#and the immediate ick it hit me with like. beyond. right

[isa-ah]

do you ever see something that just leaves you speechless from the pure audacity of it all.

[sadaboutniall]

happy halloween! 👻 here’s a quickie little yn x niall fic to celebrate my fave holiday! this song is the vibe, if you want some listening to go along with.

the moon laughs and whispers, ‘tis near Halloween

Unsurprisingly, Halloween is perfectly at home in Edinburgh. The night is dark and damp, a pervasive chill hanging in the air as you and your friends rush  drunkenly along the cobblestone street, rain hitting the backs of your necks, and  warm, golden lamplight from flats above trickling out onto the dark stone. The city is as alive as it always is—alive in a way that feels like a million different lives, like it somehow knows both the past and the future, like it’s holding you close but also hurtling you forward. It feels like tonight is a special night—and, although you have no real reason to think this Halloween will be different from any other Halloween, you let that feeling in, let it settle into your bones and carry you forward toward the party. 

It had been Fiona’s idea, going to the football squad’s Halloween party. Your other friends had championed a pub crawl or a scary movie night at the flat, but Fiona’d heard about the football party and, knowing the keeper she’s been crushing on would surely be there, insisted. And now you’re here, drunk in a witch costume on a dark October eve, your pointed hat barely keeping the rain off your face, orange and brown leaves crunching under the heel of your boots  as you pick up the pace and run toward the party, giggling into the night.

The football house is packed even fuller than you’d imagined it would be, the air thick with the smell of beer and weed and Fiona, dressed as Posh Spice, spots the keeper just milliseconds after your group ducks into the party, disappearing in a flurry of rhinestones. It leaves just three of you—Fleur, Amina, and yourself—standing in the middle of a heaving party, first years entirely out of their element. 

“Drinks?” Fleur, dressed as a zombie bride, asks. 

“Drinks.” Echoes Amina, the antennas on her alien costume bobbing as she nods her head. 

The three of you clasp hands so as not to lose each other and Fleur leads the way, zig zagging through the crowd of goblins and ghouls and strangely sexual Boris Johnson costumes until she finds the kitchen, a dark, damp little room with one, singular coffin shaped window above the sink and no furniture save for a wooden table in the middle of the room, without a single chair. Atop the table sits a literal cauldron, cast iron and all, with a pink liquid gently swaying inside. 

“Ick,” says Amina, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Boys.”

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for a hundred years,” you say, voice low. Something about the room makes you feel like you’ve travelled a million miles away from the party, just on the other side of the door. You can’t hear a thing in here—just the pitter patter of the rain against the window, and the creaking of the floorboards as Fleur steps forward.

“That’s probably true,” she laughs, peering into the cauldron. “I bet none of these lads can cook. They must order Nando’s every night.”

“Probably,” Amina agrees, stepping forward to peer over Fleur’s shoulder. “At least they went through the effort of making a mixed drink, though. I’m far too bloated for a beer.”

“Aye,” Fleur’s Scottish accent thickens when she’s drunk, but it sounds even thicker all of a sudden. “Commitment to the theme as well.”

“It smells lovely,” says Amina, shutting her eyes as she smiles. “Like roses.”

“Really?” Fleur says, as you step deeper into the kitchen and join them around the cauldron. “I reckon it smells like chocolate.”

You lean forward, too, despite yourself. The scent of the drink is intoxicating—neither roses nor chocolate but, you think, the distinct smell of a chilly day by the sea: salt air and a rising tide and it’s more like a memory than a scent, a moment in time, the most peculiar sense of deja vu. Whatever it is, it’s not the kind of smell that should be coming from a mixed drink at a house party. Whatever it is, you don’t want to step away from it.

The three of you—the witch, the bride, and the alien—stand over the cauldron for a long moment, breathing it in. There is no sound beyond the rain outside, no semblance of the party raging beyond the kitchen door. It’s just the three of you, this cold, quiet room, and the strangely comforting feeling that you are, after all, not alone. 

“Are there any cups?” Amina speaks first, glancing up at you, across the table from her. Her brown eyes are glassy, her gaze faraway. 

“Cups,” you echo, a little floaty, your mind still by the seaside. “Right. Let me find some.”

The room’s only cabinets flank the sink and the single window, one on each side. You find the first cabinet empty except for a shimmery spider web and an old looking candle, but the second holds exactly what you’re looking for: three cocktail glasses, set on the shelf in a pretty row, glinting despite the dingy light. Perfect.

“Bingo!” You say, turning back toward your friends. “And only three left anyw—guys?”

The room is empty. 

The cauldron still sits atop the table, its intoxicating smell strong as ever, but your friends are not where you left them, twenty seconds ago, when you turned toward the cabinets. Your friends are not anywhere in sight. 

“Guys?” You call out again, taking one step forward. “You’re so not funny. I found cups.”

Silence.

“Fleur? Amina?” You step forward again, toward the center of the room, toward the drink. “You want a drink, or no?” 

Still, silence—somehow more silent than before. Even the rain sounds like it’s whispering. 

“This is fucking freaky,” you say, one last shot, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. “You guys win, I’m fully freaked out, Happy Halloween.”

Silence. Stillness. A sudden, oppressive need to get out of this room. 

Quick as a cat, you do. 

-- 

When you step back through the door and out into the party, alone, it’s like you were never gone. In fact, it’s a bit like time has stopped—the party is just as packed as it was when you arrived, and you’re pretty sure the same song is still blasting through the speakers. Confused but ignoring it, you start to push your way through the crowd, in search of your friends.

A few steps deeper into the crowd and you spot a sliding back door. It makes perfect sense to you, the idea of Fleur and Amina slipping out into the backyard for some air, so you head straight for it, stepping out into the chilly, dark night. 

The rain has mostly stopped, though the leafy  ground is still damp beneath your feet and the air feels wet, like it could begin again at any moment. Although it’s dark, you can see well enough—the yard is illuminated by a group of jack o’lanterns lined up along the back brick wall, and fairy lights strung between trees, casting a warm, flickering aura—and it’s immediately clear that Amina and Fleur are not out here. In fact, no one is. 

You turn around to head back inside, pulling your phone out of your pocket as you do. And that’s when you walk right into him. 

