#sometimes we need to write just like carrie bradshaw!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sometimesanalice · 7 months ago

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Ah, Monroe! Your reblogs always give me life! Your meme game is unmatched, lol!

I'm so thrilled you liked this angsty bit of pre-Like I Can history!

more for you!

You can’t resist lightly teasing him though, “Beach jeans? That sounds like a choice.”“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Bradley says, solemnly. The drama queen.

every time i get reminded of the beach jorts i laugh. bless the ridiculous costume department on that movie.-- like I know there were other people on that beach wearing jeans (ahem, Mav), but NO ONE was doing it like him in those slutty bermuda jorts. That costume department did that for US! they're just so ridiculous and impractical you can't help but laugh and love them.

“When we’re flying together, I’m reminded how it could have been. How it should have been,” he corrects himself, roughly. “I thought I was fucking over it. It’s been fifteen years, kid. And I’m pissed at myself because he should be nothing to me, I shouldn’t care what he thinks.” His voice is a hoarse rasp. “Why can’t I get over it?”

I love the way you write him.-- ahh!! ok, but I loooovedddd getting to dig into this from his perspective!! there's so many moments like when Mav is like "show me what you've got" looking at Bradley, and how Bradley is in the first group to go up against him. And the way Bradley's voice gets all tight after Mav's "Exactly!" after he does his little "it's not the plane it's the pilot". Like I fully think them bonding and talking about flying together was something that definitely happened all the time when Bradley was growing up. So the fact they've been on the outs for so long, and then having to face those "what could have beens" would be so hard on both of them. We know that man does not let things go, so I think he'd be so frustrated that he still wants Mav to be proud of him and his accomplishments.

“I knew it was fucked up as I said it, but in that moment it felt good to hurt him the way he hurt me,” Bradley says, quietly. Every word feels chewed on, like they’d be covered in indents of his teeth. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look in his eyes, kid. I really fucked up. It’s been eating at me ever since.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I hate that part of myself. I hate that I said that to him, regardless of the shit we’ve been through.” His voice is pinched, tight. “My mom would be so disappointed in me.”

crying real tears. my keyboard is wet.--now everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but anyone who thinks that Bradley loves being purposefully callous to people is just wrong. Lololol. That man was going through Dante's Inferno on top of that carrier, but instead of the 7 deadly sins he's like thinking about all the things he can't take back. And I hate public speaking, but I will go find a busy street corner and set up shop and give a one woman ted talk about it, lol. I think he carries a lot of guilt, especially after Ice's death and how quickly they roll out afterwards. In the OG script, it's like maybe 3 days later? But the TURMOIL on his face on top of that carrier when he was trying to talk to Mav kills me everytimeeee. So I had fun with this fic not only because it adds to the LIC lore, but also because I get to be a Bradley Bradshaw Defense Attorney, lmao. Our sweet boy just has a lot of trauma ok everyone? he just needs a hug!

because you’d be able to read even the most redacted version of Bradley Bradshaw.

this line in particular...-- ahhhh! a last minute additon! I always feel like these end up being the lines that people pick out, and it always makes me so happy because they're usually things I add to fill in something that feels lacking, but they end up being really pivotal sometimes! but it always surprises me!! But i love this one too, because of just HOW well these two know each other. Like he didn't even have to say a word for her to realize something was amiss with him. your honor i love them.

He blurts out your name. “Wait.”“I’m still here,” you answer, quickly.You hear him sigh in relief. “I-You know you’re my favorite, right?”“I know.” Your throat gets thick and your eyes prickle. “And you’re mine.”“Yeah?”Your friendship with him as always mattered the most to you. It wasn’t even a question.“Of course. I didn’t make very intricate embroidery floss friendship bracelets at summer camp when I was thirteen for just anyone, you know.” You’d spent hours making him one in his favorite colors. He’d worn it until it fell off and then asked for another. “You’re my favorite too,” you repeat, wanting him to hear it again.

they are real to me, alexa.-- thank god for that because they're a bit too real for me, so I am happy to share, lol. Ok, but like her at the arts and crafts tent spending a whole afternoon making him one and then being so excited to give it to him later?? i mean, my heart. The love was always there, but that year of them being friends as adults living in the same place and getting to kind of relearn each other was what changed it from that affectionate kind to a romantic kind, but I loved them here calling the other their "favorite", like i think there's something truly lovely about them- even with all that distance- still picking the other as their like forever #1. Out of everyone they know, they both still would choose each other. 🥰

anywayyyyssssssss

I'm so happy you liked it!

California Dreaming

Summary: At sometime past 4am, the last thing you would have ever expected was to receive a call from Bradley Bradshaw. But time is a funny thing it feels like it might be running out.

Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: angst and a bit In-N-Out slander

(author's note: this fic is set in the 'Like I Can Universe', but can be read on its own!)

You’re pulled from the light sleep you’d just barely managed to slip into by the sound of your phone ringing.

Although you weren’t too sure if your mind was playing tricks on you again. And in that liminal space between awake and asleep, you didn’t trust yourself to know the different anymore. Sleep and you haven’t been on the best of terms over the couple of months, and you had the dark circles under your eyes to prove it.

