up until recently, Nico considered trying to help try and get Jason and Piper together because as far as he could see, Piper maybe liked him back. 

Now though, he was working against them, and that was crushing to his spirit. 

He debated sending Blue and email about it, but unfortunately, that was just part of the secret Nico was keeping from him.

It still sort of hurt knowing that he was hiding something so major from Blue. It hurt knowing that Blue didn’t want to reveal their identities yet because that would just make life so much simpler. 

That was Blue’s business, though, and Nico was willing to cross any line for him. Which was how he got caught up in all this shit anyway. 

With the memory of his conversation with Octavian parking in his brain, Nico leaned back and cursed quietly to himself. He still had no idea how he was actually going to help Octavian to get Piper to like him, considering she’s already threatening him, and changing Piper’s mind wasn’t very easy.

Speaking of Piper, Jason and Reyna were just walking back out the door with a wooden cane when Piper walked through Jason’s gate, dressed in a Wonder Woman costume, including a red tank top tucked into denim shorts printed like the American flag, and a small circlet of gold rope hanging from one of her belt loops. Her hair was in a half up/half down ponytail, a gold headband with a red star was pushed back on her forehead, and white socks were pulled up along her ankle from her pair of red Converse high tops. 

“Wow, Piper you look… amazing,” Jason paused from his spot in the doorway, taking it all in. 

Nico didn’t miss the way Reyna’s eyes flashed before she, too, complemented Piper’s costume.

She thanked them both just as Nico sighed, realizing that he was going to have to tell them about Octavian.

“By the way,” he stared down at his shoes, already regretting his decision. “I invited Octavian to ride with us.” Immediately, there was a chorus of groans and Nico winced.

“Why did you have to invite him,” Jason asked, throwing his head back at the same time Reyna asks “Is this a Make-A-Wish situation?”

Nico swallowed. “He’s cool, trust me.”

—

Needless to say, Octavian was not very cool, and neither was his costume. He tried dressing like some sort of greek god in a toga and laurel wreath but ended up looking more like someone’s failed beach wedding.

 After a painful 10 minute car ride that felt more like 10 hours, they finally got to the Stolls’ house. Nico was hoping that Octavian would disappear, but he clung to Nico and Piper as they walked inside the house. 

“Hey, guys!” Travis Stoll greeted them, clearly already tipsy.

He was dressed in a pair of overalls with a matching red shirt and hat embedded with a white M. Nico could only imagine that Connor was then wandering around somewhere with an identical green costume. The Stolls’ made it a habit to dress in ironically matching costumes, which only confused people more whenever they tried to explain that they weren’t twins.

“Can I get you guys any drinks?” They all nodded except for Octavian and Reyna. As Nico and his friends followed Travis into the kitchen, he was glad to notice that Octavian dropped off somewhere along the way. Hopefully, he wouldn't be back for a while.

The kitchen was less crowded than the rest of the party. It was mainly just people stopping in the get drinks and then leaving. Only two figures stuck around to have a conversation at the bar. One was Lou Ellen, who was dressed in a black dress and a pointy witch hat. The other was currently looking down at their drink.

The shark person lifted their head at the noise, and Nico instantly smiled at who it was. “Will, you made it! And that’s a great costume!”

Will returned his smile with a dazzling grin of his own, and Nico felt his heart skip a beat. “Thank you! I’ve been recycling it for a few years now so I’m glad somebody still likes it.” 

Next to him, Lou Ellen rolls her eyes.

“You’re costume is great. A dementor, right?”

Nico’s smile grew. “Yeah, exactly.” 

Will gestured over to Jason. “And Jason is dressed as… as Jason.”

Apparently, Jason heard them though, and turned around, looking exasperated. “No, I’m Where’s Waldo?!”

Will nodded. “Right,” he said seriously, before turning to Nico and giving him a look of amusement that made Nico’s heart thud in his chest. 

Travis handed Piper three cups, who handed Jason and Nico each one.

 Nico took a sip from his and cringed immediately at the taste. “What the hell is this?”

Will leaned over and takes a sniff of the cup. “Dunno. Smells fruity. Screwdriver, maybe?”

Nico wrinkled his nose. “It’s a little vodka-heavy. Tastes like an actual screwdriver,” he said before taking another sip, once again pulling a face of disgust. 

“I’m taking you don’t drink often?”

“Once a year, always on Halloween,” Nico rolled his eyes. “And maybe wine at Christmas.”

Will laughed softly, shaking his head as a few curls fell in front of his eyes, and Nico felt heat pooling in his stomach. 

If Will wasn’t Blue, well, they might have a problem.

—

At some point in the party, Nico found himself walking past the living room where drunk karaoke was taking place, and outside. His eyes were trained on Will, who's standing next to a ping pong table full of red solo cups. The sleeves of his onesie are now rolled up to his forearms, showing off more tan, freckled skin. 

When Will noticed Nico walking towards him, his eyes lit up. “Nico! Hey, you wanna play beer pong?”

Nico didn’t, not really, but he’s tipsy and he needed an excuse to be around Will more, so he found himself agreeing. The way Will grinned at him made it feel sort of worth it, at least. 

“Okay, cool! We just need two more people.”

Nico glanced around them. “Okay, how about me and you on a team, and then…” he trailed off, searching for someone he at least knew so he’ll be able to laugh about this later with them. 

His eyes fell on Piper and Reyna dancing together with Annabeth, who’s dressed as Harley Quinn. He could see Octavian trying (and failing) to budge his way into their little circle, and an idea sparked in his head. “And Octavian and Piper?” 

Will’s eyes narrowed for a second at the mention of Octavian’s name, and Nico cursed himself internally for forgetting about the unspoken feud Will had against him. Thankfully, he seemed to shrug it off. “Sure. I wouldn’t mind kicking Octavian’s butt.”

Octavian looked up at the mention of his name, and Nico nodded at him and Piper.

‘Me? And him?!’ Piper mouthed, waving her arms. Nico just shrugged and nodded in response, and Piper groaned. Annabeth and Reyna both gave her a pitying look as she walked over to Nico and Will.

“You are gonna pay for this, di Angelo,” she hissed as she walked past him to the other side of the table, although Nico didn’t feel all that threatened by her anymore. (Which was probably the alcohol in his blood talking.) 

“Okay, have you ever played before?” Piper asked, rubbing her hands together.

“Oh, totally, yeah,” Octavian nodded, clearly lying. Both Nico and Will refrained from rolling their eyes at him; they exchanged a look of exasperation instead. 

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea…

Piper, who either didn’t notice or didn’t care (probably the latter) continued with the rules. “Alright, two reracks, no blowing, and two balls in the cup means you have to take three, okay?” 

Will and Nico both nodded, and Nico’s glad he’s played beer pong with Piper before, otherwise he would have no clue what she meant. 

Octavian, on the other hand, clearly had no idea what she was talking about. He mumbled something about thinking they were playing a different game, and this time, Nico couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Will doing the same.

“We’ll just explain as we go along,” Nico sighed, getting in position to toss the first ball.

“Oh, wait,” Will interrupted him, putting a hand on his shoulder, and Nico felt like an electric current was running through his body. “Maybe you should tie these sleeves up. Wouldn’t want to prohibit your shot.”

He helped Nico tie the long sleeves of his cloak up at his shoulders, and Nico was definitely blushing now. “Thank you,” he told Will, who just smiled and nodded.

Nico kissed the ball before shooting it, and mentally thanked all the times his friends forced him to play with them as it landed in a cup.

Octavian looked over at Piper, who shrugged. “All you.”

Octavian just nodded, picking up the drink and chugging it. He attempted a throw after that, completely missing. Both Nico and Will had to bite their lip to stop themselves from laughing.

They went back and forth for a while, Octavian doing most of the work for him and Piper’s team while she stood by the side and watched, both tired and amused by his antics.

As for Nico and Will, well, they’re killing the game. 

They ended up winning with four cups left still on their side. Nico was drunker now from the few cups Octavian did manage to get a ball into, and he and Will hugged. The contact is more than what Nico could process at the moment, making his senses completely overwhelmed. 

It’s not in a bad way though, and it’s the most fun he’s ever had at one of these parties. Heck, it’s the most fun he’s had all week, ever since the whole mess with Octavian started. 

Except Nico’s forgotten about Blue for the time being, because right now he’s here, living in the moment with a really cute guy in a shark onesie, which is honestly all he could ever ask for. 

—

After a rousing drunk duet with Will, followed by an embarrassing karaoke solo of his own, Nico found himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He could still hear the party music pounding outside, and he’s probably drunk out of his mind, but at this moment, he feels stone-cold sober. 

This is his time to tell Will that he’s Angel. 

“Hey, Will, it’s me, Angel!” he slurred, practicing what to say. This was his moment to let it all go; he couldn’t afford to mess it up. And maybe it’s drunken confidence that he’ll regret the morning after, but at least it will be out. 

He tried again. “Hey, Will. I’m Angel.”

That didn’t sound right either. Maybe something witty… “Hey, did you fall from heaven? Because you look like an angel. I’m an angel too! Y’know… Angel? That’s me!”

He sighed. “Just had to pick Angel, huh, di Angelo?”

Despite his failed efforts, he left the bathroom in search for Will. He’s still upstairs, and he saw Will disappear up the stairs earlier when he was singing, so it’s his best bet as to where he is. 

He moved through the hallway, not sure which door to try first.

There's some sort of movement coming from the room at the end of the hallway. Praying he’s not walking in on Travis and his girlfriend, he opened the door.

What he found was something worse.

Will sat on the edge of the bed. The sleeves of his onesie were pushed up farther than they were before, nearly to his shoulders, and his hood was pushed down. The first button or so is unbuttoned, revealing a white shirt underneath. 

All of this could be due to overheating if it weren’t for the girl in his lap.

Nico felt his heart drop as they both stopped making out to turn and look at him in surprise. He vaguely recognized the girl; Lacy, who was dressed in some sort of slutty Snow White costume, was in the grade below them.

Will stood up, making a move to go towards him, but Nico started backing out of the room as he choked out an apology. 

“I thought this was the bathroom, sorry,” he said quickly before running from the room. He moved back for a second to close the door, apologizing again. 

He sat down for a second outside the room, clawing at his hair. He wanted to unsee it all, wanted to forget it. Wanted to unsee the way Lacy was running her fingers through Will’s hair. Wanted to unsee the way Will gripped her waist, pulling her towards him. Wanted to unsee how she moved back towards Will as he was closing the door. 

He wanted to forget Will altogether, how he looked so apologetically guilty of something when Nico walked in on them, and how his eyes followed Nico on the way out. 

He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. It would have been too easy if it was Will. He needed to keep going, needed to keep looking.

He tried to ignore how broken he felt inside on the way back downstairs.

When Nico reached the bottom of the staircase, his eyes quickly scanned the room for Reyna. He was way too tired to try and make it through the rest of the party. He really didn’t want to hang out with anyone but Will right now anyway. 

Nico spotted Jason, who was passed out on the couch next to Piper. She had on Reyna’s horn-headband for some reason, but at least that meant Reyna was probably nearby. 

Just as he spotted her behind the couch talking to Percy, who was wearing a bucket hat and a leopard print shirt, appearing to be dressed as Mr. D (probably out of spite) when Octavian walked up to him. 

Nico sighed, shaking his head. “Not now, Octavian, alright? I’ve had a long night—” He was interrupted, though, by Octavian puking all over his shoes. 

“God, really?” Nico cried, stepping back from him.

Octavian lifted his head, looking more drunk than apologetic. “Sorry,” he muttered, before running off.

Nico just grimaced, trying to look anywhere but down. Thankfully, Reyna witnessed the entire situation and made her way over to him.

“Let’s go home,” he sighed, and she nodded. 

—

The car ride home was peaceful; something Nico was relieved after the night he just had.

 They had left the party with Jason and Piper, who had basically fallen asleep on top of each other in the backseat until they reached their respective homes. Thankfully, Octavian didn’t follow them out.

Once everyone was dropped off and Nico was sure Reyna was asleep on the mattress at the foot of his bed, he pulled out his laptop. 

Reyna had seemed off that night. Usually, she was this confident, respectable figure that everyone wanted to have the approval of. She was usually sociable at parties, and tonight it was no different, but she seemed to always be watching everyone from afar. Like she wasn’t totally in the moment.

It was weird to see someone you look up to be in the exact same situation that Nico felt like he was in most of the time.

Nico decided he was going to consult Blue about his friend group. He may have said that he wouldn’t, but now he was so sick of being in between everything, and there was one person that could clear some of the fog from his brain.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Oct 31 at 12:44 AM

Subject: Advice Needed

This isn’t something I would typically ask for help with, but I honestly don’t know what to do. One of my friends likes the other, but he has no idea because he likes someone else. Any idea about what to do?

Anyway, to not make this email completely useless if you have no idea either, I’ll talk about what I’ve been thinking about recently.

Have you ever realized that straight people never have to come out? I mean like, besides the unfortunate situation when someone assumes you’re gay and you’re not, but nobody is going to get mad about you being straight. So why do I have to come out? Why does my family have to know I like guys for it to be respectful before I hypothetically have a boy to bring home?

(I don’t.)

Love, Angel

It felt like second nature writing the email; just typing as his thoughts went. He sent it without reading it over like he usually does.

He was about to close his laptop and go to sleep when something he had written caught the corner of his eye.

Love, Angel.

“Shit!” Nico whispered to himself. He quickly tried to see if there was any way to reverse what he had just sent, but the damage had been done.

Nico just had to hope that Blue doesn’t flip out because of it.

—

Nico was sitting in his fourth period math class the next day, barely paying attention and counting down the minutes until he could go take a nap in the library during lunch. The consequences of last night were hitting hard, and he was dealing with a pounding headache and nausea every time he looked at the math problems on the board. Whoever thought most kids would actually show up to school the day after Halloween wasn’t thinking clearly. 

More than half of Nico’s grade was missing, including the Jason and Piper. The Stolls weren’t there either, though that was to be expected. Nico would be surprised if they even showed up on Monday.

Will Solace was in school, which unfortunately shattered Nico’s last hope of what he walked in on just being entirely alcohol-influenced. Nico felt his heart pang as he realized it was probably time to move on from Will in search for the real Blue.

Anyway, math was hell in general, but especially worse today. His Algebra 2 teacher, Mrs. Dodds, was an actual demon. (She once threatened a kid by telling them she drank baby tears.) As she tried to teach them compound inequalities, Nico felt his eyes drooping further and further. He eventually just gave in to the risk that he might face the wrath of the demon for sleeping in her class, and he let his eyes slip shut. 

(Besides, maybe a quick nap would help his headache.)

Just as he nearly fell asleep completely, Nico felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and his heart dropped.

He had been dreading Blue’s response ever since he sent that email with the L-word last night. Best case scenario was Blue would just skip over the ending, but judging by the way Nico read and reread every email that he received, he sort of doubted it. 

Some excitement that came with it. It was the truth, wasn’t it? Otherwise, Nico wouldn’t have written it. Obviously, there was a huge amount of fear, but it also made Nico’s heart pound dizzyingly every time he thought about Blue.

Sparing a glance at Mrs. Dodds, who still had her back turned, Nico quickly pulled out his phone. He hoped he’s not risking a Saturday detention for a text from Jason, but when he saw the Gmail icon alongside a familiar email address, his breath caught in his throat. 

Nico held his breath as he swiped open the notification, ignoring the way his eyes strained painfully from trying to read with this cursed hangover headache. 

This could be it, he thought, then shook the thought away and began to read. 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Nov 1 at 10:52 AM

Subject: Re: Advice Needed

You have to be 21 to gamble, and it’s too bad I’m not because if I were to bet that you were drunk emailing me last night, I think I’d hit the jackpot.

(Luckily, it seems I’ve hit the jackpot getting to meet you.)

You’re probably freaked out about what I’m going to say here, but don’t be. I liked it. 

I like you, Angel, but I think you already knew that.

And you’re right about the coming out thing, that does suck. But I’m actually glad you mentioned it because you’ve inspired me to come out to my mom. So thank you, really. You don’t understand how much you’ve done for me.

Love, Blue.

(P.S; I guess you didn’t catch on from the Nutella story, but I’m really bad at advice. I’m not quite sure what to do about your friends, but I honestly don’t think it’s anything you can fix. You can’t force someone to be in love with someone that they just… aren’t. Good luck, though, and make sure you’re there for them when they need you.)

Nico felt like he had just stopped breathing altogether. Honestly, he didn’t think he breathed at all while reading that letter, and he sure as hell wasn’t breathing now. He reread the words “Love, Blue” over and over again, as he finally exhaled. 

(Secretly, silently, he cursed at himself for reading the email in Will’s voice. That second to last line hit too hard after last night. It’s time to move on, di Angelo!)

Blue liked him. No, Blue loved him. And he was going to come out to his family, which maybe, maybe meant he was one step closer to revealing his identity. 

Nico switched off his phone and shoved it into his bag, refusing to let his hopes get too high.

Nevertheless, he had never looked so happy in a math class.

#solangelo #nico di angelo #will solace #pjo #heros of olympus #nstls #pjo hoo big bang 2019 #liz writes.com

[alphacygni]

Near the Dowling Estate

Five Years until the (Not) End of the World

  If there was one truth in human history—one distillable constant to Crowley’s millennia spent among the generations of humanity—it was this: no matter when, no matter where, being a woman was, on balance, always a little bit harder.