“Lads, are you—oof. Deo, you eejit—shit, you’re not, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” 

“I—” you step back to collect yourself for a moment, eyes trailing up the hard chest you just stumbled straight into. It’s just a guy—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, thick Irish accent—but there’s something about him that keeps you rooted to your spot. Something about him that feels safer than going back inside. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He rushes, when you don’t answer. I should’ve been looking, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no,” you manage. “I’m fine. It was my fault anyway, was looking at my phone. Are you okay? You sounded, like, worried?” You don’t know this man, you have no idea what his worried sounds like. But you can’t stop yourself from saying it. 

“Can’t find my mates anywhere,” the stranger says, eyes sweeping the backyard over your head. “It’s like they fucking vanished.”

“I lost my friends too,” you echo, turning to look with him, though you know you’ll only find an empty yard. “I thought they might be out here, but nothing.”

“Two lost souls,” says the stranger, a smile in his voice. When you turn back around he’s pulling at his phone, saying, “I’m just going to text them and tell them I’m out here. They can come find me.”

“I was about to do the same,” you tell him, glancing down at your phone in your hands to shoot off the text. “There are way too many people in there.” 

“Wanna wait it out together?” He looks up from his phone, a smile on his face. It brings out one tiny dimple, and sets your heart moving a little faster. “I’m Niall.” 

“I’m a witch,” you smile back at him and he laughs, blue eyes trailing down your body once. It sends a jolt of something through you, makes you hope the flush creeping up your face isn’t visible in the flickering light. 

“Have you got any powers?” Asks Niall, his eyes moving back up to meet yours. The blue is stunningly bright, even in the darkness. 

“That’s for me to know,” you say, more smoothly than you ever imagined. “And you to find out. What’s your costume?”

“You can’t tell?” He glances down at himself, dressed in double denim with an American flag bandana tied around his neck. “Bruce Springsteen.”

“Right,” you nod, though it wasn’t obvious to you at all. “Course. You need to work on that accent, though.” 

“Do I?” He raises an eyebrow, and adopts a surprisingly good—if over exaggerated—New Jersey accent. “I’m pretty proud of it, honestly. Been convincing people that it’s real all night.”

It’s not all that difficult for you to believe, actually, a bunch of drunk Brits buying into a fake, over the top, American accent without a single question. Instead, you ask him, “is there a tragic backstory, then? To go along with the tragic attempt at an accent?”

Niall laughs, bold and loud into the dark night, and suddenly you realize how entirely unafraid you feel with him—how you’d been on edge since the moment you stepped into the party but now that’s gone, evaporated, replaced, with a warm feeling in your belly and Niall’s infectious laughter. You bring your drink up to your lips and take a sip before you realize yet another thing: you have no memory of filling up your cup before leaving the kitchen. 

Across from you, Niall’s clutching what looks like a pint of Guinness, which is a drink that makes very little sense at a house party. The more you think about it, the less of the night makes sense. You shake your head to push it away, not quite ready to give this up just yet. 

Under the golden, flickering light from the jack o'lanterns,  you study Niall: the way his freckles sprinkle across his thick neck, how his roots are so much darker than the blonde at his tips, the tuft of chest hair peeking out from where his denim shirt is unbuttoned—everything about him leaves you breathless, desperate, longing, attracted to him in a way you’ve never experienced before. You feel, distinctly, that you are both supposed to be here, tonight, alone, together. 

You feel, distinctly, that something went out if its way to make sure this would happen. 

And maybe it’s the drink—the mysterious thing that smells like sea salt to you and roses to Amina—but here, with the wind rising around you and the night settling in, you have the distinct feeling that Niall is on the exact same page. 

“I have the strangest feeling,” Niall says, voice dropping to something like a whisper. Behind him, leaves rustle as the wind blows a strong, measured gust though the garden. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I don’t think so,” you can’t look anywhere other than Niall’s eyes. “But I know what you mean.”

Niall nods, taking one step forward to lessen the gap between you. He’s so close you can smell him: warm and musky and soft and something else, too—something that reminds you of salt air and days by the sea. “I just feel like,” he says, and you nod. 

“Me too.”

Far, far away someone calls your name, but you can’t stop looking at Niall, stepping closer and closer to him with every distant shout of your name. The shouting grows louder and louder until it’s impossible to ignore, although Niall doesn’t seem to acknowledge it at all. You open your mouth to ask him if he can hear it too, but before you get the chance something shakes your shoulder, calls your name one more time, and you open your eyes. 

“Jesus,” says Amina, a mixture of relief and concern clouding her features. “You are impossible to wake up.”

“I’m—what?” You sit up in bed, head foggy, limbs heavy. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“Noon,” Amina pulls out her phone to check. “We’re gonna be late for our brunch reservations, that’s why I came to wake you up.”

“Oh,” you rub your eyes, shaking your head to try to bring yourself back down to Earth. “I was having such a vivid dream, sorry.”

“It’s cool, just hurry up.” Amina makes her way to your bedroom door, but pauses before she steps back out into the hallway. “Oh, by the way, Fiona said there’s a Halloween party at the football house tonight and she’s fucking desperate to go since she fancies the keeper. Could be fun, no?” 

-- 

On Halloween night, dressed as a witch, you stand in the backyard of the football house with your friends. The yard is illuminated by jack o’lanterns and fairy lights and Fiona is off snogging the keeper upstairs and you feel warm and safe and happy, despite the autumnal chill in the air. As Fleur tells your small group a story about the weird couple sitting across from you at brunch today, you drop your head back to stare up at the night sky, sprinkled with stars, and the full moon peeking out over the clouds. It feels like you are supposed to be here tonight. You exhale, watching your breath fog with the cold and curl in the air above you. 

“I’m going to refill my drink,” you say, smiling at the small group you’ve been standing with. You can feel something budding between Fleur and the pretty girl she’s been chatting to, dressed as Britney Spears, and you want to give them a moment alone. Fleur flashes you a grateful smile as you walk away.

Back inside, you locate the entirely normal kitchen, bright and airy and crowded, with a coffin-shaped window above the sink, and pull open the fridge to grab a beer from the stock inside. When you shut the door, there’s someone standing on the other side. 

He’s dressed as Bruce Springsteen, double denim and an American flag bandana around his neck. He’s blonde hair with dark roots, and bright blue eyes. He’s staring right at you, with an unmistakable look of recognition on his face. 