Your boss had told you about the chatter he’d heard about a position opening up soon at the West Coast office. It was an opportunity that would be perfect for you, minus the fact it would involve uprooting your entire life and moving across the country. You still hadn’t given him an answer yet whether he should put you forward for it or not. But you’d taken to sleeping with your ringer on just in case you were needed for anything, not wanting to close the door completely. And you’d woken up in a panic more than once thinking you’d slept through an emergency call, only to see absolutely zero new notifications.

Just when think it might have been another stress induced fluke, it goes off again.

Bleary eyed, you scramble to reach it. Wanting to silence it to not wake up your boyfriend from his more-peaceful-than-yours slumber. Only half-consciously noting it’s sometime past 4 AM.

However, it’s the name splashed across the screen that makes your heart stop.

𝗕𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗟𝗘𝗬 𝗕𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗪

You sit straight up, the crisp white sheets your boyfriend preferred pooling around your waist.

“Bradley?” You don’t even remember hitting the green button before the phone was up to your ear. “Bradley? Are you ok?” The words come out a sleepy slur all jumbled together by your sluggish tongue.

He’d texted you when he landed back on US soil; a silly selfie with crinkled bag of McDonalds in his hand and the American flag in the background. It had made you grin like an idiot when your phone had lit up with it.

You knew that he had been called back to Top Gun, but that was as much as he’d been able to tell you.

With the time difference, it makes it the hour too early for you, but also too late for him. He should be asleep right now. But you know Bradley, he wouldn’t be calling right now unless it was about something important.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I know it’s late there,” Bradley apologizes. “Or early, I guess.”

Tired. He sounds so tired.

You didn’t doubt he was still probably fighting the jetlag that came with being in San Diego after living in Japan for the last year and a half. But it was the weariness in his tone that had you concerned.

“But you’re ok?” you press. You needed to hear it.

“I…” he pauses, then sighs. “Yeah, kid. Everything’s fine.”

You blow out a relieved breath, rubbing at your heavy eyes.

“Good. That’s good,” you nod, reassuringly. Not that he can see you.

He is safe. He is ok. That’s all that matters to you.

Jack groans your name. “Seriously?” The word drips of exasperation and annoyance.

You wince. Less at its sharpness, but more at the feeling like you can’t seem do anything right lately.

You and your boyfriend have been together a little over two years now. You have a comfortable life together in Boston, nice even. But you shook the snowglobe of your relationship when you’d first mentioned the possibility of a promotion and moving, and it still felt like you were waiting for the remainders of all those stirred up flakes to settle back down.

“Give me a minute, Bradley,” you whisper into the phone, “Don’t hang up.” Your voice is so quiet you’re not even sure he heard you.

You turn towards your boyfriend, an apology on the tip of your tongue, but he’s already rolled over away from you.

A literal cold shoulder.

Your eyes trace over the exposed skin of his back. It’s dark, but you could point out where every freckle is on him with bullseye precision. Sometimes you weren’t sure if he knew you as well.

Like when he’d bring you red roses, a flower you’ve never felt one way or another about. You’d tell yourself it’s the thought that counts, that it’s the gesture that matters. But for as many times as you’ve bought your favorite flowers yourself and displayed them on the coffee table in your shared living room, Jack has never once brought them home for you.

It made you wonder sometimes if he even truly wanted you, if he cared enough to pay attention. Or if he was just content in the fact that you’d be there.

And then you’d feel guilty for even thinking that in the first place.

But you didn’t just break up with someone over flowers.

Or the way he always seemed to make plans for you with his friends without ever asking you first. Or the way he was never more attentive to you until the two of you were in front of a group.

There’s a sliver of moonlight peeking through the edges of the blinds of your bedroom. A set of curtains would have solved the issue, but you’d never been able to get Jack on board. It was something you there thankful for now as you tiptoed out of the room with just enough light to make sure you wouldn’t trip over anything.

You ease the door gently closed behind you, feeling some of the tension melt from your body.

“Ok, I’m back,” you tell your best friend.

“I take it we woke up Jack?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, padding towards the black leather couch in the living room. You fight back the hiss that wants to be released when your bare thighs touch the ice-cold material. The October chill had a way of sneaking in everywhere. “He’s got a big pitch presentation on Friday,” you say, feeling like you need to explain, “So he’s just a bit on edge right now.”

Bradley makes a noncommittal sound, something close but not quite like a disapproving rumble. You distract yourself from reading into it too much by turning on the lamp on the side table to its lowest setting. A dim glow illuminating the living room.

“Tell me, how’s California?” It’s a pivot. You know you’re trying to smooth things over; you’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

“Sunny.”

You snort and roll your eyes.

“It seems you left good jokes back in Japan,” you tease. You pull your knees up to your chest and reach for your favorite soft knit blanket, tucking it around you. “Be honest, how many things did you forget to pack this time?”

Bradley groans your name. This time you smile.

“I had to take scissors to my favorite pair of Levi’s, because I didn’t bring any shorts for the beach.”