There were the shoes, for starters. Crowley had stopped manifesting arches and toe joints to accommodate, but that only helped so much. And then the undergarments. Satan, the undergarments. She’d heard women throughout the ages curse the Devil Himself for subjecting them to whaleboning and girdles and control-top pantyhose and push-up brassieres. Crowley could definitively say, however, that none of those had been the work of her lot. That was usually about men.

And, let’s face it, men were also often one of the harder parts of being a woman. Crowley found she spent a large chunk of her time in female form thinking of how one might creatively discorporate a male starting with his most tender bits.

In fact, it was the very thing she was ruminating on now.

She shouldn’t be. It was a lovely day, and there were plenty of other lovely things to ruminate on. Summer announced itself in the ripe green of grass and the lazy hum of bees and the scent of lavender from a further field. The sun beat, breeze tempering a stodgy heat. Warlock and the other children were squealing with joy, and for once it wasn’t because of some game on one of those infernal tablet computers. Warlock was playing his first game of the season out on the pitch, and, if Crowley remembered the rules correctly, his team was, in fact, winning.

Crowley, however, was losing.

“That—that’s a free kick, right?” The man, a member of Mister Dowling’s ever-present staff, had been sitting beside her in the stands, inching closer and making ever more intrusive chitchat since the match had begun. His smile exposed perfect white teeth. His manner exposed something more crooked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know.” She gave a half-hearted shrug as she imagined how much blood there’d be if she decapitated him right then and there.

“I thought you Brits knew everything about soccer.” A meaty hand clapped her shoulder.

She dusted at her sleeve and decided to forego the correction. “And I thought you Americans didn’t like football.”

“Oh, we like football. Real football.” He stretched a little and gave her an up-and-down look he didn’t try to hide. “Do you know anything about American football?” As was often the case, Crowley had noted, the man asked a question he had no interest in her answering. “That’s a real game. Soccer’s alright for kids, sure. But football’s a game for men.”

The image flashed through her mind again. No, no. That much blood would ruin her frockcoat. And she quite liked this one. It had terrific pockets. “Is it.”

“Gets quite rough, football.” Fricatives wafted the smell of lager. The hand found its way to her knee. “But some people like it like that...” And a centimeter higher.

With a barely concealed yelp, the man withdrew the hand as if he’d gotten a sudden and nasty shock. Which, of course, he had.

It did not, however, have the desired effect.

“Oh. A spark.” He leaned in to whisper. “I knew there was something there.”

“Sir, we are at a children’s sporting event. We are both in the company of our employer. That sort of behavior is absolutely inappropriate, and I’ll thank you to control yourself.”

“Mmm. Tad said you were the stern, uptight type. Tell me, Nanny. Am I being naught—“

“Lilith, me darlin’!”

It took Crowley a moment to place the over-rounded bend of the vowel and the over-rounded stretch of belly. Luckily she remembered just before he wrapped her in an affectionate embrace.

The American moved back, as much to avoid the gardener’s girth as anything else.

“Sorry t’be tardy, love, but the rosebeds don’ mulch themselves. Hope I din’ miss too much of young Warlock’s debut?”

The American found his voice again. “I…I’m sorry. You are…?”

“Oh, bless me.” He shook the other man’s hand with off-putting enthusiasm and what Crowley could tell was more pressure than was comfortable. “Francis Fell. Gardener and, uh, doting swain.”

When the angel leaned close to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek, Crowley was absolutely unaware of anything but the sudden warmth of lips and the strangely not-off-putting tickle of sideburn. The angel had whispered something, she knew, but she couldn’t have said what it was for all the tea in hell[1].

When she didn’t respond, the angel leaned in to kiss her other cheek. This time, she rallied.

The angel repeated his words, hot and near. “You look like you’re about to call up hellfire and brimstone.”

“I’ll forgive your tardiness this once, angel. Come, sit close.”

Somehow, Aziraphale managed to squeeze himself into the impossibly narrow space between.

The American looked as if someone had just burned his country’s flag and tossed the ashes down in his lap. “You…you two are--?”

“I’m a blessed man,” the angel said with that ridiculous, toothy smile.

Even like this—Satan help her—even like this, there was something refreshing in the angel’s sweetness. Crowley always felt it, soft in her chest, like the brush of wings.

Primly, sure to stay in character, she reached across and took one of Aziraphale’s hands in her own, threading finger through finger.

His hands were warm and smelled of gardens.

The American stared, eyes on the angel’s teeth. Though he didn’t ask it aloud, the question on his face was clear: why?

This American needed to go. She was having a moment here.

She gave the man a cool look, wishing she could remove the sunglasses and pin him in yellow. Instead, she settled for allowing a little of the serpent to seep through. “He’s a blesssssed man, as he says.” She cut her gaze in the direction of the large gardener’s lap meaningfully.

Even after the American slunk away, looking confused and more than a little disgusted, Aziraphale stayed close.

Their shoulders touched.

“Uh, thanks, angel.” It sounded softer than she’d intended.

When Aziraphale turned her way, past the bushy eyebrows and the buck teeth, Crowley couldn’t miss it. The man underneath. Blessed.

He gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t mention it.”

Out on the pitch, Warlock had taken down the other team’s striker with a savage tackle, and his father gave a whoop of approval that was taken up by most of the American crowd.

Crowley couldn’t help but beam proudly herself. “That’s right, Warlock, dear! Put forth your Scythe and Reap, love!”

The boy stopped to find her voice. Smiled. Waved. And then, graciously, he bent down and offered the other player a hand up from the grass.

The angel’s let out a smug hmmph of delight.

The two of them sat, hand in hand, until the whistle blew and the game was over.

[1] All the tea in Hell is, of course, of the Long Island Iced variety. While not originally of demonic origin, the drink had brought so many otherwise innocent souls into sin that Satan adopted it officially.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #nanny ashtoreth #my fic

[happy-haunts]

The Redhead

WARNING THIS POST IS LONG.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

“Where These Legs Have Been”

I wouldn’t say I had the worst life growing up in the American Colonies but I also wouldn’t say I had the best life either. You see my mother and father still believed there was wealth in Britain, so they urged me to marry a wealthy merchant when I was of age, even though I had a younger sister (Scarlet) who was more than willing to marry a wealthy man. And you can imagine the shock they had when they found me tasting the lips of one of the girl’s whom parents often socialized with mother and father.

I didn’t hate the company of a man but I didn’t hate the company of a woman either, I understood that my parents saw this as some kind of sin - but how much could they count my actions as a sin when they were planning to have me wed to some wealthy British man? And to me that should count as a sin, forcing someone to do something they don’t want to … If I had it my way I would be the ultimate sinner, I would show my legs to anyone who wanted a peek, I would explore other countries, I would flaunt all of my fine silks, I would have an adventure.

As one could probably guess my eighteenth birthday arrived sooner rather than later and without hesitation my parents, sister, and I sailed to Britain, the smell of the salt water air was intoxicating on our voyage and if I had to choose a place to die well I would hope it would be on a boat in the water.

Once we docked in a boring port of Britain my parents had decided upon going to find somewhere to stay the night - my sister and I on the other hand went about trying to find something to do in this town. Which was when we found the Drunkin’ Boar - most of the men entering the bar were either the usual sloppy drunks or whole crews of sailors.

Scarlet was interested to have a go at some of the sailors while they were in a drunken stupor, she had such a tomboy nature about her - wanting to wrestle the boys at home all the time and urging father to teach her how to shoot a gun. And you would think that mother and father would scold her for being so bold, instead she was commended for her feminism - why shouldn’t a girl be able to out-wrestle a boy? A woman should be required to shoot a gun just like a man! Heaven forbid if I want to make-out all day and wear my dresses a little shorter.

But I’m getting carried away, we had decided to head into the bar and see if it was worth our time. Scarlet noticed a few men arm wrestling ,and decided to go see if she could get them all worked up over losing to a girl. I on the other hand wanted to see if I could work up a crowd in another way - so I walked over to the bar and held out my hand to the man on the stool beside it, he gawked at me and took my hand to help me up onto the end of the bar where I took my seat. Once I was seated at a higher level then more of the patrons were starting to spot me, the place was getting silent now as if these slobs had never seen a woman before in their lives! So I sat up straight and proud and said “You boys keep your mouths hanging open like that they’re sure to collect dust.” a couple guys chuckled while another handful shut their mouths and quickly wiped away any kind of drool.

“Hey Red, what brings you to this dump - a fine lady like yourself?” The man beside me asked.

“Well my sister and I just got into town and while my parents look for a place to stay for the night we decided to see what this place had to offer, while we were walking we got so thirsty and our legs were so sore …” I lifted my red cotton dress to expose my fine smooth legs, rubbing my muscles and giving a depressed sigh. “I don’t suppose any of you fine gentleman could help?”

It was a riot in seconds, as soon as they all started trying to throw their money at the bartender- one man stepped on another man who punched him and caused him to run into another man … Basically it was a whole mess. And while that mess was going on I decided to slip behind the bar and grab two bottles of rum and walk right outside where my sister was already standing, oddly enough? She introduced me to a gentleman whom she had won her arm wrestle against- the Captain of one of the British ships which were currently taking down any Spanish ship they came across due to the disagreements with … part of Spain at the moment.

“I see he bartender has taken a liking to you.” He commented and gestured his head towards my bottles.

“Ah- Yes! I have that effect on people sometimes.”

The Captain had looked back to the bar with a confused look on his face, then back to me. “Is everything alright in there? It sounds like a brawl.” ”Oh well, you know how men can be with the Devil’s poison in their system!” I turned away from the two of them and began to start for the main street, but my sister kept the conversation alive even when I was trying to let it die!

“You know Captain I’m sure my parents would love to meet you.”

“I’m not so sure I could impose on your family if you have all just gotten into port like this.”

“Oh no they wouldn’t mind at all, right Red?”

I shrugged in response.

“...Eh… Right.” Scarlet sighed and grabbed onto the Captain’s arm. “Lets call it my prize for winning at arm wrestling.”

“Well when you say it like that how can I say no?” He chuckled and that was that, we were taking some strange man home to our parents, like finding a purebred stray and asking mother and father if we could keep it.

My parents of course loved him, he was British blood and he was wealthy from plundering all those Spanish vessels. And if no one has guessed by now - yes he did ask me for my hand in marriage as arranged by my mother and father, but I made a deal with my fiancee that I knew would enrage my parents once they found out. I asked my fiancee to take me aboard his ship because I must first know him as a Captain before I can know him as a husband, and what do you know.. He agreed, that is as long as I would bring my sister along for … “safety reasons”.

After that most of the time we spent on the ship together was basically me being his trophy, he told me about how much he despised working under the crown since he had to always look a certain way or act a certain way because as the Captain of this ship which is sailing Britain’s flag then he is representing the people of Britain and her King. It sounded boring, after awhile looting the Spanish ships got boring as well … Because it was all about “the king” this and “the king” that.

Thankfully the dispute with Spain had ended and we could go back to port where my parents were waiting for us, but my fiancee had a better idea. He proposed that we forget the King, forget the navy, forget all of their rules and plunder other ships instead - we would wave a black flag and take what we wanted without anyone telling us how we could act or what ships we could touch.

I loved it.

They were fighting off British ships one day and the next they were in the Caribbean, we would take their food and their drink, take their gold and their pearls, and I would get to be more than just a trophy! I lounged in the crows nest with my skirts up to my knees, I strutted across the deck with my heels clicking on the floorboards, and my sister learned how to sword fight.

Yes, scarlet was still on board when the Captain decided to leave Britain but it wasn’t as if my sister was a total bore- she would join the crew and the Captain in fighting and plundering, and I never needed to worry about my sweet little fiancee because she was already talking his ear off and keeping him occupied.

Years went by and our days of piracy would start to grow repetitive, we had begun to ransack ports and towns to try and show some variety but in the end a pirate’s life was starting to not be for me. So maybe I was starting to want to settle down? Maybe to go back to something more permanent, but every time I considered this I laughed at myself - settle down? Me? Of course not!

But the Captain was considering something like this as well, he was getting old and fighting through ports was starting to tax him, but before he wanted to retire he wanted one last great theft. The theft of his crew.

He had confided in me about this and told me he would split the treasure with me so we could go off to an island and live forever surrounded by our gold. And while it wasn’t my ideal way to sped the rest of my life it surely was better than baring his children and cleaning his suits.

The plan was to raid a port and distract the crew with something while we loaded all their loot onto the ship and sailed away into the dead of night, I was prepared with a distraction already because I knew exactly what at least %90 of these men wanted and that was a woman.

So we had an auction, I talked to the women of the town and had them play along with me as the auction took place - none of them would be going home with the crew since I had their finest iron pans, rolling pins, and brooms tucked away under their dresses so they could cause a commotion after the auction and after the Captain loaded the ship so I could sneak onto the ship as well. You can be sure that I was flattered how the crew shouted “We wants the redhead!” as I exposed my superstructure so to speak.

Once the women began to fight back I started running back to the ship in my fine silk red dress, only to stop as I saw Scarlet standing by the row boat to the ship with the Captain.

“Are you coming with us?” I asked, but Scarlet didn’t say anything in response, she was clenching and un-clenching her hands like she was on edge. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Your sister and I are engaged.” The Captain spoke with his voice low, almost as if he was disappointed in himself.

“Alright… That’s fantastic but we can celebrate after we get along with the loot.”

“No, Red …” The Captain sighed, “We’re not getting along with the loot, your sister has confessed she has loved me since we met in the bar, and since we started fighting side by side she wishes to do this until she dies by the blade.”

“Fantastic then let me at least be off with my half of the loot.”

“No. Red. You know of the betrayal against the crew …”

“Yes but it’s not like I’ll tell, I’ll be on an island!” ”We can’t take that chance, harlot.” Scarlet spoke now, “You think you can just hypnotize man after man with your body and your words but how does it feel, how does it feel to have your prize taken from you?” I was almost sorry I didn’t have more of a reaction for her to feel proud that she might have broken me.

“Prize? He is hardly my prize, none of those drooling animals in this crew is my prize, none of the idiots we had stolen from were my prize, I was told if I had a prize it was a sin … So I apologize sister but I’ve never had the chance.”

“You SLUT!” she shrieked, she became even more enraged at my indifferent shrug and beat me unconscious.

The next thing I knew my head was covered by a sack and I heard whispers while we rocked in a boat.

“Why do we have to dump her here?” it was the Captain’s voice.

“Because she is still my sister and it is only right that we dump her at our hometown.”

“This has been an inconvenience to the whole crew to do this.”

“They’ll get over it, I can’t believe how many of them actually got choked up over hearing about her death! She didn’t even care about them.” the rowing seemed to stop then and I felt hands on my back as well as behind my knees, then a grunt and I was engulfed in cold water only to be plunged downwards by something heavy right afterwards.

My hands were bound together behind my back as well as my ankles tied together to whatever was keeping me below, I struggled to try and grab the rope at my ankles but with the bag tied around my head I was fighting a loosing battle.

And then the cold water filled my lungs, and then there was nothing.

Bad Love

I was surprised to open my eyes again and to be on the grassy bank of a river, it was then I put together the river was where my sister and her fiancee dumped my body to die. But if I was dumped to die then how am I alive right now? I looked at my hands and screamed, they were glowing with a red light and I could see the grass through them, I could feel my body- I felt solid … I took in my surroundings, it seemed like I was in a graveyard…? A graveyard that surrounded a rather dark intimidating mansion.

“Well… Might as well ask for help.” I made my way to the front doors and walked through, inside was just as macabre. Everything was covered in cobwebs, bats were the decorations of choice for most of their furniture and candelabras, and a dark feeling seemed to settle upon me.

I heard talking from behind two grand doors, walking through them I saw a tiny little ghost (I presumed) and she was being put down by several other “dancing” ghosts apparently. It was all about how she was a handicapped ghost with no legs, and I am not the nicest person but I am not so cruel to discriminate someone who has no legs … And she was kind of cute.

So I decided to take the dancing ghosts down a notch and leave with this little cutie - whom I found out was named Emily.

We started a tour which turned into a mission to deliver a key chain to some murderess in the attic from the Ghost Hostess of this mansion, I was mainly on board with going to the attic because Emily was so small and she seemed terrified of this hatchet woman.

Once we got to the attic was when I knew I was staying in this mansion for the rest of my undying days.

Her ghostly aura was the color of a deathly blue hue, her yellow eyes sparked with murder, and her smile was so sinister that I knew she was up to no good. The way that Constance Hatchaway spoke about her husbands that she killed sounded like everyday of my living life- her parents telling her who she could and couldn’t court and they were only allowed to be a man. This was also when I realized how many years had gone by and metal inventions were ruling this world and if I wanted to I could have as many women as I wanted.

I could have Constance if she would have me.

Thus began my attempts at courting her.

Courting Constance was maddening! She was intelligent and knew that I was hopelessly in love with her ever since we met in the attic. I brought her books from the library - since the disembodied voice told me that they have the worlds most famous ghost writers in their collection, but she seemed to giggle at the books as if my attempt was childish! Another time I brought flowers to her with all the heads snipped off, and upon her asking where the flower part was I said “They’re your axe-husbands!” She placed her head in her palm and shook her head.