“Hi,” he says, stepping forward to lessen the gap between you and him. He smells warm and musky and safe—with a whiff of something like salt air.  “Sorry if this is a bit weird, but I’m Niall. Have we—have we met before?”

####

sources for images: 1, 2, 3

[fandomsilhouette]

beyond the veil (seek the fairytale)

Stories are so. Good. They’re about everything and anything and whatever you can think of! And best of all, they’re about everything that doesn’t happy. The hero wins. The villains suffer. And they do it over and over, as many times as you read the story. 

Felix turns another page and pouts. He is going to have it again, no matter what it takes. No matter who it takes away from. 

Happy @felixmonth, y’all! 

There is absolutely no point in being dropped off at preschool, thank you very much, mama, time to home now please! So what if there’ll be books there? There are books at home! Better books, even! No, Felix does not want to meet new children, they’re icky and sticky and gross, he would know, he’s a child all by himself. Papa, no, learning can happen at home, exercise is stupid, and-- oh, no. They’re gone. Felix absolutely, most certainly does not want to sit down with them for minutes, days of tedium as the teacher materializes yet another pointless book about forgiveness or friendship or… some other f-word that Felix simply cannot think of yet!

Ugh, and now they’re going to make him run around. Running is decidedly not Felix’s thing. With each stomp of his feet against the pavement he is sure he is going to break something. It still comes as a shock though, when the impact of someone’s hand on his back sends him sprawling to the ground in a flurry of limbs, knees scraping against the rough gravel.

“You’re it!!!”

Someone else calls out from his left, “lets go, dude! Are you gonna play?” but Felix can’t move. 

Two hours into being at school and Felix is already convinced his parents were dead wrong. His palms ache and sting, his knee is chilled where the wind hits his blood-soaked pants, and his whole body hurts. Worst of all, his head is spinning so hard he could barely walk, let alone read. How is he going to get through the rest of the day without books?! 

As Felix gets up, irritably grumbling to no one in particular, he becomes aware of the girl standing above him to his right. She smirks at him, a cruel, I’m-better-than-you smirk that Felix is quite fond of… on his own face. 

“I don’t think he should play, Nino. With how slow he was running he’d never be able to keep up!”

Who cares if he was slow? What is even the point of running around like a bunch of headless chickens?! It’s a few-tile thermuh-die-nam-ick exercise and that means it’s dumb. His mama said so! 

“Chloe, that’s not fair. You weren’t running that fast either!” Another girl steps up behind Felix and he startles, watching her and this Chloe like a ping pong match. 

“I don’t wanna!” 

“Then why does he have to?!” 

“Well-- but-- I-- he’s not wearing heels!”

Felix turns scornfully away from the mean blond girl and starts heading back to the classroom. This has been far too much running already, it’s time for a nap. He almost makes it out with only his knees scraped up before the girl calls after him again.

“Yeah, run away! None of us wanted you here anyway, not even your daddy! Isn’t that why he left you here?”

For a moment he stands there, fists clenched into little balls of anxiety and rage. Then he turns on his heel and flees to the quiet safety of the classroom, faster than he’d run all day, tears already dripping down his cheeks, pulled back into his hair with the force of his speed. He barrels past the girl standing behind him, sticking up for him, paying no mind to the way her pigtails bounce as she slams onto the concrete, and rushing for the darkest corner he can cover in pillows. 

It takes him almost ten minutes to realize the teacher is standing over him holding out a tissue, a bandaid, and a book. 

“Hey there, Felix. Your mama mentioned you might like this one. Do you want me to read it to you?” 

Felix holds her stare for a long moment and then blinks twice, nods his head, and retreats further into his fortress of pillows. “Yes please, Miss.” 

She sits down next to him with a comfortable sigh, and settles in to read. She has scarcely made it past the first page before the bashful Felix, eyes wide and attentive, scoots out of his refuge and curls up next to her, staring at the wondrous words. It was about a boy just like him! The boy was brave, and strong, and didn’t get abandoned by anyone. And this time, he didn’t run away from the mean bully. This time, it was the bully who got what they deserved, and the boy (the play-tag-gone-mist, she called it) didn’t end up with bleeding knees and tears soaking the collar of his shirt. 

Felix likes it. He wants it again. 

He wants it so much that when reading time comes the next day and Felix trips over his desk, falling into the same pigtailed little girl’s chair and tumbling over her onto the carpet, he immediately runs up to the teacher. She gazes down at him with the same look of concern and coos over him immediately.

“Oh, goodness! Are you okay, Felix?”

Felix’s heart races. Yesterday, once upon a time, he never would’ve dreamt of doing this. Today, after that story? After the bravery injected directly into his veins from a storybook boy? This is what Felix is made for.

“I got an owie! So will you read me the story again, please?” 

[snarkwriteswrasslin]

FFT: farmers market; sami zayn

Notes:

Okay, so this is part 1 of a 2 part thing I wrote for sami zayn and it got buried way beneath a ton of other bullshit. When I re-read it, I decided that I had to give it it’s own post here. I’m gonna try and dig up the second part so that it goes up immediately behind this and there’s no digging but my blogs are a mess rn so I make absolutely no promises.

{ wanna send in one of these? here’s how | masterlist of fake fic titles }

Summary:

Sami and roommate Moira are close friends but both want more. Sami returns home to discover that Moira has taken in a child relative. Fluff ensues.

Pairing:

Sami Zayn x OFC, Moira

Warnings:

uhh, just a loooot of fluff. so much fluff. too much, perhaps.

The apartment door was ajar. It was odd, but Sami was used to the quirks of his roommate Moira by now. However, when he opened the door fully, a sight greeted him that he was clearly not expecting and altogether blown away at the sight of.

… As if I needed yet another reason to fall harder… the thought bounced around in his mind for a second or two and he cleared his throat. Moira looked up from where she knelt on the floor, playing with a little toddler girl who looked similar enough to her to be able to pass for her daughter.

… oh shit, he’s probably irritated now… the man is gone on the road 90 percent of the time and the last thing he probably wants is a kid underfoot… wait, why’s he looking at me like that?... Moira gave a sheepish smile and spoke up. “I didn’t think you were gonna be back yet…”

“Well, this explains the plastic tiara I found in the pantry last time I was back for downtime. Didn’t you get my text earlier? I tried to give you a heads up…” Sami trailed off. Moira picked up the little girl and stood, smoothing her free hand down her jeans and the little girl hid her face in Moira’s shoulder. Moira nodded to her and explained quietly, “My sister, she… Look, my niece needed somewhere stable to stay and god knows my mother was not it… I was gonna tell you but there wasn’t any time, I…”

Sami stepped closer, giving a shrug, fixing his eyes on the little girl. “Aw, hey there. What’s your name, huh?”

She raised her head to look at him and after whispering to Moira, she answered quietly, “Keely.” and her thumb returned to her mouth. Sami reverted his gaze back to Moira and said “You don’t have to explain anything to me, okay? I get it.. Family is family.”

“I understand if you don’t want me subletting with you anymore, I mean.. Keely is with me for the forseeable future…”

“It’s fine. I mean that, I really do. And I’d honestly like it if you and I kept subletting?”

Moira eyed Sami, a brow raised. Didn’t he realize just how much in the way that a 3 year old was going to be? What if he wanted to bring a girl home?

Just the thought of Sami bringing a girl home, like all other times she’d had the thought, made her stomach churn anxiously.

… if the thought of him finding someone really makes you that uneasy, maybe tell him how you feel, idiot… Moira thought to herself, but she shoved the thought out.

No, she’d made their living situation weird enough by doing what she’d done when she assumed guardianship over her 3 year old niece on a protective whim.. No sense in further making things weird by word vomiting just how deeply in love she was with the man.

Keely looked up and her eyes brightened a little. She tugged on her aunt’s sleeve and leaned in, whispered quietly, “He on tv.” and Moira gave a nod and a quiet laugh. “Yeah, peanut, that’s the guy you saw on tv.” as she glanced at Sami and explained quietly, “I… got curious and decided to watch a few episodes? And now, apparently, I can’t stop?”

… Only because you’re on there and you’re so good at what you do and I can see this… whole other side of you… the thought was drowned out quickly. Moira shuffled her feet and shifted her gaze to Keely for a second or two. If she looked at him right now, she was almost afraid he’d see what she wasn’t saying in her eyes.

The heavy tension was lingering between them, she’d have been an idiot not to notice it. She only hoped it wasn’t because she had her niece staying with her. She didn’t dare hope that there was anything more resemblant to what she wanted it to be though.

… If I don’t do something about the way I feel soon, I’m going to lose my mind…

Sami’s gaze shifted to Moira and she quickly attempted to downplay it, but Sami noticed the deep pink tint to her cheeks, almost as if the admission was not something she wanted to come out.

He wondered why, but he didn’t ask.

“ So you watch wrestling?”

“Only with Moia.” Keely answered after a few seconds, and only after she’d looked up at her aunt as if she were asking if it were okay. Sami got the feeling that whatever the kid had been through to lead to her staying with Moira had been hell, and he found himself glad that Moira had taken her in.

Sami chuckled and reached for the little girl. Keely shied away and Moira explained quietly, “She’s gotta get used to you. I mean beyond seeing you on tv… I’ll explain later.”

Sami gave a nod and picked his bag up. “I’m gonna go throw my bag in my room. Then maybe we can find something to do. It’s too pretty out to keep her cooped up in here.”

Moira bit her lip and watched as Sami disappeared down the hall and into his room. She took a deep breath and mumbled mostly to herself, “That went a lot smoother than I thought it might go..”

Sami leaned against the door and took a deep breath, an attempt to pull himself together. Seeing her with her niece, with her guard down, when she wasn’t aware she was being watched had been an insight into her that he hadn’t previously had.

He got the feeling that whatever she wasn’t saying about Keely’s living situation before Moira took her in wasn’t going to make him happy to hear. And he was trying to get his head around how to proceed now, having seen this whole other side of her moments ago and the new level it gave to feelings he’d been feeling for over half a year now.

“ Keely’s a part of her. Either I accept that, or I try to get over Moira. And I really don’t see that happening.” he mumbled to himself as he stepped back out into the hallway, nearly colliding with Moira in the process.

“Hey, we could go to the farmers market. Don’t they have the animals there still? Or the zoo..” Sami trailed off, wondering if he’d just come off pushy, too eager.

Moira bit her lip and smiled. “Actually, Keely and I were gonna have to go to the farmers market anyway. It’s October. And do you know my sister never even bothered with holidays for her? So she’s never known the joy of scooping all the ick out of the inside of a pumpkin just to stick a candle in there… I mean.. If you want to go. You’re probably tired..” she trailed off.

It hit Sami like a ton of bricks then. She was nervous.. But she’d seemed to really perk up when he suggested going somewhere in the first place. Maybe his feelings weren’t as one sided as he thought.

The thought had him sort of grinning, leaning in the doorway of his room as he tugged at the strings of his hoodie to distract himself, keep his hands moving, keep his mind focused and keep him from going overboard and laying it on way too thick right out of the gate.

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“I know, just.. That was one hell of a flight.. I don’t wanna make you feel like you have to..”

“I want to.” Sami made sure to emphasize the fact as he spoke and she stared up at him, for a split second, her brain ceased to function and she could only nod. “I’ll go find her jacket then..”

“I’m ready when you are. Kinda excited. Now I have someone to help me feed the ducks on that pond at the edge of the park.”

“Oh god.. No, no.. Don’t you dare get those ducks started! They’ll swarm us.”

Sami chuckled, teasing her and grinning, “Oh wait, I forgot.. Thanks to you being inable to stop watching a movie that scares you, you’re afraid of large bird swarms.”

“ Bite me, Zayn.”

… Oh, I’d like to do a lot more than that, Moira… Sami thought to himself as she disappeared down the hall and into her room…

[aconitemare]

[jaydick] to all the (D)icks i’ve loved before

JayDick during the famous (first) field scene from To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.

Read it on AO3.

“Are you really going to audition?” Roy asks. He’s got a sheen of sweat across his forehead that’s probably more due to the heat than the exertion on the track field.

“Maybe,” Jason answers. He does actually, one-hundred percent, but he doesn’t feel comfortable sounding committal. “Why not,” he says instead without making it sound like a genuine question. It isn’t.