I confided in Emily for help trying to win Constance’s heart, since Emily was obsessed with romance.

And what she suggested was … Something only Emily would suggest.

“Oh, well she is still a woman so she wouldn’t want anything from you, she would want to know how you feel about her! Tell her how beautiful you think she is, not a pick up line but actually how you see her, tell her how you really feel about her - about how your love makes you feel, and be your long legged self.” She placed her rather tiny hand on my upper arm since she struggled to actually reach my shoulder.

“Feelings are pointless.” I had stated, which seemed to break Emily- if her glowing heart wasn’t showing through her chest I swear it would have actually shattered.

“If you don’t tell her your feelings then she will never know how you feel about her, no about of headless flowers are going to do you any good.”

I rolled my eyes in response and sighed, I might as well try it at least once.

And so I made my way up to the attic to Constance and pushed open the door, she was standing by the window as always and watching the graveyard below where the ghosts were drinking, singing, and doing things that only dead people could do. (removing heads, shooting each other in the face, and ect.)

“Come with more gifts?” Constance laughed lightly and looked at me but was puzzled when there was nothing in my hands.

“No, I just came with … me.” I could feel myself getting warm, could ghosts blush? If they could then I was sure that I was doing it right now. “You’re beautiful.” I blurted out as fast as I could, this felt as if I was taking off all my clothes in front of her - as if I was even more transparent than I already was, I walked through my life completely closed off to anything outside of me, but at this moment I was so willing to show her in my heart where no one has touched me since I was a child.

“Red?” Constance was stepping towards me and took my hand, “What did you say?”

“You’re beautiful, like sea-glass reflecting against the bluest ocean - your words dance out of your mouth like a ballet and they have dance through my head even now, but even if I went mad from hearing you speak everyday of my life- er … death, I would be glad to have gone mad by your doing.” She was blinking as if not expecting what was happening, but I couldn’t stop now. “I love you, Constance Hatchaway, and if loving you means I must have my head removed then so be it, I will part with any of my limbs if you’ll love me as well-”

“Oh! Yes!” It was my turn to be surprised then, she was so quick about her answer.

“Y-yes?”

“Of course Red! What? Did you think that I wouldn’t?”

“You never seemed to respond to any of my other attempts at courting is all.”

“It was charming! You were always charming!” She threw her arms around my neck and I tasted her lips- softer than any lips I had kissed when I was human, and even more alive.

If this was a sin then I was sure I was sinning just right.

#Constance Hatchaway #we wants the redhead #redhead #haunted mansion #long post #text post #the haunted mansion #ghost #emily declaire #pirates of the caribbean #disneyland #disney parks #disney world #wdw

[sapphicscholar]

November 2024

“And CNN can now project that former Governor Catherine Grant will become the President Elect of the United States. By our estimates, she now has more than enough votes to become the 47th president, the country’s second female president, and the first out LGBTQ president. Folks, this is a historic moment.”

The rest of the commentator’s words were drowned out in a roar of cheering as Cat strode out on stage in front of a room packed full of her supporters. Miniature American flags waved in outstretched hands. Red, white, and blue balloons bobbed through the air above them and fell, scattering across the stage. And rainbow confetti—the one “fun” choice Cat had allowed Kara—floated down from the ceiling. Cat kept one hand on Carter’s arm, her other hand clutched in Kara’s, her fingers trembling slightly, still not quite sure whether she could believe the results. After all, it had only been four years ago when she had walked out on stage to give a rather different speech after a long night of contested results and too-close-to-call-it-yet moments that finally ended after 4 in the morning with a slightly uncertain calling of the election for General Lane.

“It’s real,” Kara murmured, and Cat squeezed her hand just a little harder at the reminder that Kara had always been the one to know exactly what she needed to hear. With a quick peck for Kara and a tight hug for Carter, Cat strode forward to the podium, waving at the crowds and calling out her thanks until the tumultuous applause finally died down. She smiled as it quieted, adjusting the microphone and glancing down at the speech she had prepared, hoping but not quite believing she would have reason for it this time.

“Thank you!” Cat shook her head the slightest amount, still wondering if perhaps it was all some dream she would wake up from, finding the election night still to come. “Thank you all for your support and your donations and your hours and hours of tireless campaigning. And now—now we’re here.”

Kara threw an arm around Carter’s shoulders as they watched and listened from the wings, cheering and laughing and clapping at the lines they had listened to Cat practice the night before. “She’s pretty great, huh?” Kara whispered, earning a low chuckle from Carter.

“Think I can get off work tomorrow since my mom’s president and all?”

Kara shrugged her shoulders. “I’m calling off work tomorrow with a case of First-Lady-itis.”

With a snort, Carter shook his head. “You’re the boss. Of course you can call out.”

Not that Kara took off many days. Or any days, really. After the last campaign ended, she had turned down several offers to return to the Senate as a chief of staff or to manage another campaign. The work with Cat had been enjoyable and meaningful, but after watching and living through the dirty smear campaigns and invasive personal attacks, Kara decided she needed to step back and return to the kind of work that had inspired her to turn to politics in the first place. After a year as a senior researcher at one of DC’s progressive think tanks, Kara had applied for grants and gotten seed money from L-Corp’s philanthropic arm to found an NGO dedicated to advancing alien rights and promoting interspecies dialogue—something she saw an increasingly urgent need for in the face of the Lane administration’s attempts to roll back protective measures like the Alien Amnesty Act. But now the country seemed ready to arc back toward justice, and Kara knew, no matter how late they were out that night, she would head into the office for at least an hour or two the next day to be sure they had put out a statement about Cat’s victory.

By the time Cat finished with the speech and started working her way through seemingly countless interviews with the press, most people finally headed home, leaving the large venue quiet after a night of nervous chatter and raucous applause. At a certain point, Carter snuck in for a hug and yet another congratulations while Cat was between interviews, excusing himself to get a nap in before he had to fly back to the West coast.

James likewise caught an early flight back to California after Cat sent him off with a teasing admonishment to “keep my legacy alive, Jimmy.” Even with assurances that he had CatCo’s best reporters on it and had vetted the proofs of the front page himself, James still ended up heading back out, sighing about how the work of a CEO was never done.

Around the time the sun was beginning to rise, bathing the city in a soft pink light, Kara found a very drunk Alex and an only marginally more sober Maggie making out behind the bar and celebrating the return of a liberal to the White House. After taking a few photos for posterity’s sake, Kara shuffled them outside and instructed two of the hired security guards to take them back to their house, leaving them both with stern reminders to drink plenty of water.

“Can you take us to Shake Shack?” Alex slurred as she flopped into the back seat behind Maggie. “They got great fries. Maggie likes fries. Didja know that? Veg’tarians can have fries at burger places.”

“We’ll get you fries at some point today,” Kara promised as she shut the door behind Alex, rolling her eyes as Maggie dropped her head into Alex’s lap, already half asleep.

While Kara waited for Cat to finish her final interviews, she scrolled through her texts and emails, smiling at all the happy messages waiting for her from Eliza, who promised that she had been watching live from the Grant campaign headquarters in California, and Winn, who included several photos of Americans following the coverage in Germany with the caption: “SO PROUD OF YOU!! Time to go: they’re buying shots. Gonna be so hungover for day 3 of the conference…”

Kara’s phone rang with a call from Lucy and Vasquez as Cat sat down with the last of the interviews that Jasmine had arranged. With a little wave to Cat, Kara gestured at her phone and the back corner of the room before wandering away from the cameras to take it. As she slid her finger across the screen, she couldn’t help the excited squeal. “Good news?”

“Double good news!” Vasquez cheered. “Don’t think we didn’t watch the coverage just because we couldn’t be there in person.”

“Little asshole had to choose the most inconvenient time to arrive,” Lucy grumbled in the background, earning a loud bark of laughter from Vasquez.

“Don’t mind her. She’s still a little grumpy from the 18 hours of labor.”

“‘A little grumpy?’” Kara had to hold the phone away from her face as Lucy yelled. “You try shoving a 7-pound lump out of your—”

“Congratulations!” Kara cut in.

“Thank you!” they both called back, and Kara had to chuckle at the dramatic shift in tone.

“Got a name?”

“Nope.”

“He’s baby X for now.”

“And he’s really fucking cute.”

“Okay, well, he’s kinda weird-looking, but they promise that he’ll be looking a little less alien in a couple of days. No offense, Kara.”

“None taken. I guess.”

“He’s so little. Did you know how little they are?”

“But he’s got, like, these itty-bitty fingernails and everything. Like…he’s a full human, only miniature.”

“But with big blue eyes. I don’t think they’ll stay blue, but they’re beautiful for now.”

“And so much hair. I kinda hope it falls out…might be nice to start again without a big shaggy mop of it.”

“They said it would.”

Kara snorted at the back-and-forth, wondering how long the two of them had been awake at that point. “I think Cat’s wrapping up, so I should probably go, but congratulations again!”

“Congrats to Cat too!” Vasquez cheered.

“Yes! About damn time.”

“Hopefully we’ll make it out to see the baby in the next couple of days, if you don’t mind a big team of security stalking out the perimeter of your house.”

“Go for it. And you know, if they want to take out the trash or pick up some diapers while they’re at it, I hear we’re gonna want all the extra help we can get.”

“Well I’m sure baby X’s godmothers will be more than happy to babysit once they’ve recovered from their collective hangover from hell,” Kara snickered.

“That bad?”

“Oh, I took pictures. Don’t worry.”

Lucy let out a little hum. “Can always count on you for that.”

“I think I might save these ones for the next big birthday party, though…” Kara grinned at the thought of the sheer number of humiliating photos she had saved up for that moment. “Anyway, I’ll let you go, but have a safe trip home from the hospital and give baby X a kiss for me okay?”

“Of course!”

Once Kara hung up, she ambled back over to where Cat was gathering her things and stretching after too many hours spent standing in heels. Throwing Cat’s bag over her shoulder, Kara extended her free hand. “Can I take you home, President Grant?”

“Please.”

December 2024

“God, accounting for a security detail for the president-elect is such a pain in the ass,” Alex grumbled as she pulled out the pegs of the seating chart for what felt like the hundredth time.

Maggie laughed as she wrapped her arms around Alex’s waist and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Still better than accounting for the security detail of the actual president, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, because bumping up the timeline for the wedding by four months was so much easier.”

“You’re the one who insisted on having Kara as your maid of honor, and you can’t just not invite her wife.”

“We should have gotten married before them.”

“Please, you had so much fun giving Kara shit for U-Hauling with Cat after only a year. You wouldn’t have given that up for a slightly easier go of it ourselves.”

Alex let out a long sigh. “Maybe not.” After a moment she added, “But I still think Kara should be doing some of this work.”

“Well then tell her so over dinner.”

“Oh yeah, let’s think about how that’ll go. Hey, Kara? Be a dear. In between running an organization and preparing to move into the White House and making decisions about the inauguration and the ball, could you also figure out this seating chart?”

“You forgot to add in that we could really use the extra time for ourselves since your fiancée is kind of irresistible.”

“Mm yes. That too.” Alex’s eyes fluttered shut as Maggie kissed her softly, their hands twining together.

A knock at the door interrupted them. “Coming,” Alex called out, squeezing Maggie’s hand one last time before making her way over to the front door. She swung it open to reveal Lucy and Vasquez, both of them looking a little worn for wear. Lucy had a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, and Vasquez held an infant carseat in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

“Hey! Come in, come in, it’s so good to see you.”

They followed Alex inside, waving at Maggie as she rounded the corner. As Vasquez set the carseat on the ground, Lucy grimaced at the sound of a little whimper.

Alex leaned forward, unbuckling the straps and lifting the baby up, settling him into the crook of her elbow as she cooed at him. “Oh, come here, little Alex. Your godmother’s got you.”

Lucy pursed her lips and glared. “It’s A.J.”

“Mm, but I believe one of those names could be shorted to Alex. And really, I’m still so flattered that you named your son after me.”

Vasquez’s lips twitched as Lucy groaned. “It was a family name.”

“Say whatever you want to, Luce, but me and little Alex are always gonna know the truth.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows at Maggie. “She’s insufferable, you know that, right?”

“Considering we’re getting married in a couple weeks, I think I know that by now.” Maggie raised herself up to her tip-toes to kiss away the crinkle in Alex’s forehead. “But I love you more than anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky I’m holding a baby.”

“And you’re welcome to borrow him anytime you want.”

Vasquez shook her head. “She says that now, but she’s secretly a big softie with him at home.”

Before Lucy could respond, the sound of several SUVs pulling up drew their attention outside. “Cat’s here!” Alex called out. “Maggie, can you deal with the security team?”

Eventually Cat and Kara made it inside, and after a round of passing A.J. around to everyone, Lucy got him to fall asleep in his carseat in time for dinner. When she got back, Vasquez patted the seat next to her, throwing her arm around Lucy’s shoulders and kissing her temple.  

Alex raised her glass in the air. “A toast to little Alex!”

“Also known as A.J.,” Maggie chimed in, winking at Vasquez across the table as they clinked their glasses.

“And to the soon-to-be-married couple for hosting us tonight,” Cat added, earning another round of clinking glasses.

“And, excuse me, let’s not fucking forget,” Lucy cut in, “to the next President of the United States of America.”

“Cheers!” the table chorused.

“Here’s to an overdue victory!”

“And eight long years in the White House!”

#supercat #sanvers #political au #fluff #completed fic #fanfic #supergirl #kara danvers #cat grant #alex danvers #maggie sawyer #lucy lane #susan vasquez #supercat sanvers 2020 #ao3feed

[avengeultrons]

Title: July 4th (Reader x Peter Parker)

Summary: Peter plans a picnic in the park date for the Fourth of July, surely crime could take a break for Independence Day. 

Word Count: 1798

A/N: LONG TIME NO WRITE LOL! I hope you guys enjoy, i’ve missed just taking the time to write. Even though this isn’t as detail oriented, I had so much fun writing it and hope you love! 

--

Summer had been going great so far. It was just as laid back and fun as you had hoped it would be. Full of sleeping in, trips to the pool, movie dates with Peter, catching up on reading all of your favorite books. Being a kid in the summertime was the best.

“What are we doing today?” you stuck your feet up onto your headboard, hanging upside down from your bed as you talked to Peter on the phone. Your parents weren’t home a lot in the summer, just over the weekend usually. Both of them were either working or busy with their own social lives.

Peter took a long moment to think before he responded. You could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain, “Well, it is the Fourth of July. I was thinking that, I don’t know, maybe I could make a picnic and we could meet at the park to catch the fireworks tonight?”

“That sounds romantic,” you giggled over the phone. You could almost feel the blush heating up Peter’s cheeks, “I forgot that was today! Sounds like fun to me. Great idea, Peter.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, rolling off of the bed. You stuck your phone to your shoulder so that you could search for Fourth of July dessert recipes online as you talked to the boy. “I have those occasionally,” he said with a sort of laugh, “I’ll let you go now. Meet me at the park at six thirty?”

“I’ll be there,” you said, biting back a smile. Though you’d been talking for a while, Peter still made you all giddy and nervous. Your heart began to beat faster as the two of you said your goodbyes through nervous laughter. You sat in front of your laptop for a moment, positively radiant from the idea that you would be having a picnic date with Peter Parker.

“What are you doing for the holiday today?” Natasha strutted into the room and leaned on the kitchen countertop, chin resting in her hand. Her eyes scanned your face briefly, raising an eyebrow as your face burned in a blush. It turned the tips of your ears pink, making your whole face hot.

You were simultaneously whipping cream in the stand mixer and chopping strawberries as you shrugged, “Not much. A picnic in the park,” you chided, rinsing blueberries off in a colander.

“Oh yeah? With who?” you avoided her harsh gaze, Natasha gasping loudly. She gripped onto the marble countertop, she’s widening to the size of golf balls. “It’s Peter! It’s Peter, isn’t it? This is wonderful news, I mean we all saw it coming. I’m so excited for you!”

Your face turned beet red once more, a smile trying to creep into your face. You wanted to sink low beneath the cabinets and disappear from her excited gaze, “It’s not a big deal, really. We’re just watching the fireworks,” you tried to shrug it off but you could hear your heart pounding in your ears.

Natasha helped you spread the sweetened whipped cream you had made onto the white box cake that was cooling in its glass container, decorating with strawberry halves and blueberries to look like the American flag, “What are you going to wear?” she asked, tossing a blueberry into the air to catch in her mouth. Success.

“I have no idea,” you gulped, the impending anxiety of the situation settling in on you. Natasha smiled and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, a silent way of saying, ‘I’ve got you’.  Your shoulders relaxed as you pressed the final strawberry into the dessert, stepping back to admire your handiwork.

Natasha was everything but patient with you when it came to clothing. She wanted you to try every style under the sun, but you would much rather wear jeans and a tee every day of your life, “At least wear a blouse every once in a while!” She snapped at you, holding a flouncy white top up to your frame. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms defiantly.

“Can you at least help me decide on something I’m comfortable in? This isn’t a fancy date or anything, Nat. I’ll probably be eaten alive by mosquitos, after all,” you had finally gotten your point across to Natasha.

She could finally see that you were actually nervous, changing up your everyday style on the same night you would be alone with Peter probably wasn’t the best idea, “You’re right, fine,” she finally gave in and, with a sigh, tossed you her choice of shoe before leaving you to choose your own clothing.