Roy knows it’s not a question but caring is neither of their strong suits, so he presses. “I dunno’. Doesn’t really seem like you, I guess. Don’t get me wrong,” he switches. His hand reaches out to touch Jason’s shoulder, but it’s been almost an hour of gym outside and his hand misses the mark as they maintain pace. “You’ve got the drama down pat,” he quips. Jason sends him a glare but Roy just snickers. “Maybe, like, if this was Phantom of the Opera-type shit, I’d be like, yeah, that’s you, and I’d be there in the front row telling everyone that the disfigured creep under the basement was my dude, but. A high school performance of Footloose though? That’s some cheesy shit.”

Jason shrugs. Roy isn’t entirely wrong. Jason would’ve joined the drama club last year except their big show was Shrek the Musical. He was tempted to sign up anyway because it’s not like anyone would see a tech on stage, but he really didn’t want to be associated with something that was bound to suck hard. Footloose was comparatively better. He could work with that story.

“You can still sit front row and tell everyone I’m the guy moving props off the stage,” Jason replied.

“Oh, what?” Roy says with his nose scrunching. “You’re not even going to be an actor? Fuck that noise, you should be that dude who fucks the pastor’s daughter.”

“You want me to be Ren McCormack,” Jason supplies.

“Whichever, man; you could tell me the character was named Rhino McJackoff and I’d have to go along with you.”

“Fair enough,” Jason retorts. One of their gym instructors holds out two popsicle sticks as they pass. Roy grabs them both and hands one to Jason. They get a good distance between them and the teacher before they start speaking again because neither are good at censoring their language. Roy has just asked him about Red Dead Redemption 2 when Jason hears his name being shouted.

“Jason! Jason!” Jason turns around to see Dick Grayson jogging towards them. He’s wearing the school’s proper gymnasium uniform, unlike Roy and Jason who both got points deducted for bringing normal gym clothes. GCHS is embroidered in the corner is tiny white lettering. If Dick were to turn around, a cartoonish owl would blink stare hollowly at them.

Neither Jason nor Roy slow their pace so Dick is forced to catch up after he’s caught their attention and maintain speed. “Sup, Dick,” Roy greets, making room for Dick to insert himself between them. This close up, Jason can smell Dick’s shampoo. It’s lighter than he expected, more fresh than spiced like Jason’s cologne.

Dick smiles at Roy and shakes his shoulder. He definitely showed up late to class. Jason knows this not just because he isn’t sweaty like everyone is, but because he missed him during the warm-up. Jason hasn’t liked Dick like that since middle school, but he can admit to himself that he still watches him. He doesn’t think that’s weird or anything because everyone watches Dick — most of all during gym.

“Where’ve you been?” Roy asks easily. Meanwhile, Jason subtly runs a bit farther to the left so he’s not inhaling Dick’s scent with every heavy breath.

“Nurse’s office,” Dick says with a bright grin. “I got into a bit of fender bender this morning. Security guard saw me parking with my bumper torn off and insisted I check in with the nurses while they ratted me out to Bruce.”

Jason remembers Bruce rather well considering he’s only met him once. It was during a birthday party at Wayne Manor for Dick’s younger brother Tim. Bruce was an imposing man who now looms over Jason’s memory of that night. Jason can well imagine Dick crashing his fancy car daddy’s money bought him. Jealousy, not sympathy, clouds Jason’s mood as Roy talks about that sounds rough. Jason hopes he doesn’t mean it so they can talk shit later. But Roy and Dick actually do get along, so he’s probably for real.

“That sucks, Dick, especially on top of stuff with Helena,” Roy seems to commiserate. Jason’s attention perks up here. Helena is Dick’s girlfriend. She’s not the worst person Jason’s ever met, but she’s pretty freaking terrible. They used to be friends in middle school to the point there were rumors about them getting together. Then came the day Helena leaned forward, lashes brushing her cheeks as her lips puckered, and Jason didn’t think, he just confessed. Within a week, Helena had excommunicated Jason from every social circle she touched. Within a week, Jason had to watch his ex-best friend holding hands with the boy he dreamt about.

Helena and Dick had been on-and-off since the advent of high school. Clearly they are off now. Even though Jason holds no hopes for reconciliation with Helena or — delayed wish fulfillment with Grayson, he still eagerly awaits the permanent destruction of a couple that’s tainted much of school for him.

Dick’s expression is uncomfortable after Roy’s comment. Jason lets Dick catch the smirk playing on his lips. Dick takes a deep breath before looking back at Roy and clapping a hand down on Roy’s shoulder with a familiarity that irks Jason. “Hey, we’ll catch up, alright?” promises Dick. “But actually I have something I need to talk to Jason about one-on-one.”

Roy is no stranger to Jason’s tragic backstory regarding Dick Grayson. “Sure thing,” he says dubiously, raising his eyebrows at Jason. For added measure, he waggles them in a way that has both Jason glaring and Dick looking uncomfortable away. Jason opens his mouth slowly because he’s not sure what he wants to say, maybe “wait,” Roy puts a burst of energy into his step until he’s catching up with Wally West who’s already finished the course and is still running for fun.

“Cool dude,” Dick says weirdly.

“Uh, yeah,” says Jason as Dick’s words settle in. I actually have something I need to talk to Jason about one-on-one. What the hell? The most they’ve ever spoken to each other after middle school was while setting up for last year’s homecoming dance. Dick had roped in Kory who roped in Roy who roped in Jason. It was an unfairly good night. Roy fed off Kory’s attention and made Jason laugh so hard he nearly pissed himself several times. Helena had practice all night for her archery league, so Dick was on his own and for whatever reason, he stuck to Jason’s side the whole event.

Jason didn’t let himself think about that night afterwards, but during the moment, Dick had a way of making everything between them feel fresh and new. He hadn’t been weighed down by his private history — a history revolving around Dick that Dick probably didn’t even realize — at all.

“So,” Jason says, toying around with his popsicle sticks as they jog. Without meaning to, Jason has slowed down to Dick’s leisurely walk. “Speak.”

Dick smiles and laughs softly, if a little nervously. He really smiles a lot. Jason wonders how he ever thought Dick was viable partner with his Pollyanna temperament. “Right. Well, here comes the hard part, I guess, right?” Dick asks. Then he seems to wait for Jason to actually dignify that with a response despite it containing no legitimate content to respond to. Dick’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip. He shrugs, smiles. “Here goes,” he says and stops walking altogether. Jason rolls his eyes and stops, although what Dick could possibly say that requires an utter stand-still is beyond him.

Dick’s hand rummages in the pockets of his gym shorts. He pulls out an envelope which he then fiddles with. “I honestly had no idea you felt this way,” Dick begins. Immediately, Jason is on his guard. “I mean, I suppose there were signs and I suppose I ignored them on purpose. Maybe I was wrong to, but it seemed simplest that way, you know, if we just carried on with our own separate lives? What with Helena and me, and you and — someone who’s not in a relationship. Or just freshly out of one, in my case.” Here, Dick chuckled. “You hardly left time for the dust to settle on that one. I actually admire your boldness — for real, it’s refreshing for someone to just lay out all their cards and say, ‘Hey, this is how I feel.’ No dumb high school politics or the proverbial closet, just honesty.”

Jason is barely listening to Dick’s rambling bullshit. His eyes are glued to the envelope that is surely connected to whatever Twilight Zone thing is going down. Dick Grayson is talking to him about feelings and cold dread is rapidly filling Jason like water on the Titanic as he remembers what he did three years ago that can fit inside a tiny envelope.

Dick inches closer, his head tilted slightly upwards as Jason stays staring down at the object in Dick’s hands. “And if I’m also being honest, you wrote things to me that kept me up at night. I don’t think anyone’s ever thought about me that way, about my eyes — well, you know you wrote.”

That’s the last straw, the confirmation Jason needed if not wanted, and he roughly rips the letter out of Jason’s hands. Dick nearly stumbles back in surprise. “I don’t where you got this,” he says, voice low as he glares daggers into Dick’s eyes — blue like clean waters that shimmer in the sun and give life to those desperate for a drink — and steps threateningly into his space. “But it is not yours and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from me and keep everything you read to yourself,” he warns. His embarrassment is bearing down on his shoulders, heating his cheeks and hitting his chest in harsh heartbeats. He stands his ground only because he’s worried the ground might swallow him whole otherwise.

For the second time during gym class, Jason hears his name being called. Jason breaks the intense moment and looks up to see no other than Konnor Kent, Tim’s newly-exxed boyfriend, walking towards him. He’s wearing that leather jacket Jason’s always loved on him and a pair of skin-tight jeans with tons of buckles that should be cringey but instead is just super hot. He’s slighter than Dick although they’re both lean and his thick dark hair curls up at the front rather than lying in a mess of waves like Dick’s. He’s got style to him and although Dick isn’t one to put as much thought into his wardrobe, Jason has to admit now that they’re almost side-by-side that he has a type.

He interrupts his admiration first with the reminder to have a little shame, Konnor is Tim’s, not his, even if they’re not together anymore. His self-flagellation is ended early when he spots a thin piece of paper in Konnor’s leather-clad hands.

Dear Konnor,

Fair warning, what I’m about to tell you is wrong. But that’s why I have to say it. Because if I keep it to myself and refuse to acknowledge what’s between us, then I’ll always feel that way. But if I get it out all on paper now, then I can come to terms with the fact that you’re not mine. You can’t ever be mine.

Jason went on like for five pages, front and back. And now Jason’s heart is on Konnor’s sleeve. Tim just left him and Jason is swooping in for the kill like a vulture. What if Konnor has already told Tim? What if Tim is the one who found these letters? Did he send one to Dick as revenge for his feelings towards Konnor? Would Tim be that petty?

Yes. Tim would absolutely be that petty.

Konnor is almost closing the distance. “Jason, I need to talk to you,” he calls out. Jason honestly cannot handle this. He can’t handle the repercussions of his letter reaching Konnor, let alone of them discussing the letter. Konnor either came here to reject him or, or — to not, and he can’t say which would be worse. Over the years, Jason has landed himself into some pretty risky scenarios from foolhardy adventures, but never has he felt this panicky before.

Konnor is only a few yards away. Jason’s mind has cleared of all things except: I cannot talk to him.

Jason’s body has a solution for this. Jason’s body does not at all consult Jason’s head when it throws itself at Dick Grayson. One hand cups the back of Dick’s neck while the other grabs his arm. Dick isn’t expecting Jason’s full weight and when Jason’s foot slides between his, Dick goes tumbling backwards. The two fall to the ground in tandem but Jason doesn’t break the kiss. He’s vaguely aware of Dick’s little yelp, but he’s more keen on the plush of his lips and the smell of his shampoo. Dick’s chest is solid beneath his. Jason moves just enough to take some of the weight off him, his hand lifting Dick’s neck for a better angle.

Jason’s name is shouted a third time. “Todd, get off him!” he hears an instructor bark. Jason has an arm on either side of Dick’s shoulders as he looks up to see Mr. Queen running towards them, popsicle sticks in hand. Jason gazes down at Dick whose eyes are blown wide and staring straight into Jason’s, lips gently parted.

Jason gets off the boy he’s just tackled. Mr. Queen is asking him what’s wrong with you but Jason is busy watching Konnor’s retreating form. Mr. Queen demands Dick and Jason go to the principal's office. Jason’s head whips around to the teacher. “No, sir, don’t do that,” he nearly begs. He can hear Dick push himself to his feet but he’s stubbornly not looking at him. He doesn’t think he can ever look at Dick again, actually, which is a pity since it’s one of his pastimes. “It’s on me, sir, I tackled him.”

“Yeah, I can fucking tell!” Mr. Queen snaps. Unforeseen, Roy and Wally have lapped around to the three of them. Roy grabs two popsicle sticks, says “dude,” and keeps going. Jason glares until Wally stops rubbernecking.

“Dick can stay. I’ll find my way to the principal’s,” Jason says. He’s relieved when Mr. Queen merely says, “I’ll be checking,” because Jason would die on the spot if he had to then walk with Dick and sit next to him as he explained why exactly he bodyslammed Gotham City High’s sweetheart and planted one on him for all gym class.

Jason shoves his popsicle sticks into Mr. Queen’s hands, still ignoring Dick as he turns on his heels and gets the hell out of there.

[thefederalistfreestyle]

Hamilton: how Lin-Manuel Miranda’s musical rewrote the story of America (New Statesman):

[. . .] Because of the success of Hamilton – it has been sold out on Broadway since August 2015, won 11 Tony Awards and the 2016 Pulitzer Prize for Drama, and is on tour in Chicago and Los Angeles – there is now an industry devoted to uncovering and explaining its references. Yet the sheer ebullience of the soundscape is not enough to explain why it became a hit. To understand that, we need to understand the scope of its ambition, which is nothing less than giving America a new origin story. “Every generation rewrites the founders in their own image,” says Nancy Isenberg, a professor of history at Louisiana State University and the author of a biography of Aaron Burr. “He [Miranda] rewrote the founders in the image of Obama, for the age of Obama.”