“You look great!” Natasha gushed, batting her heart eyes at you. You scoffed at her, your face heating up, “What time do you have to meet him? It’s six o’clock.”

Your eyes widened, hands beginning to sweat and heart beginning to race. The time for your picnic date was fast approaching, “I’ve gotta go,” you said.

The park was already filling up with people and the sun wasn’t even beginning it’s descent yet. You miraculously found a spot in the clearing of the field in the crowded park so you threw your picnic blanket down to claim your spot. You still had fifteen minutes before Peter would arrive, fifteen agonizingly long moments of waiting impatiently. You watched the people around you as you waited, searching hopelessly for Peter in the crowd. Everyone was dressed in either red, white, or blue, which made it difficult for you to distinguish one person from the next. It was like an anxious game of Where’s Waldo.

It was six thirty. You saw a boy your age with short, curly brown locks bouncing as he walked, catching your eye. Your heart was beginning to thump loudly in your chest, for it had to be Peter. You clambered to your feet and smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles of your striped tee. A smile made its way to your face as you waved Peter over, your stomach dropping to your feet as you finally saw the boy’s face. It wasn’t Peter, only a tall boy with wavy hair and a sympathetic smile as he nodded your way and turned to join his group of friends. You were mortified, you had no idea who you had just waved at but it wasn’t Peter. As you sank back down to the blanket, you checked your phone for the time. Only five minutes had gone by so there was no doubt that he was on his way, even if he hadn’t texted yet.

The sun was lowering behind the trees, turning the sky pink and purple shades of the perfect summer sunset. Everyone around you was excited for the impending fireworks, talking and laughing loudly with their friends and family, everyone except for you.

You were laying on your back looking up at the sky, your stomach filled with the angry swarm of anxious butterflies. A rock formed in your throat and tears pricked your eyes, two hours later and there was no sign of Peter or his whereabouts. You felt sick, hurt, embarrassed. You couldn’t keep the thoughts from swarming around in your head as you packed up your things; were you just stood up?

“Hey! I’m just checking in on you two, how’s it going? When do the fireworks start?” Natasha’s bright voice made the tears spill over, but you tried to stay quiet. You held the cell phone away from your ear as you sniffled, “Y/N what’s wrong? Is it Peter. Where are you, do I need to pick you up?”

You tucked your dessert under your arm, “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine, I’ll be home soon,” you quickly said your goodbyes, trying to get off of the phone so you could sulk in silence.

“Y/N, up here!” you stopped dead in your tracks, wiping your eyes quickly. It was Peter’s voice, but you couldn’t see him anywhere. He couldn’t know that you were crying over him not three minutes ago, “I’m on the fire escape.”

A quick glance up made you feel sick to your stomach. Peter was in his Spider-Man suit, one hand on his hip and one waving frantically at you. You felt so bad that you were ever angry at him, “What on earth are you doing?” you climbed the rusting staircase to the landing that Peter was standing on.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I was with Ned and then I heard a car alarm and basically watched someone steal a car and I couldn’t just let that go. Then it was already almost eight and I hadn’t even packed a picnic for us yet and then I heard you talking to someone on the phone and crying and then I felt really bad that I missed our date,” Peter sighed loudly, taking his mask off. He sat against the stairs facing the park, his feet dangling over the edge.

“You heard all of that?” your eyes widened as you sat next to him, face burning red from embarrassment. Peter laughed and nudged you with his elbow, “Wait, did you just say ‘date’?”

Peter shrugged, tossing his backpack onto the ground. He unzipped the main compartment and dumped out the contents, candy bars and chips and fizzy sodas, “I mean, yes. Do you, uh, want a candy bar? I also forgot to pack a picnic. Great first date, huh? I bail and then I only bring candy bars?” his own heart was beating loudly in his chest as he gulped, “I’m really sorry, about everything Y/N.”

You smiled over at him, reaching for your favorite chocolate bar. A comfortable silence surrounded the two of you as you sat side by side, watching the people hurry to their spots for the firework show that would begin any minute. Peter looked over at you nervously, his face pink. You glanced over, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “What are you staring at?” you teased. He merely shrugged, still looking at you with the same airy smile on his face. You’d never wanted to kiss him more.

The two of you looked up at the sky, a bright blue firework exploding in front of you. Your face lit up in a smile, “It’s starting!” you said breathlessly. The butterflies in your stomach diminished as you watched the sky with a wide grin, leaning your head on  Peter’s shoulder as the two of you sat and watched.

Peter sighed a shaky sigh, his heart beating out of his chest. You looked up at him and smiled briefly before returning your attention to fireworks raining down. Peter’s face lit up with a wide, giddy, schoolboy grin. He couldn’t have asked for a better person to spend the patriotic holiday with.

#avengers imagine #avengers imagines #avengers #imagines #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #marvel #reader x peter #peter imagine #peter imagines #peter x reader #peter #reader x peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker imagines #peter parker #peterparker x reader #reader x peterparker #peterparker imagine #peterparker imagines #peterparker #july 4th #4th of july #independence day

[glendavidgold-blog]

Hemlock

I neither spell-checked nor edited this.  Apologies. It’s hard for me to even re-read this, and I wrote it.

One of the lessons of William Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich is that Hitler couldn’t have happened anywhere or any time else.  He was a unique plague that destroyed one particular culture by exploiting all of the weaknesses it had swept under the rug while otherwise feeling it was the most educated, most enlightened democracy possible. The people with some power over their lives felt too comfortable to confront the problems that were already obvious. Hitler in a way was a karmic answer to hubris. I’m not sure Shirer says this directly (it’s been 30 years since I’ve read the book) but every era gets the villain it deserves. 

This is what currently scares me about Trump. It is almost diabolical, almost Shakespearean how perfectly he has slipped through every alleged check and balance. He is the product of every problem America has pretended doesn’t exist – dynastic wealth, the mafia, corruption, sexism,  unchecked capitalism, etc – and he has consolidated power by exploiting racism, hostility, fear, income inequality and holes in the system that turned out to rely on office holders having a conscience.

In 1933, shortly after Hitler took power – six weeks, in fact – my grandfather wrote a prescient account of what that monster would do next. It was accurate, if not bold enough in its predictions (but how could he, an 18 year old, predict the holocaust?). I have always wondered what I would do in his position, if I would notice what he had noticed, and the answer is no, I have tried to hold onto optimism when that is now clearly no longer useful.

When I was in high school, I was taught in Ancient History that the fall of Athens as a seat of democracy was symbolized by the moment Socrates was forced to drink hemlock. Socrates was executed for the time of inculcating youth with dangerous ideas, but also the death was symbolic, one that should have been avoided, would have been in another time and place.  I’m not sure that’s a popular idea now, and even my teacher said it was a problematic moment to choose. Instead, it was a moment among many other moments where someone outside of the system could point to it and say that a functioning agora would not have allowed it to happen. 

This, unfortunately, resonates with me now. The confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court might just have been our hemlock moment. It’s hard to tell for sure (it was hard for Athens to tell, too) but the fact is, a legislative body in charge of making laws has just thrown all evidence to the wind – evidence not just of sexual assault but of serious financial crimes -- in the excitement of causing the ascendency of a terrible man.

I don’t think there’s a single reason this happened and that too frightens me, because it’s overdetermined. The senate decided that they only needed to give brief intellectual cover for their reasons to embrace him, and their base agreed: make him a judge for life. What he serves as an avatar of is so many things: misogyny, angering the left, bringing on the Apocalypse (more about this later), ignoring the will of the majority of people, but mostly this: he is a promise that if you are on the side of Republicans, they will never hold you accountable.  That is powerful magic for people who feel like victims.  That is powerful magic for people who like the idea of being washed clean of their sins without having to do any work for it.

So now Trump controls the entire government, and that has happened with blinding speed.  There is a mid term election coming.  I am going to do everything in my power to make my vote count.  I’m going to encourage everyone to vote, as I believe that a majority of people in America believe in the American ideal rather than the fascism that we’re descending into.  There is a strong possibility, given the polls, that we will take back the House, which is something, and we might make the Senate difficult for them, too.  This will ease things, a little, while we protest and protest and stay alert until 2020, when we can throw the rest of the criminals out. 

But. 

I have a small glimmer, a nugget of worry that started when the truth about Kavanaugh came out, and he was confirmed anyway.  The way I put it then was that we are living through one of those times so well described in McCay’s Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, a 19th century treatise on times in human history where huge crowds of people have seemingly gone insane. He cites the now-familiar Tulipmania, as well as other financial manias, witch hunts, that kind of thing. I was feeling that the Republican party had locked arms and were launching their own political Jonestown, guaranteeing a kind of suicide when Democrats started filling the offices. 

I’m no longer so sure. One of the other things that fueled Trump’s rise, beyond all the specific American institutions that failed us, is that he knows how to channel the masses’ anger in a way that I have no experience with and no empathy for.  It’s working for them. It’s exciting to the politicians, too.  I see Trump is doing it again now, calling the left criminals who can’t be governed. He says the left is looking for violence.  The left knows this is ridiculous. Democrats are wishy-washy, the party that steps out of the shower to pee. To paraphrase Ted Mooney, The right wants to win –we want to be loved. 

But there is an old, familiar trick that’s political in nature – accuse the other side of what you’re doing. And right now we are at a place where one of three things is going on. First, and most optimistic, is that the leaders have overplayed their hands. They literally have no idea how angry and how determined women and minorities and those of us who happen to like progressive values are. When they say, as Mitch McConnell did of the sexual assault victims who protested, “I want to thank these clowns for all the help they provided,” he means it. He’s in his own bubble.  Republicans have never seen an angry liberal who knows how to fight back politically.   So maybe it’s that, and maybe when there’s a blue wave, they’re going to be genuinely shocked.  After all, Romney believed Fox News about Obama in the face of facts, and he got his ass handed to him in the election.   

The next possibility is that even they don’t know what’s going to happen next.  They got lucky and they’ll feel emboldened, and they’re just going to go one evil step at a time.  So far everything has worked for them, but there’s no real plan, just the erotic pleasure of power. 

Possibility number three is much worse.  Something we have told ourselves – I have told myself – is that the Republicans are just too arrogant to actually be efficient in making fascism work.  I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been wrong about that. 

The voting experience has already been rigged in ways we know about – gerrymandering, throwing possible Democrats off the voter rolls, killing access to the polls, the lack of paper ballots that may or may not mean there’s computer hacking that changes vote totals.  (And I have to say that final thing might be paranoia, that people know it CAN be done but no one seems to be saying it HAS been done.  Still, the lack of controls over it isn’t just maddening, puzzling or worrying – they only reason to have an open door like that is to invite a malevolent force.)  We know we have to struggle against that.  We know that even with all that stuff in place, there are so many of us that we should win.

But I worry that they’re so confident because they do have a plan.  I have a worry that there’s something the new Supreme Court can do between now and Election Day that fucks us.  Specifically I worry that there’s something Trump does that fucks us and it’s illegal and that the Supreme Court, in an emergency session, upholds it.  Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe that’s just out of the realm of possibility.  Maybe we’ll get to vote. 

What if voting doesn’t work? What if, the day after the election, it’s fishy? Or more than that – obviously it’s been rigged?  The Democrats lose and there are red flags everywhere? Or, what if the Republicans don’t accept the results? Does refusing to validate the election sound beyond possibility? 

Ask Roy Moore if he’s conceded yet. 

You say: if that happens, we’ll take to the streets.  True. I too will take to the streets. What will that do?  We occupy, say, the Senate offices, and then…oh, we’ve seen this already, just a week ago, with Kavanaugh.  The Senate now knows it can ignore angry constituents and seemingly get away with it.  It doesn’t have to actually respect facts or reports or decency or shame or even accept that the other side has any legitimacy. They no longer listen to us.

Let’s say that the rigged results just go forward.  There’s no way that everyone is going to believe they’re rigged.  There will be counterprotests.  There will be media coverage about how it’s just so gosh darned uncertain, and both sides will be shown on the news to show how fair they are.

But let’s agree about this: if the midterms don’t produce a Blue Wave, and if that’s because the results were fishy, we will have marches like you’ve never seen.  There will be the largest force in American history taking to the streets to protest.  We will not be polite. 

That’s as far as any of us have taken it, I think.  Because we think that the people, united, will never be defeated. It sounds right. But this is where it gets bad for me, because I very much suspect that people on the other side have taken it a little further than that.

How would we organize? On our phones?  On Facebook?  On twitter? You’ve got to be kidding.  Our phones are what surveil us. 

You know how the Nazis knew where the Jews were when they came to a new town?  IBM punch cards.  IBM took Nazi money because it was money and they thought that since they also did good for the war effort, it balanced out.  Do you believe that the current barons of tech are more altruistic or moral or ethical than IBM was?  But still that’s not a perfect comparison – what IBM did was actually rather small. Each punchcard had something like 8 pieces of information on it.  You know how much more information your phone and facebook and twitter has about you? 

Your phone isn’t going to work.  Not for you, at least.  For them, yes. 

Further, if protests get real, the reaction isn’t going to be the current leaders throwing up their hands and saying “Y’know what, you have a point” and then doing the right thing. They’ll fucking fight back, and fight dirty.  Your local police who, no matter what that locale is, have a problem with white supremac and, are fully militarized now.  This isn’t going to be like the 1960s.  It’s going to be much worse.  And the military has been rehearsing for suppressing rebellions.  Just ask Flint.  Just ask St Lous.

But, you say, there would have to be due process to –

Really?  Take a moment.  Think about that.

But the horrific possibility of camps to –

Right.  Camps.  Take another moment. 

We don’t advocate violence here in the left.  And let’s be honest – by “left” I mean about 70% of the country.  But we also haven’t gamed out what happens when we’re up against people who aim to win at all costs.  I’m still not doing it. My brain can’t take it further than that.

I hope I’m wrong about all this.  I hope that we aren’t going that far.  But, to return to Shirer, it would make some sense if it does, as the problems with the police and the military and privacy and tech have all been apparent for some time and we’ve done nothing about them because we – meaning the people who have some power over our lives -- felt comfortable.  There’s this kind of karmic justice in that a society that doesn’t deal with its shit gets destroyed by its shit.

On that note, I have been curious for a while about how it is that anyone who has a conscience supports Trump.  To give him any legitimacy means sacrificing your own morals and ethics.  He’s amazingly precise in how he causes every individual in his sway to abandon his or her own positive qualities. I’ve joked that everyone in his circle looks like a Dick Tracy villain, but maybe that’s not an accident. Maybe there’s something that curdles your soul by standing so close to his evil.  (Benjamin Wittes, a writer I like but find problematic, was once friends with Kavanaugh – and defended him at first, until his performance on the Senate floor.  He says that this person isn’t the man he knew.  So say many other legal scholars who once knew him.  Something has changed in him.  It’s weird.)

I was trying to qualify how Trump’s worldview is attractive, and it occurred to me that every word out of Trump’s mouth, every deed, is exactly the opposite of Jesus’s. It’s uncanny. If only there were a word for someone who was the antithesis of Christ. 

Hmm. I guess there is a word. 

I don’t believe he’s the anti-Christ. He’s not that important. But he’s AN anti-Christ.  As a secular Jew I’ve read the Book of Revelation as a metaphor, a warning for how, eventually, someone motivated enough can make you abandon your values unless you’re self-aware enough.  We have long made the mistake of believing the anti-Christ would be slick and undeniable and crafty, but only recently have I realized that no, of course he wouldn’t be.  The truly evil thing about the anti-Christ wouldn’t be that he tricked you.  It would be that he let you be your true self, and your true self was awful.  He only gave you permission to behave as you really wanted to, and that is how you fell. 

There is not much that give me hope here.  Not anything, in fact.  I’m not drinking these days, which could be a mistake.  For a while I was drinking two or three glasses of wine a night and my physician said ‘well, that’s a reasonable response.’  Instead, I’m paying a lot of attention and it’s the anti-Christ thing that has me most on alert.  This is where the essay gets depressing (no, really, sorry about that – the part above is just a warm up).  

The Constitution, like the Bible, tried to anticipate many possible futures, and tried to provide a framework for how to deal with them.  I strongly believe that most of us have moral backbones and many of us wish our neighbors well. But why isn’t this happening now?  We turn to strongmen in times of famine rather than plenty, and ironically we are living in a world of plenty.  It’s being hoarded by the rich, of course, but the resources are there to make most people’s lives decent.  We tend to share in times of prosperity but that’s not happening now.

I have said this in prior essays, but it’s pretty much got to be the endpoint of any essay someone writes now that speculates about the future.  I believe that we as a species recognize, in a way that is baked into our genetic code as mammals, that the future is no longer a renewable resource. I think that climate change is so obvious now and happening so fast, with so little possibility of relief, that we know the jig is up.  We have ruined the weather.

But I can’t even process what that means. There is no way, genuinely, for the human mind to hold onto the probability that in our lifetimes, not that far way, we will have made the surface of the earth unable to support life.  It’s happening so fast.  Beyond all the dramatic stuff – the hurricanes, the floods, the droughts, the fires – I have been traveling around the country this summer and everywhere I see that the sky is wrong.  There’s something off about the clouds, the circulation of air.  People comment on it.  Something is shutting down. Something is making us all uneasy.  You see it.