In doing so, Miranda created a fan base that mirrors the “Obama coalition” of Democrat voters: college-educated coastal liberals and mid-to-low-income minorities. (When the musical first hit Broadway in 2015, some tickets went for thousands of dollars; others were sold cheaply in a daily street lottery or given away to local schoolchildren.) He also gave his audiences another gift. Just as Obama did in his 2008 campaign, Hamilton’s post-racial view of history offers Americans absolution from the original sin of their country’s birth – slavery. It rescues the idea of the US from its tainted origins.

[. . .]

There is, of course, a great theatrical tradition of “patriotic myth-making”, and it explains another adjective that is frequently applied to Hamilton: Shakespearean. England’s national playwright was instrumental in smearing Richard III as a hunchbacked child-killer, portraying the French as our natural enemies and turning the villainous Banquo of Holinshed’s Chronicles into the noble figure claimed as an ancestor by the Stuarts, and therefore Shakespeare’s patron James VI and I.

James Shapiro, a professor of English literature at Columbia University, New York, and the author of several books on Shakespeare, first saw the musical during its early off-Broadway run. “It was the closest I’ve ever felt to experiencing what I imagine it must have been like to have attended an early performance of, say, Richard III, on the Elizabethan stage,” he tells me. “But this time, it was my own nation’s troubled history that I was witnessing.”

Shapiro says that Shakespeare’s first set of history plays deals with the recent past, ending with Richard III; he then went back further to create an English origin story through Richard II and Henry V. “Lin-Manuel Miranda was trying to grasp the fundamental problems underlying contemporary American culture,” he adds. “He might, like Shakespeare, have gone back a century and explored the civil war. But I suspect that he saw that to get at the deeper roots of what united and divided Americans meant going back even further, to the revolution. No American playwright has ever managed to explain the present by reimagining so inventively that distant past.” And where Shakespeare had Holinshed’s Chronicles, Miranda had Ron Chernow.

There are Shakespearean references throughout his play. In “Take a Break”, Hamilton writes to his sister-in-law, Angelica:

They think me Macbeth and ambition is my folly. I’m a polymath, a pain in the ass, a massive pain. Madison is Banquo, Jefferson’s Macduff And Birnam Wood is Congress on its way to Dunsinane.

Shapiro says that these “casual echoes of famous lines” are less important than the lessons that Miranda has taken about how to write history. “Another way of putting it is that anyone can quote Shakespeare; very few can illuminate so brilliantly a nation’s past and, through that, its present.”

[. . .]

I love Hamilton – I think the level of my nerdery about it so far has probably made that clear – but I find it fascinating that its overtly political agenda has been so little discussed, beyond noting the radicalism of casting black actors as white founders. Surely this is the “Obama play”, in the way that David Hare’s Stuff Happens became the “Bush play” or The Crucible became the theatre’s response to McCarthyism. It’s just unusual, in that its response to the contemporary mood is a positive one, rather than sceptical or scathing. (And it has an extra resonance now that a white nationalist is in the White House. One of the first acts of dissent against the Trump regime was when his vice-president, Mike Pence, attended the musical in November 2016 and received a polite post-curtain speech from the cast about tolerance. “The cast and producers of Hamilton, which I hear is highly overrated, should immediately apologise to Mike Pence for their terrible behaviour,” tweeted Trump, inevitably.)

Hamilton tries to make its audience feel OK about patriotism and the idealism of early America. It has, as the British theatre director Robert Icke put it to me this summer, “a kind of moral evangelism” that is hard for British audiences to swallow. In order to achieve this, we are allowed to see Hamilton’s personal moral shortcomings, but the uglier aspects of the early days of America still have to be tidied away.

There’s a brief mention, for instance, of Jefferson’s relationship with his slave Sally Hemings – whom he systematically raped over many years. But the casting of black and Hispanic actors makes it hard for the musical to deal directly with slavery, and so the issue only drips into the narrative rather than being confronted. There’s a moment after the battle of Yorktown when “black and white soldiers wonder alike if this really means freedom – not yet”. Another sour note is struck in one of the cabinet rap battles between Hamilton and Jefferson, in which the former notes acidly, “Your debts are paid cos you don’t pay for labour.”

In early workshops, there was a third cabinet battle over slavery – and the song is available on The Hamilton Mixtape, a series of reworkings and offcuts from the musical. When a proposal is brought before Washington to abolish slavery, Hamilton tells the cabinet:

This is the stain on our soul and democracy A land of the free? No, it’s not. It’s hypocrisy To subjugate, dehumanise a race, call ’em property And say that we are powerless to stop it. Can you not foresee?

Ultimately, though, the song was cut. “No one knew what to do about it, and [the founding fathers] all kicked it down the field,” Miranda explained to Billboard in July 2015. “And while, yeah, Hamilton was anti-slavery and never owned slaves, between choosing his financial plan and going all in on opposition to slavery, he chose his financial plan. So it was tough to justify keeping that rap battle in the show, because none of them did enough.”

***

In March 2016, Lin-Manuel Miranda returned to the White House. This time, one of the numbers he performed was a duet from the musical called “One Last Time”, sung with the original cast member Christopher Jackson playing George Washington. After Alexander Hamilton tells the first US president that two of his cabinet have resigned to run against him, Washington announces that he will step down to leave the field open.

It is the political heart of the play’s myth-making, comparable to Nelson Mandela leaving Robben Island. The decorated Virginian veteran was the only man who could unite the fractious revolutionaries after they defeated the British. Washington could have become dictator for life; instead, he chose to create a true democracy. “If I say goodbye, the nation learns to move on./It outlives me when I’m gone.”

For a nation just beginning to think that Trump could really, actually become its president, seeing the incumbent acknowledge that his time was nearly over was a powerful moment. For Obama watching it in the audience, it must have felt like his narrative had come full circle.

Towards the end of the song, Hamilton begins to read out the words of the farewell address he has written, and Washington joins in, singing over the top of them. It was a technique cribbed from Will.i.am’s 2008 Obama campaign video, in which musicians and actors sing and speak along to the candidate’s “Yes, we can” speech.