There are two ways to deal with this fear.  One is to deal with it directly.  Make plans, confront how awful it is, see what’s possible, admit to our coming losses. Treat the future the way we did the development of penicillin or the A-Bomb.  I was just thinking this: the crazy thing is that the only way to combat the fall that’s coming is to be the best possible version of yourself you can be. That doesn’t mean the nicest.  It means being as powerful as you can.  Which is terrifying and difficult and a little amorphous. It’s not about being loved, but about finding your moral core and sticking to it.

We heard just today that we have the scientific knowhow and the ability to start remediating the destruction that’s on its way.  What they say is we lack “the political will” to do it.  What that means is that instead of dealing with it directly, we are trading on fear.   Fear is right now bigger than love.  Fear is motivating voters because it’s a good thing to sell on the marketplace.  Deny what’s happening, pretend it isn’t, sell fear instead.  Clamp down. The world wants a bad daddy, and here is a whole bunch of them to choose.

That’s what we’re doing. The second choice.  Denying that we had problems, kicking the can down the road, is how we ended up here. If we do it again now we will be destroyed. That’s not a hope or a fear – it’s just the way it’s going to work. I wish I had better news, but I don’t.

I keep saying this thing to myself that I don’t entirely understand. It’s that fighting begins with the right to see what’s actually before your very eyes.

The only thing I can say is that despair is not an option, but a luxury, and you can’t afford it now. Go and fight. They’re going to.  

[noirangetrois]

Cocktail Friday

Prompt: If you bottle up your emotions for long enough, eventually you can use them as Molotov cocktails.

Duo had a plan.

Well, plan was a strong term. More of a subconscious strategy that repeated itself an a semi-regular basis. It was quite excellent for getting his way, you see. He was aware of what he did, suppressing his emotions until all hell broke loose and the others acceded to his demands. He felt vaguely guilty about it because he knew it was kind of manipulative, but then he never claimed to have healthy relationship skills. Not in the slightest.

This time at least, he'd nailed down some of the details.

This was the last time. He would put up with it no longer. It was time to introduce dear Heero to the Wrath of Shinigami.

It was Friday, which meant Karaoke night with the gang. Unfortunately, Quatre wouldn't be making it this week – business trip, again – but Duo had scored the coup de gras: he'd wrangled a promise out of none other than Director Une to join them.

Peter D's was the place, a beautiful little dive bar a few blocks from the Preventers' main office in Brussels. If, by beautiful, you meant dark, dingy, with sticky spots on the floor, petrified gum stuck to the underside of the bar, and a karaoke machine that gave feedback to rival any chalkboard-scratching torture session. In other words, everything a quality dive bar should be. Hell, even the music was dive quality. Only stuff in the public domain, from back before AC. 20th through 22nd century AD tracks, mostly.

"Can't Take It," by the All-American Rejects, was Duo's song of choice. He was pissed, after all, and it summed up his feelings rather well.

Molotov Cocktail would be his drink order, later in the evening at least. Dangerous, considering his plan, but he was 85% sure it wouldn't cause any burns. Or maybe he'd chicken out about that part. Time would tell.

Either way, it was on.

-----

"Heero, my man!" Duo called from the bar, waving him over. As usual, Heero was one of the last to arrive, always staying late at the office to finish up something or other.

Duo knew Heero got judgy when he skipped out of there right at five o'clock on Fridays, though to be fair, Duo totally passed on Karaoke night when they had an important case to finish. When they weren't on a major case, though, Duo peaced out as soon as the clock struck five. As partners, they had very different approaches to work. It caused friction sometimes, sure, but mostly they complimented each other.

"What's it gonna be tonight? More Metallica?" Duo asked, brushing some peanut shells off the stool next to him so Heero could sit.

"System of a Down, probably," Heero said, flagging down the bartender.  "Long Island, please."

"Sure thing, Heero," replied Johnny, the bar tender and, believe it or not, owner. Nobody had ever managed to get him to explain where the name of the bar came from, no matter how they pried. Duo had decided that Peter D was the name of some dead cousin or something. Other people suspected Peter Downing, famous soccer star who played for Manchester United. But Johnny never had soccer playing on the two ancient TV screens, so he figured that was a no.

Heero glanced over at Duo's beer.

"Arrogant Bastard? Really?" he asked.

"Of course! Remember that case we had out in San Diego? This beer was the best part of that whole trip! I really miss Stone Brewery [1], man. Besides, the whole winged demon drinking from a pint aesthetic really jives with me, yanno? God of Death, here," Duo said with a wink.

Heero just snorted.

-----

It was time. Duo was up. He cued up the song, grabbed the cordless mike, and made his way to the stage. The group had claimed a large table, right in front, which was just what Duo needed. Heero was even sitting at the end. Perfect.

It was a pretty good turnout tonight. In addition to Heero and Une, Hilde, Trowa, Sally, Wufei and Dorothy were crowded around it. He smirked at them as the music started, then brought the mike to his mouth.

You speak to me and I know this will be temporary You ask to leave, But I can tell you that I've had enough

As the next stanza began, Duo made his way down the steps, winding in and out through the crowded tables.

I can't take it This welcome is gone and I've waited long enough to make it

Duo stopped in front of Heero, who looked somewhat taken aback, while the others at their table were cheering and catcalling. He lifted his finger, pointing straight at his partner.

And if you're so strong You might as well just do it alone And I'll watch you go

He let his hand drop, then stepped forward, crowding into Heero's personal space and bending down so their faces were even. Duo narrowed his eyes, letting some of his rage drift to the surface.

Step up to me I know that you've got something buried I'll set you free You set conditions, but I've had enough

I can't take it This welcome is gone and I've waited long enough

As the song continued, Duo stood back up and headed back to the stage. Heero had not liked that, nosiree. Good. If Duo had managed to scare up the patented Heero Yuy Death Glare™, then this was going exactly as planned.

The song came to an end, and the whole place cheered, Hilde even giving him a standing ovation. And was that a wolf whistle from Dorothy? No matter. They weren't important tonight.

Duo handed the mike off to the next singer, then headed for the bar. He waved at Johnny, but the place was hopping this late at night and the man was busy with another order.

"That was interesting," came a voice from his left. Une looked over him carefully, eyebrow raised. "Anything I should know about?"

"Oh nothing, just fooling around," he replied, winking.

"I see. In that case, please inform Heero. He's got his murder face on, and everyone's a little nervous about it."

"Everyone? Even Dorothy?"

Une rolled her eyes.

"Well of course not Dorothy. She's just grinning that evil grin of hers, probably anticipating the fallout with no small measure of glee. Seriously Duo, what's going on?"

Duo scowled.

"Alright, you got me. I'm pissed, and I want a temporary reassignment to another partner," he bit out.

Une looked genuinely shocked.

"Reassignment? Whatever for?"

"I'll tell you after I tell him." Duo turned back to the bar, where Johnny was waiting to take his order.

"Molotov cocktail. Make it strong."

Johnny tweaked an eyebrow. "Flames and all?"

"Flames and all."

"Coming right up, boss."

Duo looked back at Une.

"What? I'm in the mood for something on fire right now."

"As long as the fire remains confined to the glass, I've no problems with that," Une replied, then turned and went back to their table.

"No promises," Duo grumbled.

Johnny lit the drink up, then Duo grabbed it, lobbing a "Thanks!" back over his shoulder as he turned away.

He made a beeline for Heero, who was still glaring.

"It's time we took a break, Heero. After the shit you pulled today, I've had it. I'm getting a new partner."

Heero just blinked for a second before the scowl returned to his face. He stood up, stepping in close.

"If you would show me some god damned respect, I wouldn't have to resort to such drastic measures, Duo," he spat.

"Yeah Heero? I'll show you some fucking drastic measures!!" Duo screamed, then threw the Molotov cocktail in Heero's face.

There was a shocked gasp that echoed around the table, and then Heero's fist came screaming into Duo's face. He stumbled back, grinning. This was exactly what he was looking for.

"How's that for some respect?" Duo taunted, bringing his own fists up and shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

Heero just glared harder, if that were possible, then lunged. Duo dodged this time, only to be put in an arm lock from behind.

"That's enough!" Une's voice rang through the now quiet bar, all eyes on the former pilots.

Duo struggled, but Hilde had him well and truly restrained. Trowa was doing the same to Heero.

"Forget temporary reassignment, Maxwell. You're suspended, effective immediately. What the hell is this about, anyway?" she demanded.

Duo just grinned.

"Heero won't stop pulling my hair. He's like a child. Frustrated with Duo? Who needs communication when you can yank on his braid? I've had it. You do that again, Yuy, and I'll fucking castrate you, you got it?"

Heero just continued to glare daggers at him. Again with the excellent communication skills.

"Hilde, take him home, and be sure to relieve him of his gun and badge. We'll be in touch, Mr. Maxwell," Une concluded, then grabbed her coat and left, knowing full well her orders would be carried out without the need to supervise.

"You know what, Duo?" Hilde muttered in his ear. "You're a real asshole."

Duo laughed.

"I sure am," he agreed.

-----

[1] Stone Brewery is an actual brewery in San Diego, and they’re probably best known for their Arrogant Bastard Ale. If you're a fan of hops, it's probably up your alley.

@gwcocktailfriday

#gundam wing #fanfic #molotov cocktail #cocktail friday #gwcocktailfriday #duo maxwell #heero yuy #lady une #my fic #kj writes;

[sinrau]

In front of a brick building northwest of downtown, on a day when the nation’s gaze again fixed on this once-strong factory city, Justin Blake declared that President Trump must be defeated as he stood over the spot where a police officer shot his nephew in the back seven times.

“We don’t have any words for the orange man,” Blake said of Trump as he spoke to a crowd of more than 100 people — most of them Black — who had come for a block party complete with barbecue and bounce house. “All I ask is he keep his disrespect, his foul language far away…. Our president hasn’t been a unifier.”

Two and a half miles away, a different scene unfolded in uptown Kenosha, as the president’s supporters lined up behind barricades in anticipation of his arrival, waving American flags and hoping to catch a glimpse of his motorcade.

Sue Wells, a 57-year-old retired cleaner and factory worker, came with her daughter and her 5-year-old grandson. She signed a petition to recall the state’s Democratic governor and disparaged the racial justice movement as she stood by the historic Danish Brotherhood Lodge, which had burned to rubble during recent protests.

“If you’re so for Black Lives Matter, why are you destroying their community?” said Wells, a white Kenosha resident. The protesters, she said, don’t “understand how it is dividing us.”

Trump’s visit to Kenosha on Tuesday, where he toured downtown and met with business owners, law enforcement and elected representatives, lasted all but two hours. Yet it drew out the raw passions and divides of this town — and the nation — where debates over racism, policing and protest are colliding ahead of an election many fear will only bring more rancor.

“Reckless far-left politicians continue to push the destructive message that our nation and law enforcement are oppressive or racist,” Trump said after he landed here. “They’ll throw out any word that comes to them. Actually, we should show far greater support for our law enforcement.”

Conflicting images played out across Kenosha, which like Minneapolis and Portland, Ore., before it, bore the burden of a nation’s multiplying troubles in a narrative that featured a polarizing president, parents fearful of more bloodshed and members of right-wing groups, including the Proud Boys.

Police stand near a burning Department of Corrections building during protests Aug. 24 in Kenosha, Wis.

In Blake’s neighborhood, stereos blasted the “Cupid Shuffle” as groups danced in the street, some wearing shirts that said “BLAK: Black Lives Activists of Kenosha” and others calling for justice for Blake’s nephew, Jacob, who was left paralyzed. Volunteers lined up to register voters and offered free COVID-19 testing.

A few blocks northwest, dozens in red Make America Great Again hats cheered for the president’s motorcade before he spoke with local officials at Mary D. Bradford High School. Trump did not mention the Blake name, and when a reporter asked about protesters’ concerns about racism, the president said that was “the opposite subject” of what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to talk about the violence that has struck cities and left buildings torched.

“I keep hearing about peaceful protests. I hear it about everything, and then I come into an area like this, and I see the town is burned down,” Trump said. He said protests were really “acts of domestic terror” and “anti-American riots.” While much of Kenosha is on alert with boarded-up stores visible well into the suburbs, actual damage is limited to a small stretch of its urban core.

The president said he rejected a chance to speak with Jacob Blake’s mother, Julia Jackson, after learning she wanted lawyers present.

Benjamin Crump, a family lawyer, confirmed the account. “If the call had occurred, Ms. Jackson was prepared to ask President Trump to watch the video of Mr. Blake’s shooting and to do what she has asked all of America to do — examine your heart,” he said.

The police shooting of Jacob Blake and subsequent shootings in which 17-year-old Kyle Rittenhouse now faces murder charges in the deaths of two protesters have further split this crucial swing state. Trump won by a small margin four years ago in both Kenosha County and Wisconsin. Democrats hope this year that former Vice President Joe Biden will instead make gains.

Trump is pushing a “law and order” theme and is against the Black Lives Matter movement. Biden, who has spoken to the Blake family, has blamed the president for stoking violence among far-right and militia groups that have increasingly clashed with those protesting against police brutality.

Trump said Kenosha “would have been burned to the ground by now” if not for the intervention of the National Guard, which he claimed was his doing. The Wisconsin National Guard, however, has been in the city for more than a week at the request of Democratic Gov. Tony Evers, and federal law enforcement and National Guard troops from several other states joined later last week.

In a statement Tuesday, Biden called Trump’s time in Wisconsin “self-centered divisiveness accompanied by zero solutions.”

“Trump failed once again to meet the moment, refusing to utter the words that Wisconsinites and Americans across the country needed to hear today from the president: a condemnation of violence of all kinds, no matter who commits it,” a reference to Trump’s defense earlier this week of Rittenhouse, who he said was defending himself.

If plans went as some locals, including the governor, mayor and county executive had hoped, Trump would not have landed in this city of 100,000, halfway between Milwaukee and Chicago. The Democratic mayor, John Antaramian, said it would “be better had [Trump] waited.” Seven of the county’s 23 supervisors, however, wrote a letter saying they wanted the president’s “leadership in this time of crisis.”

David Swartz, 56, protests President Trump’s visit to Kenosha, Wis., on Tuesday.

At the Danish Brotherhood Lodge, several members spent Tuesday combing the ruins for relics, including their 110-year-old registry. They were glad to hear the president was touring damaged areas of their historic neighborhood, which has undergone gentrification over the years and is now dotted with small businesses.

“He’s drawing attention to this area instead of sweeping it under the rug and saying ‘Oh, poor protesters,’” said Joe Vaughn, 58, a retired ironworker who serves as the lodge’s treasurer.

Among those scouring the wreckage were Bryan Bernhardt, 52, and his 27-year-old son. Bernhardt’s grandfather helped found the lodge, where he and Bernhardt’s late father later served as presidents. Bernhardt said he was glad to see Trump and the National Guard in Kenosha, but was worried violence would rise again.

“Minneapolis is still going through it, Seattle, Portland,” he said. “Everyone feels for the family. Does change need to be made? Probably. Let’s get all the facts first.”

A few streets away, David Swartz, 56, said he turned out to protest Trump’s use of his town as a campaign stop. Swartz, a union electrician laid off during the COVID-19 pandemic, attended recent demonstrations in support of the Black Lives Matter movement, “because nobody deserves seven bullets in the back.” But he said he has brothers in the local electricians union who support Trump.

“He’s dividing the country, dividing people, pitting them against each other,” said Swartz, wearing his IBEW Local 127 jacket as he carried his sign on a street corner.

Kenosha has been under curfew since last week because of protests and riots after police shot Blake, 29, on Aug. 23 after officers showed up to a northwestern neighborhood in response to a 911 call about a domestic dispute.

Rittenhouse, the teen from Illinois, is charged with two murders on the night of Aug. 25 near protest sites. Rittenhouse, who carried a semiautomatic rifle and said he was protecting local businesses, fled the scene — in plain sight of police — and was arrested the next day in Lake County, Ill. Like Trump, his lawyers said he acted in self-defense.

For Porche Bennett, a 31-year-old native Kenoshian who attended the block party on the street where police shot Jacob Blake, not enough is being done to bring police to justice.

“We want the officer charged and fired,” said Bennett, who is Black and co-founded the group Black Lives Activists of Kenosha that has helped organize recent protests. “We do not want violence. What we want is justice for Jacob Blake and his family.”

U.S. Rep. Gwen Moore (D-Wis.) joins Justin Blake, uncle of Jacob Blake, during a community gathering at the site of Jacob’s shooting Tuesday.

As the party wound down, a few hundred protesters marched around the Kenosha County Courthouse. National Guard troops stood watch over the fenced-in site. In this open-carry state, a handful of armed protesters, both those in support of and against the president, appeared. Small groups with members of right-wing movements, including the Proud Boys, were also present.

Protest leaders urged crowds to disperse before the 7 p.m. curfew, fearing things could quickly go wrong.

“Jacob Blake’s family really doesn’t want people out,” said KeJuan Goldsmith, 19, a University of Wisconsin-Green Bay sophomore from nearby Racine. “All it takes is one cop triggered.”

Times staff writer Eli Stokols in Washington contributed to this report.

Trump’s Kenosha visit exposes U.S. divides over race and policing ahead of November vote

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Trump, Sex, and G-Strings: The Juicy Story Behind Newtown Athletic Club

City

The NAC is so much more than a suburban gym.

The pool scene at Newtown Athletic Club. Photography by Christopher Leaman

“How you make a G-string just disappear?”

This question, posed thoughtfully by the rapper Tyga in his song “Dip,” booms through the gym. I keep my eyes trained on the woman in front of me and try to mimic her movements: shimmy, shimmy, thrust, thrust, boob shake, BAM-slap-the-ground; shimmy, shimmy, thrust, thrust, boob shake, BAM-slap-the-ground. I’m not wearing a G-string, but if I were, I doubt I’d be making it disappear, as I’ve been in this Zumba class for 23 minutes and already my booty-shaking has become way less intense. I’m barely standing upright.

I send up a small prayer that this part of the routine will end soon, and, praise be, it does. Only it’s replaced by something far, far worse. To my horror, the attendees of this class — 112 women lined up like oversexed soldiers on an indoor basketball court — split in half and turn to face each other, like a West Side Story dance-off. The two sides begin to shake their way toward one other, then seductively jump back, butts in the air and blowouts bouncing. I’m somehow caught in the middle, always two moves behind and facing the wrong way, a tortoise in a stampede of spray-tanned gazelles.

The instructor, Rosalyn — known to her legions of followers as simply “Ros” — whips her long blond hair in circles. She’s a tiny firecracker, 47 years old, mom of five, in partially see-through black leopard-print leggings and a matching sports bra. She bares her teeth — literally, like a tiger — and every so often lets forth a primal yell. I can’t decide whether she inspires me or scares me.

Welcome, everyone, to the NAC.

For the uninitiated, “NAC” (pronounced “knack”) stands for Newtown Athletic Club, a 250,000-square-foot fitness complex that commands a 25-acre swath of land in Newtown. It’s a hulking, futuristic box of mirrored glass tinted the color of a Caribbean ocean, and it sticks out like a sore thumb on this sleepy stretch of Route 332 known as the Newtown bypass — part of a highway that snakes through much of Bucks County. In front of it stands a towering flagpole that lofts an American flag the approximate size of a Manhattan studio apartment high in the air, as if to say: Hello. We are America. Come join us.

Plenty of people have heeded the NAC’s siren call, paying up to $300 a month for entry into this elite place that fuels an ever-churning rumor mill. Live in these parts and you’ll hear it all: that everyone is sleeping with everyone (sometimes true); that the guy who owns the place is married and also has a girlfriend (true); that swingers flock here (unconfirmed, but likely); that the owner’s son was in prison for biting a guy’s ear off (yep); that the owner played a crucial role in Trump’s presidential victory (debatable, but more true than not); and that he’s planning to build a NAC-ian empire — a school! Apartments! A co-working space! — so that people won’t ever have to venture outside the gym’s campus, like a weird fitness-centric commune (slightly exaggerated but mostly true).

On its surface, the Newtown Athletic Club is a fancy gym. Members will tell you it’s a country club without a golf course. Non-members will tell you it’s a dividing line in town: “You can tell a lot about somebody just by asking what they think of the NAC. You’re either pro-NAC or against it,” says my friend Ashley, who lives in Yardley. (She’s against.) Employees will tell you it’s a “lifestyle center.” And NAC defectors will tell you that it’s basically high school, only with Botox and boob jobs. (“No, it’s worse than that. It’s like Tri Delts and frat houses,” says a current member we’ll call Claire, for her own safety.)

Members will tell you the NAC is a country club without a golf course. Non-members will tell you it’s a dividing line in town. And NAC defectors will tell you that it’s basically high school, only with Botox and boob jobs.

But none of these tells the whole story, because the NAC is more than a suburban gym on steroids. It’s an unlikely nexus of power, politics, money, sex and intrigue, a mini-city where thousands of people — including the area’s wealthiest, prettiest and fittest — go to work out and show off. It’s a social epicenter for a big slice of Bucks County, which flocks here to find a tribe (the Zumba girls, the weight lifters, the spin crowd, the yogis, the networkers, the monied stay-at-home moms, the poolside scenesters). They come here to connect with one another, either over preferred workouts and diets or over a shared love of the flashy side of fitness, where a trip to the gym is akin to a spin on a stage. (Some even bring their own tripods so they can film themselves working out. Don’t you?)

And, of course, the NAC is also the springboard from which Jim Worthington, its brash, bullish owner — the larger-than-life guy who created this larger-than-life scene — makes big waves. You know, stuff like solving the health-care crisis, finding a cure for ALS, electing Trump, and innovating until the NAC is known as the top fitness club in the world.

Back in Ros’s Zumba class, we’re on to the next move, which is just as awful as the last. I scan the room: There’s a cluster of high-school girls who look like Instagram influencers, all reed-thin and glowy. There are the Real Housewives, whose neon sports bras and grape-sized diamonds glow against their tawny skin. To my left is a woman in a very serious-looking knee brace and pearls, and over in the corner, a woman in her 80s is shaking her hips. In front of us, on the other side of a glass wall, are two little girls. They’re watching us, giggling, mimicking our movements: hip sway, booty shake, BAM-smack-the-ground.

A new song comes on, and everyone starts punching the air. Everywhere, butts, boobs, grinding, thrusting, sweating. I feel dizzy. This is terrible. This is the worst thing I have ever done. I never should have agreed to write this story. I should demand a raise. I hate this. I hate this place.

I need to join.

•

One morning last summer, Claire, the member whose real name shall not be known (hint: she’s a 40-something mom), visited the NAC pool. Claire goes to the NAC for its top-notch fitness equipment and instructors, but on this day, she was poolside, making idle chitchat with the nice 50-something woman next to her while stretched out on a lounge chair. (“Three thousand apiece for those chairs,” Jim Worthington says proudly.) Without warning, at precisely noon, the music, which had been low and chill, revved up so loud that you couldn’t hear the person next to you. The woman stood to leave.

“ARE YOU GOING TO STAY FOR THE FREAK SHOW?” she yelled to Claire. “IT’S COMING. I’M GOING TO GO BECAUSE I’VE SEEN IT.”

The infamous pool at the Newtown Athletic Club was Jim Worthington’s first real step in transforming the gym into a capital-L Lifestyle Club. Kevin McHugh, an industry colleague, remembers Worthington’s vision: “He said, ‘I’m not looking for a pool. I’m looking for a place that people are going to talk about.’”

And, oh, they talk.

They talk about the swimwear — the see-through crochet bikinis, the heels, the thongs. (“Maybe she wore it in Europe?” Worthington’s right-hand woman, Linda Mitchell, says tactfully.) “One of my girlfriends owns the bathing-suit store in Newtown. People come in and say to her, ‘Dress me for the NAC pool,’” says Stephanie Edelman, a 38-year-old mom of two so obsessed with fitness that she was working out at the NAC the morning she went into labor.

They talk about what’s happening — or about to happen — in those cabanas. They talk about the crazy Vegas-like parties that take place on weekend nights. (Worry not: The NAC offers on-site babysitting and will even call an Uber for you.) They talk about the drunken arguments at the pool bar: “It can get kind of crazy. You’re out there trying to separate these middle-aged women who are arguing over the same guy,” says Jimmy Worthington, Jim’s oldest son and a manager at the NAC. He was the one involved in the whole ear-biting incident, so he knows crazy. They talk about who’s single, who’s married, who’s having an affair. “It’s an incestuous cesspool,” Claire says.

Jimmy’s equally blunt. “Oh, we should have a reality show,” he says. “No question. We could. And it would be great.”

Like TV shows, the NAC operates in a bubble divorced from reality. It gives low-key suburbia a bit of glitz and flash and a buzzing central artery of action.

Like those shows, the NAC operates in a bubble divorced from reality. It gives low-key suburbia a bit of glitz and flash and a buzzing central artery of action. Sure, you could go here just to work out, but you could also drop your kids off, dance with your girlfriends in a sexed-up Zumba class, grab a kale smoothie, sit in a sauna, get a massage, change into a thong bikini, find a cabana, order a margarita, and pretend you’re in South Beach.

Or not.

“It’s like Vegas, but it’s weird,” says Claire. “Like, do you realize we’re off of a road here, people? We’re not in some beautiful place. Like, this is off the fucking bypass.”

Sure, it’s off the fucking bypass, but soon, if Jim Worthington’s plans go through without a hitch, “off the fucking bypass” will be the center of the universe.

•

On a Sunday morning in late March, Worthington waits in a lounge outside Studio 2, where a group is in the final butt-slapping throes of one of Ros’s Zumba classes. As the women file out, he springs to life, the eager ringleader of this circus.

“You guys want a tour? C’mon, I’ll show ya around and you can see what we’re doing. It’s gonna be the best club, seriously, in the world.” He’s talking about the $10 million-plus three-phase expansion that’s under way. (This expansion is called “Breaking Boundaries.” Each of his major renovations is named; the last one he did, in 2013, was called “The Big Build.”)

Tours seem to be a thing here. The whole complex is speckled with signs inviting members to see the expansion’s progress; I hear rumors of VR goggles. Worthington’s already taken me on a tour, but I follow him on this one, too, along with 19 other folks. He winds the group through the gym to the construction site like Moses leading his people to the Promised Land. Stephanie Edelman is here in her designer workout gear (bought at the NAC!), and so is Kim Levins, Worthington’s 31-year-old girlfriend, a statuesque blonde with faux eyelashes and long pink nails that are filed to sharp points. (Both the lashes and the nails are maintained at the NAC’s salon and spa, Urban Allure.) Levins is an amateur bikini fitness model, and she lives with Worthington in an old Bucks County farmhouse. It’s a normal relationship — lazy evenings spent hanging with their dogs and watching Fox News — except that Worthington is still married to Kathy, his wife of 30 years. They separated eight years ago and don’t live together, but they have an agreement: He pays for her lifestyle (she recently returned from safari in Africa), and they remain married-on-paper. That way, he explains, he doesn’t have to split his assets and decrease his net worth, which would limit his ability to “do big things.”

Newtown Athletic Club owner Jim Worthington. Photography by Christopher Leaman

Jim Worthington is 62 but seems much younger. He’s short, only five-foot-seven, and often in a sleeveless NAC shirt, workout shorts and sneakers. He’s compact, with a wide nose, a perma-tan, and short hair that stands at attention on his head like a soft-bristled brush. His eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles, and when he talks — which is a lot — he gestures wildly with his hands, which gives him a presence larger than he actually is.

When Jim Worthington talks, people listen. Some of it is because of the way he speaks — quickly, with a thick Philly accent. He starts a thought and then veers off-track, suddenly doubling back to something he mentioned an hour ago: “Did I ever finish that story?” But it’s also because you never know what he’s going to say next. Worthington is unpolished and unfiltered, a mix of unapologetic narcissism, bravado and refreshing frankness. He’s prone to exaggeration. It’s not that he doesn’t know he’s being controversial or how he might come off. It’s just that, well, he doesn’t particularly care.

“Jim kind of reminds me of President Trump,” says Larry Conner, the general manager of a Louisiana health club who sits with Worthington on the board of the International Health, Racquet and Sportsclub Association, the fitness industry’s global trade organization. (Worthington is the chair, a hugely influential position.) “If he speaks according to the teleprompter and all, he’s going to be a polished guy. But I haven’t seen him do that yet. The way he talks and the way he rambles on, the entertaining he does — yes, he might get some PR firms to cringe, but that brings him home to us.”

If the NAC had a PR firm, it would certainly be cringing now, as Worthington has careened off-script during the locker-room portion of the tour. The men’s locker room is the first part of the expansion to be completed, and it’s a glimpse into the future of the NAC, which looks more like a five-star luxury resort than a fitness club. The place is beautiful, all soft glowing light and slabs of creamy porcelain. (“That porcelain? A thousand dollars a sheet.”)

“We could’ve opened this two weeks ago,” he announces to the tour group, spreading his arms wide before launching into a tirade about the building inspector and township officials and the petty political stuff you deal with when you’re a big character trying to realize an even bigger vision. He riles up the group; they’re angry for him. I imagine the gazelles hunting down the building inspector and trampling him to death.

“I’m a big fish in a small pond here,” Worthington said to me when we first met. “I’ve got a bigger footprint outside of here, with the IHRSA chairmanship and the President’s fitness council.” (Worthington’s on the President’s Council on Sports, Fitness & Nutrition, along with Patriots coach Bill Belichick, MLB hall-of-famer Mariano Rivera and Dr. Oz.) “I’m recognized in my industry as one of the top guys, right? But locally, people think of me more as a businessman and entrepreneur, as opposed to somebody who’s doing something unbelievable in a global industry. There are members here who say stuff like, ‘We have the best club in Newtown,’ and you’re looking at them like, no, we’re one of the best clubs in the world. It’s a little disappointing.” Worthington waves it off, but despite his swagger, you can tell it stings.

Before you dismiss his claim as exaggeration, consider this: The NAC, which began as a modest racquetball facility, is now a bona fide mega-gym that pulls in, he says, nearly $19 million in revenue annually. It employs up to 500 staffers and has 12,000 members. But the NAC’s influence goes beyond sheer size.

“If nobody heard of Newtown before, they know it now. It’s a huge name internationally. Everybody in our industry is watching Jim,” says Conner. Yes, you read that right. A global fitness leader. In Newtown. I’ve lived in Bucks County for more than 30 years and driven past the NAC countless times. I’ve watched as weird things were added to the complex, like 2013’s water-park slide whose blue-and-white twists and twirls can be seen from 332 and maybe space. I chalked the slide — and news of four pools, cabanas, an outdoor restaurant, a full-service bar, a lazy river, and crazy weekend parties — to the manic visions of a guy who couldn’t decide whether he was running a gym, a theme park or a Vegas nightclub. But it turns out his visions weren’t manic. They were changing the face of the fitness industry. And, for better or worse, the face of an entire town.

•

Before you can look ahead to where the NAC is headed, you need to understand how it got here at all. It started as a nondescript 11-court racquetball club, founded in 1978 by a bunch of area businessmen — mostly Wall Street guys who wanted to cash in on the growing fitness trend. By 1981, the racquetball fad was starting to cool, giving way to Jane Fonda aerobics, and the Newtown Racquetball Club, as it was then known, was struggling to stay afloat.

Meanwhile, 20 miles away at the Babylon Racquet Club in Horsham, Jim Worthington was the life of the party. He’d just graduated from West Chester with a degree in health and phys ed and was working as a manager at the club. Babylon held round-robin tournaments on Thursday nights, and Worthington, as he tends to do, had whipped the weekly events into a full-blown scene.

“We drew a good crowd — 20, 30 people — and we’d all hang out afterwards,” says Bill Wunder, one of Worthington’s longtime friends. “But Jim drew all of us there. For whatever reason, people follow him; people listen to him, and they feel comfortable around him. He just draws people.”

Worthington’s ability to attract a crowd didn’t go unnoticed. Charlie Minter, one of the original owners of the NAC, and his wife, Dottie, lured him to Newtown in 1981. Within two years, Worthington had converted some of the racquetball courts to aerobics studios, boosted the club’s annual revenue by at least $150,000, and inked himself a deal in which he could buy a quarter-ownership of the NAC with his earnings. (The other partners were mostly silent; Worthington ran the place and used their balance sheets to secure hefty bank loans for expansions. He bought them out last year for $5 million apiece.) By the mid-’90s, Charlie Minter had left, Worthington was a one-third partner, and the Newtown Racquetball Club was the NAC.

The gym progressed steadily after that. Over the next decade or so, Worthington wiped out all of the racquetball courts and added an indoor pool, a gymnasium, and a huge three-story YouthPlex, which offers kids’ fitness classes, a party area (they claim to make a killing hosting birthday parties), and a child-care room, so you can ditch the kids while you make G-strings disappear. In 2011, he tacked on a separate sports training facility and event center; 2013 brought that Vegas-style pool.

You can still see the ceiling beams of the original racquetball courts, and Worthington loves to point these out. He shows them to me as we walk back through the gym from the indoor pool, where he regaled me with his plans for the space. These include a “European spa” with a cold plunge, and a year-round heated pool stretching from the inside to the outside, separated by a giant glass partition you can swim beneath. (“Like, if you’ve gone skiing in Colorado, you see a small pool outside that they keep heated year-round, and you go, Oh my God, that’s really cool. Well, I’m going to do the same thing here.” Pause. “But like five times bigger.”)

“You see the beams?” he asks. “This was court six, this was court five — this was the original club. You can see, it’s not very big.” He pivots on his sneaker, off to show me something else, but I hang back. I study the beams and try to envision what this space was like before all the rumors, Real Housewives and Republicans. Jim Worthington isn’t a subtle guy, and this is the most subtle he’ll ever be in explaining to me just how successful he’s become. Because the beams are more than a blueprint of the old club. They’re a benchmark of how far Jim Worthington’s come.

Samuel James (“Jim”) Worthington Jr., the youngest of three, grew up on a farmette in Prospectville, a postage-stamp hamlet surrounded by Horsham. His dad worked in finance; his mom was a “five-foot-three, 160-pound stump of an Italian woman, strong as a bull.” The household was a raucous, unfiltered carnival, and Jim Worthington ruled it. He was a hell-raiser in school, needling his teachers until they begged him to quit showing up. We’ll give you a C, just please stop coming in and disrupting us. He graduated from Hatboro-Horsham High School ranked somewhere around 300th in a class of 350.