In his memoir, Dreams from My Father, Obama had written, “I learnt to slip back and forth between my black and white worlds, understanding that each possessed its own language and customs and structures of meaning, convinced that with a bit of translation on my part the two worlds would eventually cohere.”

This was the promise of his presidency: that there was not a black America or a white America, a liberal America or a conservative America, but, as he said in his breakthrough speech at the 2004 Democratic convention, “a United States of America”. The man who followed him clearly thinks no such thing, but nonetheless the nation must learn to move on.

In his farewell address in January 2017, Obama returned to the “Yes, we can” speech, using its words as the final statement on his presidency:

I am asking you to hold fast to that faith written into our founding documents; that idea whispered by slaves and abolitionists; that spirit sung by immigrants and homesteaders and those who marched for justice; that creed reaffirmed by those who planted flags from foreign battlefields to the surface of the moon; a creed at the core of every American whose story is not yet written: yes, we can. Yes, we did.

For the playwright JT Rogers, this is the true triumph of Hamilton – giving today’s multiracial America a founding myth in which minorities have as much right to be there as Wasps. It is political “in the sense of reclaiming the polis” – the body of citizens who make up a country. “The little village we live in outside the city, everyone in the middle school knows the score verbatim,” Rogers adds. “They recite it endlessly and at length, like Homer.”

the full long-read here!

[mermaidsirennikita]

You raised good points about bjorn being (probably) the killer of his mother. Though i'd like it to be either ivar or ubbe (or both like 4x17), especially when lag is so arrogant. But what do you think of bjorn's reaction when he came back, when he said "so you had your revenge?" he didn't look pleased, but disappointed and even cold, that might be the reason why he snapped at torvi too (tbh i didn't pity the brand new shield maiden but i felt sorry for the children)

The fact that lagertha acted behind his back and told nothing of her plans, though he obv. knew she wanted her petty 'revenge'. That also might be the reason why he's 'going down' on astrid now because both characters are left in the dark ??? (while torvi gets to know everything)

I don’t know that he was angry IMMEDIATELY at his mother, but I do get the sense that Bjorn’s masculine pride was wounded in that he was kept out of the loop.  I don’t think he necessarily disapproved of the overthrow, but more of the fact that he wasn’t involved at all.  He may even have some issue with the fact that Lagertha is ruling and he isn’t--Hirst seems to have forgotten this, but in 4A Bjorn wanted to rule.  He has more of a right to the throne than Lagertha by birth.  He also may not be entirely thrilled that a clash between him and at least Ivar and Ubbe is basically inevitable at this point thanks to Lagertha; her becoming queen makes the succession issue even more glaring, plus you throw revenge into the mix.  The thing is that Bjorn’s characterization is super inconsistent; he was raised predominantly by a single mother, with whom he CHOSE to leave, and his first wife was a shieldmaiden whose freedom and training (which we actually saw, unlike Torvi’s) he ultimately supported, even if the latter freaked him out a little.  His scene with Torvi was super misogynistic--basically, a “woman get in the kitchen and nurse the babies” bit that seems...  Weird coming from Lagertha’s son.  Again, you could make the leap that this is leading to Bjorn being Lagertha’s ultimate “failure” (though her biggest failure being maternal is a little ick on a feminist level) but I’m not sure Hirst is that smart.  And though it’s a nice bit of poetry that I’d like, I don’t know where it came from.  Bjorn’s characterization from s3 to s4 is honestly baffling.  At this point it seems like he doesn’t give a fuck about any women beyond what they can do for him sexually--unless they’re his mom, and now even that is thrown into question.  Him watching Ivar in his chariot also was framed in a borderline villainous way?  Which is hilarious considering who Ivar is.  It does make sense to me that Bjorn, being significantly older than his younger brothers (especially Ivar) is starting to feel like his good days are passing him by.  He could have been king for over a decade by now.  

Frankly, it might even upset him a little bit that his mother has become queen and is sort of added to the list of people that has eclipsed him in some ways.  He’s not even an earl--a great warrior, but not someone of huge political import on his own.  Again, Ubbe is around 12-14 years younger than Bjorn and Ivar like...  Around 20 years younger.  And they managed to raise a huge army that Bjorn is basically piggybacking right now.  In terms of following Ragnar’s legacy--which has to be painfully present in his mind--people like Ubbe, Ivar, and as much as I despise her in this season Lagertha are much further along than Bjorn.  

I’m not sure what to make of Astrid and Bjorn.  I’m like...  Shit, I wanted Bjorn to get with his stepmom but not THIS ONE.  Aslaug >>>>> Astrid let’s not even play here.  They seemed rather familiar with each other--that wasn’t a first kiss, to me at least.  There’s always the possibility that Lagertha knows but like...  I don’t see her being chill about that, even if Astrid is just a placeholder for her.  I just don’t know what Bjorn and Astrid could be plotting together--unless Bjorn is going full evil and wants to overthrow his mother, which seems like a bit much.  Then again, they definitely emphasized in this episode that Torvi isn’t actually his legal wife, but his “companion”.  Bjorn’s still open to marry someone; and make that someone his queen.  Perhaps Astrid is smarter than she looks and knows that her relationship with Lagertha isn’t solid; and even if it was, it’s not like Astrid can hold any official position as royalty with Lagertha.  For that matter, Lagertha was basically openly hitting on Ubbe in this episode so.  Like.  There’s that.  (Not ruling out the idea that Ubbe will seduce and murder her, because why the fuck not.)  

The thing is that this affair or whatever puts Bjorn’s first encounter with Astrid in a different light--now it seems certain that he knew her then.  Were they having an affair before Lagertha even got with Astrid?  Why?  

Knowing Hirst, it’ll probably be a simple matter of Bjorn having Wandering Dick Syndrome like his dad and Astrid will end up knocked up with Bjorn’s child.  Lagertha will be pissed at first, but seeing as she’s kinda baby hungry (I mean, girl was gonna have Kalf’s demonspawn) she’ll raise her grandchild as her own kid with Astrid.  They’ll name it Gyda II and she’ll be the greatest shieldmaiden known to the land.  The fandom will love her.  

(Alternate theory: Astrid is SUCH a major Ragnar fangirl that she’s boning his son in lieu of him.  Lmao.)