According to childhood friends, Jim Worthington was always the center of the universe. It might have had to do with his size: He grew faster than everybody else, one of the biggest kids in elementary school, the first guy to grow facial hair in junior high. “He was dominating, a super-competitive, aggressive, athletic guy,” says longtime friend Dave Tiller. But then a funny thing happened. As everyone else grew, Worthington stopped. And if he’d been aggressive before, now it was even worse. Now he had something to prove.

“He has a little bit of the Napoleon-complex thing going on,” says Wunder. “His temper — he’s had some issues here and there with scraps.”

“Scraps” is a polite way of putting it. Worthington’s temper is legendary in Newtown. His emotions are exaggerated, a series of violent flare-ups, like water tossed on a grease fire, followed by quick cool-downs. (On the flip side, he’s also a crier. The first time we talked, he welled up five times. Many of his fellow IHRSA board members place bets on when he’ll start crying during a speech.) Unsurprisingly, these volcanic eruptions have gotten him in trouble.

A particularly violent bar fight when he was 25 landed him on probation. (His probation officer had lived across the hall from him at West Chester. “I knew I’d get you eventually,” he said when Worthington showed up for his first check-in.) And in 2001, a fight with an employee earned him a lawsuit. He jumps out of his office chair to show me exactly how it went down — where the guy was sitting, how the guy lunged at him, how Worthington slapped him in the face.

Linda Mitchell, who’s worked with him for 38 years and is the closest thing he has to a PR person, covers her face with her hand and shakes her head. Jim, for the love of God, shut up. But Worthington is even more animated now: “I know how to fight and I know he’s right-handed, so my head’s here, and I know he’s coming at me” — he finishes with a victorious flourish — “and I turn my head and he never hits me.” Linda and I stare at him. Do we clap?

Worthington hired a lawyer who was a longtime member of the NAC. The lawyer advised him against settling for a few thousand dollars; the jury awarded the employee $250,000 in punitive damages (which was eventually negotiated down to around $150,000); a furious Worthington nearly sued the lawyer for malpractice; and, according to Worthington, the law firm ended up paying half the damages.

Worthington still sees the lawyer around. After all, he’s still a member of the NAC.

•

People can’t seem to pin down who, exactly, Jim Worthington is and what, exactly, the NAC means. Worthington has turned the NAC into a mini Mar-a-Lago of superficial wealth and excess, but he’s also used it as a serious platform to drive attention — and millions of dollars — to causes he supports, like getting the PHIT bill passed. (It would allow Americans to allocate funds from health savings accounts to items like gym memberships and youth sports — and would be a boon for health-club operators.) The NAC has donated hundreds of thousands ($500,000 in 2017 alone) to Augie’s Quest, an ALS research foundation, and was instrumental in securing passage last year of the Right to Try bill, which gives terminally ill people access to experimental drugs. His involvement with the bill was spurred by NAC members Matt and Caitlin Bellina, a couple in their mid-30s grappling with Matt’s progressing ALS.

“At some point, I don’t know why, Jim decided he was going to try and save my life,” Matt says from his wheelchair. He can’t walk anymore, but the experimental injections he’s been receiving have helped improve his speech. Caitlin was the woman in front of me at Zumba, hip-thrusting like her life depended on it, or maybe just dancing for the both of them.

It’s sometimes hard to tell whether Worthington is a selfless philanthropist or a spotlight-seeker looking to cement a legacy. He’s far from humble when speaking about his philanthropic work, holding it out like a badge of honor, proof he’s not as bad as some people make him out to be. It makes you question his motives, until you hear about the stuff he doesn’t advertise: according to friends, he has co-signed car loans for employees, given someone a down payment for a house, let a down-on-his-luck friend crash in his guesthouse for a while. Dave Tiller puts it best: “Jim tells me I’m fat while he’s sending me $2,000 to get me out of a jam.”

Another thing people can’t agree on: whether Worthington is a left-brained by-the-numbers businessman or a gut-feeling sort of guy. You could make the argument for either. He lives by to-do lists. He keeps a folder in his desk drawer of every to-do list he’s ever made, dating back to 1981.

The whole Trump thing, though? “That was originally just a lark,” Worthington says. He grew up watching the national conventions on TV with his dad. They looked like big parties, everyone holding up signs. What fun, he thought, to go to one and hold a sign! His dad passed away a few years ago, and Worthington wanted to honor him. A powerful Republican lobbyist who worked out at the NAC told him he could be a delegate for 2016 if he got the 250 signatures required to get on the primary ballot. He needed to campaign.

But when you own a gym that has 3,000 members coming in daily, it’s easy to get signatures. He blasted the competition with robocalls and a firestorm of lawn signs. The whole thing cost him, he says, around $30,000, an unheard-of sum for an unbound-delegate race, but it was worth it. He’d made it to Cleveland, baby!

He cast his vote for Trump and then, with Mitchell’s help, organized a grassroots campaign called People4Trump. It soon got serious: Worthington offered to host Trump at a rally in his sports training center. Thousands of people showed up. (“And another 4,000 outside,” he claims.) And then, well, let Kellyanne Conway explain it, via Worthington:

“I was on the south lawn of the White House at a Congressional picnic, and Kellyanne Conway was there,” he says; his friend, Congressman Brian Fitzpatrick, had invited him to come. Worthington introduced himself to Conway, told her he was from Bucks County, and reminded her that they were the only suburban Congressional district Trump won. “I know,” she said. “I was a pollster. You guys were key to Pennsylvania.” Really? Worthington said. You think that? “Absolutely,” Kellyanne Conway said.

Jim Worthington, center of the universe. And controversy.

“God, since he was a delegate, I can’t even tell you how much shit we went through. Article after article, people quitting. It was so stupid,” says Kim Levins. Especially because — as Worthington insists now — he’s not actually all that conservative. “I’m supposedly this hard-core Republican, but I’m not. Am I a Trump supporter? Absolutely. I think the country is doing better than it ever has.” Then a keen insight: “I have a problem sometimes with his messaging — I think he takes it a hair too far. I’ve been accused of being that kind of guy, who just lets it rip, so I get where he’s coming from. I kind of identify with him.” (As if on cue, an employee walks past us. “Hey,” calls Worthington. And then he lowers his voice: “That’s my only illegal.”)

“People felt that they wanted to go to the NAC for the purposes of training and working out, and they didn’t want politics to be involved,” says John Cordisco, a NAC member and head of the Bucks County Democratic Party. He’s good friends with Worthington; they partnered on a real estate venture. “It’s privately owned, privately run, he’s free to do whatever he so chooses.”

The reaction to the rally was swift, but not as brutal as you might think. Worthington says only 50 or so members quit. And those people are blacklisted. Forever.

“If you challenge my right as an American citizen to do something off the property” — this is semantics; the training center is technically separate from the NAC, as it’s a pay-for-use facility, but it’s next to the larger NAC campus, it’s owned by the same guy, and, well, it says NAC on it — “to advance a cause that I feel strongly about, I don’t want your business.”

Worthington did make one exception, though. As he tells it, a member-services employee found him while he was working out — Worthington works out every single day from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. — to tell him a guy wanted to talk to him. He’d quit the club over the whole Trump thing and wanted back in. No way. The employee came back a few minutes later: “He wants you to know it wasn’t his decision to quit, but his wife’s.” Tell him to grow a set. She came back a third time: “He wants you to know he’s getting divorced.”

Worthington stopped working out and gave the employee a message to relay: “Congratulations. You made the right decision. Welcome back.”

•

Oh, no. No, no, no, no. How did this happen, I think to myself, as the thumping beat of Tyga’s G-string song begins to pound through the studio. How did I end up here — again?

It was actually quite by accident: I’d been sitting in the lounge outside an exercise studio when the Zumba tribe walked by. I recognize some of them now: Stephanie Edelman, Caitlin Bellina, Kim Levins, and finally Ros, with her tiny Chanel bag and blond lion’s mane. “Are you here for Zumba?” asked Levins, excited. I explained, rather desperately, that I was actually just there to use the treadmill. She protested: “But you’re here! You have to try it again, the second time is easier, we’ll save you a spot!” There was nowhere to hide.

From my place in the back, I watch the women in the front row. It’s cutthroat to get up there, I’ve learned. Edelman worked for nine years to earn her coveted spot — first row, dead center. Bellina and Levins are next to her, dancing, laughing, forgetting stuff like ALS and politics and drama, making G-strings disappear.

The after-work Zumba class led by Rosalyn Yellin (center). Photography by Christopher Leaman

Soon, they’ll have a brand-new Zumba room (“’Bout a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of lighting and sound in there,” Worthington says) complete with a DJ booth, a stage, and a balcony overlooking the pool. It’s part of the Breaking Boundaries expansion, which includes a new wing of rooms designed specifically for individual classes. Worthington described it on our group tour as a “fitness mall” — each room has its own unique “storefront” — and it’s his innovative way to compete with today’s trend toward boutique fitness studios like SoulCycle, Orangetheory and Barre3. Along with the Zumba room, the wing includes a yoga studio with a dome ceiling and a spinning studio with a fully immersive Imax-like screen. (“Just the screen alone cost a couple hundred thousand bucks.”)

“You’re on ground zero,” Worthington says grandly, “and I’m not just saying it because I’m me — well, maybe I am — but you’re on ground zero of the next trend in the global fitness industry.”

Jim Worthington’s plans for the NAC are sweeping. (And, if you’re not pro-NAC, potentially scary. Sample: He used his power and influence to help kill plans for a large YMCA complex in town. Unfair competition, he explains.) His NAC preschool is slated to open in January — a natural extension of the gym’s child-care service and youth programming and a possible death knell for other, smaller programs in the area. “It looks like a Disney set!” he says. “Nobody will be able to compete with us.” Also coming: a co-working space, a restaurant, a Starbucks, and physicians to provide concierge medicine to members. And he’s working with Live Nation to create an event center across the street, though this won’t be part of the NAC campus. He’s got plenty of other ideas, too: tennis, climbing walls, ropes courses, zip lines. Linda Mitchell keeps telling him it’s time to put a bar inside.

“It’s not a gym. It’s a lifestyle,” says Bill McAlister, the owner of a successful infomercial company and one of the NAC’s biggest spenders. On top of his membership, he throws down between $3,000 and $4,000 a month here. “On personal training, on season tickets for the Sixers, Phillies and Eagles” — the NAC houses a ticketing agency, too — “my wife and I get our hair cut there, I get a massage every other week, we’ll get dinner there. Pretty much everything that you want, other than sleeping, is there,” he says. “And he’s taking that on in the next two or three years, so … ”

McAlister is referring to Worthington’s idea for NAC apartments across the street. (All residents would get a free gym membership.) He already owns the land — he warehouses property surrounding the NAC so that he can nimbly jump onto his next grand vision — and his architect is working on plans to present to the township. He’s already had one setback, though: The township nixed his plan to link the apartments to the NAC via a pedestrian tunnel. We are in Newtown, after all.

“As we got bigger and bigger over the years, we would laugh and say, ‘It’s like going to the mall.’ Now, it’s like going to a town, a village, all in and of itself,” says Mitchell. She’s a lovely woman, polished and well-spoken — a perfect antidote to Worthington’s rough edges. “When I grew up in the 1950s,” she continues, “we all went to our churches. People don’t do that as much anymore. Although people do still go, and they have those communities, we’ve become a little bit more secularized. The NAC brings all of that together.”

“The church of Jim Worthington,” I joke.

She laughs and buries her head in her hands. “Oh my God!” Then she says it again, more thoughtfully, almost scared, as if this might be something that someday could actually happen:

“Oh my God.”

Published as “This Is a Gym?” in the June 2019 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Source: https://www.phillymag.com/news/2019/06/08/newtown-athletic-club-nac/

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

[lovingzombiechaos]

The Price We Pay-Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Nayna and Negan investigate the gunshot. Word Count: 3300 Tag List: @dusty-cookie, @vizhi0n, @negans-network, @kinkozan, @theonethatgotaway213, @a-distantdreamer, @sweetsweetpeach Special thanks to my beta: @withsilverleaves who is awesome and amazing listening to all my late night rambling. Previous Chapter: Seven TPWP Masterlist

The shadowy echoes of the gunshot rattled around in her mind as her heart thudded in her ears. The shallowness of her breaths made her lightheaded. She barely even registered Negan’s yapping as he walked up the stairs, Lucille swinging ominously from one hand. The Saviors were the only ones with guns. No one else knew where the guns were. One of Negan’s Saviors must have shot one of her people. Nothing else made sense. Propelled forward by that sickening thought, she took the stairs two at a time and raced to catch up to Negan, who was waiting for her in the doorway. She stopped at the top step and set her jaw. “Oh, how nice of you to fucking join me. Care to fucking escort me to the fuckery, dear doll?” He gestured outside with Lucille. “Get out of my way,” she said, her voice deep and husky. Negan threw his head back and laughed. She found herself studying his throat, though not because she wanted to jump him. No, she wanted to wrap her fingers around that big, thick throat of his and squeeze until his head popped off. “You better hope to Christ, to God, to Allah or whatever you pray to that my people are fucking safe, Negan. Or it’s no longer my ass on the line. It’s fucking yours.” She stepped off the stairs towards him and jabbed him in the chest. He grabbed her jaw and dug his thumb and forefinger into the fleshy part of her cheeks. “Don’t fucking threaten me again, Nayna.” She never broke eye contact with him, even as she brought her forearm up and swept it to the side, effectively knocking his hand free. “Get out of my way, dickbag.” For someone so big, Negan sure moved fast. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her up against the adjacent wall.  It took every fighting nerve for her to override her instinct to headbutt him and then kick him in the balls. Again, she brought her arms up, but he was already expecting it and he grabbed her wrists and pinned them high over her head. “Don’t you fucking get it?” Nayna panted as she struggled both internally and externally. She tried to ignore the intense fire budding between her legs from being rendered helpless. “Fucking get what, doll?” His face loomed just above hers. Close enough to kiss. Or bite. “Your people have all the goddamn guns!” In a split second the hot air ran cold as fear flashed in those dark eyes of his. But Negan was the ultimate master of emotions and the fear was scrubbed away with the scraping of his hand up and down his face. It didn’t remove the worry line on his forehead, however and she was momentarily vindicated and confused. He dropped her arms and stepped back. She rubbed her wrists, chest still heaving from the close contact. “Guess that little fact escaped your tiny mind.” But he didn’t rise to the bait. “Look at this. You made me fucking drop Lucille.” He bent down and scooped up the bat. Turning it over, he examined it for damage. “It’s like dropping the American Flag on the ground. Just disrespectful as fuck.” “Yeah well, after we figure out what the fuck is going on, I’ve got some matches so you can burn her.” He snorted. “No, you should fucking apologize to her.” “I don’t fucking have time for this shit,” Nayna snapped. “Not while I’ve got people to think about.” “Fuck,” he said again and pushed past her. “Let’s fucking go.” She could barely keep up with his strides, having to trot just to stay beside him. Was he really fucking worried that one of his people killed one of hers? Interesting. “I think it came from near the gate,” Nayna said, veering off to the left. They hurried towards the gate in relative silence. Her heart sunk when she saw the crowd, intermingled with Saviors and Alexandrians alike. Carol stood just on the outside of the circle. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Nayna and Negan. “Where have you been?” “She was with me,” Negan said, smoothly. “I needed her to run an errand.” Carol’s eyes flitted over him, but he turned to the crowd. “Anyone mind telling me what the fucking fuckity fuck happened?” People turned to stare. First at Negan, then at Nayna and then back to Negan again. She ignored them, instead peering over Negan’s shoulder to see the source of the gunfire. “One of your men shot themselves.” Carol crossed her arms over her chest, still staring accusingly at the pair of them. Negan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, taking in several deep breaths. “You gotta fucking be kidding me.” Before she could help herself, a grin formed on Nayna’s face and she leaned forward and whispered, “Bet that box of rocks looks great about now.” If looks could kill, she would have dropped dead right at that very moment from the pure venom in his glare. Nayna chortled and shrugged, which made him shake his head and push his way through the crowd to the injured person. “You know what really sucks?” Nayna called out over the heads of several people. “You took all our medical supplies at the beginning. You might want to rush Tweedle-Dum home.” He stopped and turned back to consider her before sighing heavily and running his hand down his face. “Motherfucking idiotic fuckwad.” One of the female Saviors, a tall blonde with a nose ring, stepped up to Negan. “Sir?” “Load him into the fucking truck and fucking haul ass back. Make sure his fucking truck goes first. Now!” The Saviors scrambled to throw things into the backs of their trucks and skitter away from him. The rest of the Alexandrian crowd huddled together in the middle of the road. Nayna picked her way through to Negan and she stopped in front of him. His eyes flickered downward and then back up to her face, sending a rush of heat all along her skin. Whenever she was around Negan she always became astutely aware of her body. What position she stood in. Where her hips were in relation to him. The way her body tingled when he touched her. On one crazy-ass plane of her mind, she reveled in his attention. Fuck, he was the first man to openly flirt and pay attention to her in that way. Even William had been reserved and cool. On the other hand, she hated it because of who he was. And because she meant nothing to him aside from cannon fodder. “What?” She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts whirring in her brain. “Anybody fuckin’ home, or have the elves all left the fucking factory?” He waved Lucille in her face, making her step back. She waved him away. “Get that bitch out of my face or I really will fucking burn her.” “Is that any way to fucking treat my lady?” He ran his fingers along the length of the bat, caressing her as a lover would. Caressing her the way Nayna wanted to be touched. Great, now she was jealous of a fucking bat. A fucking bat that was getting more action than she ever would. “Jesus you’re fucking delusional. It’s a fucking bat.” “I know it’s a fucking bat. But this bitch, as you fucking so kindly called her, saved my life on numerous occasions. Hell, she’s the only bitch I’ve ever fucking loved.” She rolled her eyes. “Your poor fucking wives.” He chuckled. “Doll, we both know they aren’t with me for fucking love.” She searched his face for even a hint of remorse or pain but found none. What ran through this man’s head? Normally she could read people like a book. Negan, however, was a mystery. A repellant, intriguing mystery. She snorted. “It must be your big, meaty dick.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that. It was a comment she might have made to her old partner, Sean or maybe Daryl. But fucking Negan? She just felt dirty after that, even as the perverted part of her brain slithered into thoughts of sex and fucking. Negan threw his head back and laughed. “Your face is so fucking red. I fucking knew you had a perverted mind under all that prudery. I called it.” Unable to look at him, not wanting to prove him right, she couldn’t meet his gaze. He stepped closer to her, his body heat seeping into hers. The already warm day became stifling and muggy. He tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her head up. “You could come back to the Sanctuary and find out all about my meatstick.” She burst out laughing. “Meatstick?!” “Jesus…” He stared at her as she doubled over, giggling. Of course, he took the opportunity to check out at her tits. “The fuck is so funny?” “You called your dick a meatstick! Oh God, that’s fucking hilarious.” He watched her as she continued to laugh. But it felt so good to laugh. She hadn’t laughed like this in…weeks…months…maybe even years. Finally, she stood up and half patted his chest. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t making fun of Meatstick Negan. I’m just a twelve-year-old boy deep in my heart who laughs at fart and titty jokes.” Her smile must have been infectious because he grinned back at her without warning. “Meatstick Negan will fucking be waiting for you then. Toodles.” He stepped back and gave her a two-finger salute before turning back to his men. “The fuck you lookin’ at? Let’s fucking get our asses on the road! Bunch of fucking slow motherfucking dickshits.” She turned her back on the retreating cars, only to find the remaining Alexandrian’s looking at her with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Their stares made her feel like a naughty child, caught in the midst of wrongdoing.  Her eyes darted from person to person in the crowd, her gaze occasionally resting on a familiar face. It wasn’t her fault that Negan forced her hand. She had to play nice. Otherwise, they would have put another body into the ground and there would be no other protection from Negan. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she looked over the ignorant faces before her. Never had she hated so many people at once. It was all too much for her to handle. She turned her back on the people who counted on her. She turned her back on the unexpected rush of emotions. With several pairs of eyes watching, she left, slipping down alleyways and darting between houses to avoid stragglers. Not really paying attention to where she was going, she blinked in surprise when she found herself back inside the living room of the little house.   She inhaled sharply and leaned against the wall, glad she was alone. How could she face any of them with the way she was blatantly flirting with Negan? All she ever wanted was to fit in, and no matter what she did, she never could. She bled for those people. Stood up for all of them. When she closed her eyes all she could see was Carol’s hardened gaze, Aaron’s disappointment, Eric steadfastly avoiding her eyes, Rosita’s accusatory stare and Eugene’s look of pity. The pity hit her the hardest. She could handle all the adversary in the world, but pity wasn’t something she could abide by. Pity made her appear weak. She rubbed a hand over her now pounding head and sighed. Now what? She couldn’t go home and face Carl or wait for Rick. Word would get back to him once they got back from the supply run, and knowing him, he’d give her a serious talking to. Or worse, he’d look at her with those understanding blue eyes and she would want to break down. The door banged open, making her jump even as her hand curled around the knife at her waist. “Nayna?” Glenn’s voice called out from the foyer. “I know you’re here, I saw you come down this way.” Of course, he did. And of course, he would follow her. She let go of the handle, her shoulders sagging. “In here,” she said. She winced at the warble and waver in her voice. Great, all she needed now was an emotional breakdown. She pressed her knuckle into her lip. “You okay?” He leaned on the white doorframe, holding a small silver package against his thigh. “Peachy.” She shuffled her way to the ugly white couch and flopped down. He sat down next to her and passed her the box. “Found this on the last supply run. Thought your nerdy side might enjoy it.” Smiling, she turned the box over. “Coup. I fucking love this game. I used to be so fucking good at it.” She glanced up at him. “You up for a match?” He shook his head. “No. I actually came to find you because I need your help with something.” She scratched the surface of the box. “Can’t Maggie help you out?” It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to help Glenn. She just wanted to be alone. “She needs her rest.” “She’d be pissed knowing you’re treating her like a little pregnant woman.” Glenn stood up and watched her with his steady eyes. “Nayna, come on.” He so rarely asked her for anything. Much like Rick, she couldn’t say no to Glenn. She sighed and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do.” Half an hour later, she found herself standing idly in the doorway with the toolbox at her feet while Glenn shined a light under his sink. She rocked from side to side, eyes roaming the expensive kitchen. The kind of kitchen she would have never been able to afford with its stainless-steel appliances, granite countertop and white-washed cabinets. He motioned to the box. “Hand me the wrench.” She rolled her eyes and crouched down, pawing through the toolbox. “So, I’m a glorified tool handler.” “Eh, I prefer assistant sanitary specialist.” She chuckled. “You would.” He sat up and looked at her. “What are you doing?” “I am currently looking for the wrench. It’s a very important job for the assistant—“ “—that’s not what I meant.” She refused to meet his eye. “Well, I don’t know what you mean then.” “What happened to you?” “What happened to you?” She countered, still searching for the stupid wrench. “Don’t think we all haven’t noticed that you haven’t been yourself for nearly six months.” She yanked the wrench from under several other tools and thrust it into his hand. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” He set it aside, watching her. “Bullshit. You know it. I know it. Rick knows it. We all know something is wrong.” She shrugged. “There’s always been something wrong with me.” He rolled his eyes. “Way to feel sorry for yourself.” “There’s something wrong with all of us, Glenn.” “You’re not the you I remember.” “What ‘me’ is it that you’re referring to?” “You’re cold and detached. And yet you jumped in front of a bullet to save all of us. Why and why?” She shrugged. “I’m not detached.” “Could have fooled us with that poker face of yours.” She clenched her jaw and looked over his head, focusing on the detachable faucet. “I’ve always had a poker face.” “Yes, but…” He bit his lip, considering her. “Your actions have never matched your face. Now? It’s like you don’t care anymore.” Stung, she let her mouth drop open. “I don’t care? How can you say that to me?” His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for her, but thought better of it. “I know you care. I know you do. But, you’re drifting away and…Well, I’m worried about you. You don’t come to Sunday dinner with everyone. You barely talk to Maggie anymore. Before Negan came you were always out hunting. Now you don’t go out at all. You zone out all the damned time now. You’re not Nayna anymore. It’s like…” She sneered. “Like what?” A shadow passed over his face. “It’s like you’re Meghan and not Nayna.” “Hell, Meghan is who I was and who I will always be.” “I call bullshit. Meghan is the veil Nayna hid behind. You’ve always been Nayna, but you were scared—“ She held up her hands, cutting him off. “What do you want from me?” “I want you to be better. I want you to be both Nayna and Meghan because that’s when you are at your best.” She stared at the linoleum, tapping her thumbs against her bottom lip. Now would be a good time to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. At least, not on the outside. On the inside, her heart cried every day. “Stop shutting down, Nayna.” She swallowed thickly and shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s a protective measure. A defense mechanism. I’ve never, ever been good at showing emotions. At least not on my face. Because I was never allowed to be anything but happy as a child, I trained myself to keep a blank face. I was never happy and I couldn’t live that kind of lie. In the end, I just adopted a poker face. And now? I can’t get rid of it, no matter how hard I try. And, I do try. I try and try and I just can’t let it go. I don’t know how.” Glenn’s compassionate eyes searched for hers, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. Her teeth bit into her cheek as she tried to anchor herself in the physical world. “I’m lost.” She couldn’t have admitted it to anyone but him. Especially not Rick. What would he think of her? Glenn smiled wryly. “I know. Why do you think you’re here, helping me fix my not broken sink?” She tilted her head back, her heavy braid falling over her shoulder as she rubbed her hands over her temples. “I don’t know what to do. I….” “Part of this is Michonne and Rick, isn’t it?” Her muscles tensed and she pursed her lips. “Don’t.” He sighed and scooted closer to her, offering his hand. She sat back and leaned against the cabinet, considering his warm, open hand. It was the same gesture she gave to Rick when Lori died. To her, the gesture represented love and solidarity. Two things she so desperately wanted and needed. Tentatively, she placed her own shaky palm in his and he wrapped his long fingers around hers, completely encasing her hand. “Just because he doesn’t love you the way you want him to, doesn’t mean there is no love there. You are his best friend. You matter to him. You are one of the most important people to him. He needs you.” “What about what I need?” She hated to hear her voice sounding so small, so weak. “You need him to need you.” She smiled at him, sudden enough to make him raise his brows. “What?” “You sound so much like Herschel.” He laughed. “Thank you.” “God,” she said with a huff, blowing her bangs from her forehead, “I remember when he hated us.” “I remembered when he hated me.” She wriggled her hand from his and ran it through her hair. Her mind had begun to race and all she wanted to do was sleep. She lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. “I miss Shane.” Glenn said nothing, opting instead to wrap an arm around her shoulder and pull her against him.

#TPWP #nayna #negan #comicnegan> #tpwpchap8

[justaboywithaonemanshow]

My first Ed Sheeran Concert / Argentina / May 2017

I know nobody reads my blog and I’ve got literally 5 followers and this is going to be a long post but I really need to write this down ❤️

So last Saturday was my first ever Ed Sheeran show (and first ever proper concert experience) and I’ve got to say...IT WAS THE BEST FUCKING DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! I’ve lived a pretty decent amount of years and had experienced some beautiful, unique things through out my time on earth but OH MY GOD THIS WAS SO AMAZING, I just can’t get over it, it’s been a week and I’m still super excited about it (I’m also a pain in the ass for everyone who knows me because I just can’t shut up, I’ve literally been talking about it non stop since Saturday) 

I arrived to La Plata at 10:30 am, I live in a small town 620 miles away from it, on the northeast of the country so I had to take a really really REALLY long 13 hour bus ride to get there. I rushed to the hotel, quickly changed my clothes and went to the stadium. My cousin/god-daughter was already queuing with her older brother who was saving my spot. All this madness actually started because of her, in September she’s turning 15 and when the tour dates were released I knew this was the most perfect present for her (she loves Ed). Long story short, at first I wasn’t going with her, her brother was (he’s not keen on Ed), I had to work plus I’m doing a master’s degree that should be finished by the end of may so things were complicated, but then I though fuck it, you only live once! and decided to join her. By the end of march I surprised her with the tickets (which I kept secret for a whole month) and our Ed Sheeran journey began.

I got to the stadium at 11:30am, we had general admision ticket (the front section) so we had to queue to get good spots, when I arrived there were like two blocks of people queuing, some of them arrived on Tuesday and were camping outside for 3 days! We started chatting with some girls who were next to us and spend the whole afternoon together, we were like 6 girls and a dad, laughing and having fun, talking about Ed and stuff, it was so nice to get to know them ❤️ We even heard Ed doing the soundcheck and started screaming like maniacs (Argentinean people scream a lot hahaha)

By 4pm the queue started moving and we were slowly entering the stadium in groups, we ran like crazy (while screaming, obviously) even though the guards kept telling us NO RUNNING! When I entered the stadium I was so shocked by how huge it was and how close we were to the stage! I had no hopes of being close since I was arriving on the date of the show, I even brought my glasses because I thought it would be so hard to see him but, to my surprise, we ended up like 6 or 10 people away from the barricade, we were so so happy we send a voice message to our family screaming in joy. 

And then the wait and torture began, we were literally compressed, I coudn’t even move my arms and sometimes it was really hard to breathe, my cousin ended up a little bit further away from me because I went to get merch when we arrived but I kept an eye on here most of the time. The first oppening show (a local singer) was pretty good, a bit boring. Then it was Antonio Lulic’s turn, he was super charismatic and fun but I was so uncomfortable I just wanted to go, there was a point where I though “this is awful, I’m never getting general admision tickets again” How wrong I was.

It was a really cold day, 9º and it rained a few times, by the time Antonio was done and we were waiting for Ed it started pouring heavily, but we where so hot and pushed together that it was a relief. At 20:30 exactly the screens were lit, we where like 40,000 people inside the stadium, and boom there he was, in all his ginger glory, playing Castle on the Hill with his small guitar sporting a red hoax t-shirt over a flannel (I was hysterical about the flannel lol I just missed them so much) and those lovely tight jeans. And at that moment I knew, everything was worth seeing him, the wait, the cold, the rain, the pain, the pushing, the hair of the girl in front of me in mouth, he was there, a few meters a away from me. It was surreal, seeing him there, I’ve watched so many videos, and I was seeing him live so clearly, he was incredibly beautiful, he had the warmest smile I’ve ever seen, his hair bright orange and the red suited him perfectly, his eyes bright and excited. 

As usual, when he arrived people screamed to the top of their lungs and the Ed Sheeran party began, we were so so loud, and he was so so impressed. After Castle on the Hill he said “Hello, this is amazing” and told us he was looking forward to coming back to Argentina because he remembered how loud we were, and dared us to be even louder than the whole european tour (we were).

The rest of the night was pure magic, I was still uncomfortable but it was so worthy, I kept moving from different spots because people literally dragged me, sometimes I was closer to the stage, sometimes not so much. I sang, jumped, cried and scream through the almost 2 hour show. Apart from being amazingly talented as always and his voice just as sweet, beautiful and powerful, he was super happy to be there. That was the best part, seeing him enjoying the experience as much as we were. 

He kept moving closer to the edge of the stage and I was swooning every time he did, you can literally hear me in the videos sighing “ahhh”.

He sang Castle on the Hill, Eraser, The A Team, Don’t / New man, Dive (which he asked us to sing the loudest while it was raining heavily), Bloodstream (one of my favourite to hear live, because of the energy that performance has and the heavy guitar action), Galway Girl, Feeling Good / I See Fire, Barcelona (every time he sang the lyrics in spanish he smirked, he knew we would scream even louder, Perfect, Happier (where he asked us to turn the lights on, the view was beautiful), Thinking out loud, Photograph (I cried through the whole song, you can hear me sobbing while singing in my video) and then something amazing happened. In between songs we, the people in the general admission area, started screaming “Give me love, give me love” to which he answered “Try next time”. After Photograph, he grabbed his guitar, looked at us while we kept screaming “Give me love” and asked Trevor to bring any guitar that was on tune and HE STARING SINGING GIVE ME LOVE, we were hysterical, we asked, he did it, it lasted nearly 9 minutes, it was breath taking, he even set up a chorus in the crowd, dividing us in Higher Harmony, Lower Harmony and asking to sing non-stop, no matter what happened while he sang and directed us like an orchestra (you must have seen the video by now) It was magnificent. Then came Nancy Mullingan (he asked us to sing the nanananana instrumental part) and Sing (we jumped and screamed like psychos, it was super fun and energetic). He then run to change and came back with the Argentinean football t-shirt, I have to admit I was one of those people who thought it was silly when singers do that, and I didn’t understand the excitement of it, but when he came back I nearly peed in my pants hahahahaha it suited him so nicely, bringing out the blue in his eyes 🎵 Shape of you began, we where all dancing and jumping, and for closure, You need me I don’t need you, where he got all excited moving and running trough the stage like crazy while waving an argentinean flag. (overly excited Ed in YNMIDNY is my favourite Ed) And then he was gone.

I took a few pictures, almost all of them awful (I’m really bad plus my phone is crap) and videos where you can hear the crowd (and me) more than you can hear Ed hahahaha I tried to enjoy the show through my eyes rather than my phone, and I’m so glad I did.

Since december I’ve been strugling with a lot, went through something I thought I’d never had to deal with that got me really really down. The person I loved the most, that I thought would never hurt me, crushed me into pieces and the last 6 months were awful. I was depressed, didn’t leave the house, didn’t showered, lost weight, cut contact with all my friends and family but then the latin american tour was announced and I bought tickets for my god daughter. By the end of march I made the decision to go with her and from that exact moment things got better, I was finally looking forward to something, dreaming about the experience, smiling once again.  Ed’s music lifted me up in a way I tought it was not possible. The moment I saw him my heart was pounding so much. He was there, he was real. People tell me “If you didn’t go you’d have regreted it so much”. Now, being aware of what this type of experience is, what it makes you feel, I would never forgive myself if I decided to stay. I literally never imagined it would be THIS GOOD. 

20.05.17 is, by far, the best day of my life, I’ll never forget it. Thank you singer songwriter Edward Christopher Sheeran. You’re a magical human being.

*Sorry for my english but as you might have guessed is not my first language.

#ed sheeran #teddy sheeran #ed sheeran argentina #divide tour #divide tour latin america #my ed sheeran experience #my first concert ever #ed sheeran live #best day of my life #will never forget this