Picturing the pained look on his face as he desecrated his favorite jeans nearly sends you into a fit a giggles. But out of respect for the fallen and your best friend’s feelings you press your lips together, the corners pulling up on their own.

You can’t resist lightly teasing him though, “Beach jeans? That sounds like a choice.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Bradley says, solemnly. The drama queen.

“Is there someone who saw you in them that I could bribe for some new blackmail material?” you ask. “It’s been a while since I’ve gotten my hands on anything truly juicy.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, kid, but I looked damn good in them.”

This time you don’t hold back the laugh, only muffling it with a hand over your mouth when you realize that your boyfriend could probably hear you through the closed door.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Give me some time and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll make some space in my Bradshaw Blackmail folder in the meantime.” Bradley’s warm chuckle in your ear makes the room feel less cold. “So what else have you been up to?”

“We haven’t had a ton of down time, but I did hit up an In-N-Out with Natasha the other night.” That was a name you were familiar with. You’ve never met Bradley’s fellow aviator and friend, but you were happy he had someone with him there that he was close to. “It was the same one I took you to when you came to visit after I finished Top Gun the first time.”

It was a fluke of fate that you’d been sent to the West Coast office for some training around the time that Bradley was on leave before being sent back to his squadron. The overlap was only for a few days, but the two of you had made the most of it.

“Who knew you were such a sentimentalist?” You lean your head back against the couch.

“It’s the closest one to base,” he justifies, “Although, you’ll be happy to know their milkshakes are still trash.”

You grin. “Hey, I never said they were trash. That was all you, Bradshaw.”

You’ve only been there the once, but it had been fun getting to experience it with him for your first time. He’d ordered more than enough food for two people, making sure to get some of the more classic not-so-secret menu items for you to try. And the Neapolitan shake had been fine, but the ones from the ice cream shop in your hometown where Bradley had had his first job were much better.

“Your face said otherwise,” he bats back.

You hum noncommittally, not wanting to concede. It was more fun for you this way, even if he was right. Not to mention no one knows how to read your face better than Bradley does.

When you don’t argue, he continues, “There’s even a rumor going around that they might want to keep some of us around longer. Like they’d form a new squadron that would be stationed here.”

You perk up, “In San Diego? You could be there permanently?” Between his deployments and moving around from base to base, you don’t think he’s been in one place for more than two years since he went to UVA. “That would be amazing.”

“Yeah, it really would,” Bradley agrees, he sounds hopeful, “But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

‘Hope for the best, but expect the worst’ was the motto he seemed to live by. He’d had the rug pulled out from underneath him more times than anyone else you knew.

The two of you are quiet for a moment.

You don’t want to push him into talking about whatever the reason is that he’s called so early in the morning. But no matter how many jokes you trade with him, it’s still in the forefront of your mind. And try as you might, you can’t shake that feeling of unsettledness that was resting heavily on your chest.

Outside your living room window, the streetlights are bright against the dark sky.

You’ve told him more times than you could count that he could call you any time, but Bradley being Bradley has always made it a point to call during hours that were convenient for you, even if that meant he was still up at some ungodly hour.

But that was so him, always putting everyone else ahead of himself.

With the confidentiality that goes hand in hand with his job, you know he can’t talk about the specifics. It was something you were used to after nearly a decade of Naval service behind him.

You nibble on your lower lip, weighing your words.

“How’s it been with…” You trail off, but you know he knows who you’re referring to. You run a hand up and down your calf, trying to warm up quicker.

Mav? Pete? He’d been Captain Mitchell the last time you’d seen him back when you were in high school, you weren’t sure what his rank was now.

Mav has always been the number one topic on Bradley Bradshaw’s No Fly List. The few times you’ve dared to bring it up in the past had been shut down quicker than you think he could probably fly his jet.

Bradley told you last week in a text that had simply read He’s here. You didn’t even have to ask who he was. It had been just as much of a shock to you as you imagined it probably was for him seeing the man who had derailed his dreams when everything else in his world had already fallen apart.

It was a story you’d always thought there had been more to, but between the two of them you’d always be Team Bradley. That’s how it was supposed to be for best friends.

You can feel Bradley mulling over his answer. “It’s been… motivating.”

The way he says it you can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. And maybe he doesn’t even know himself.

You sit up straighter on the couch. “Oh?” you say, casually. Neutrally. Not wanting to let your inflection to color Bradley’s response.

Their reunion has been a long time coming, you just wished you could be there for him with this the way he’s always been there for you. Not just on the phone, but there by his side.

Bradley sighs again, it’s heavier this time. Like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s probably roughly running his hand down his face, the way he always does when he’s really, truly frustrated. Like he’s trying to free those too big feelings from trapped beneath his skin.

“I’m flying with him for the first time in my career. I want him to see why I’m here. I want to show him.” The anger, the hurt rings though loud and clear. But so does the determination. “These patches I’ve been called back are the best of the best that there is. And I’m one of them, kid. And I got here on my own, without him.”

You wait to see if he is going to continue or not, wanting to give him the space to talk through his feelings, but he’s gone quiet again.

“You’ve worked so hard for this, Bradley.”

“It was all I ever wanted,” he says, his voice rough, “To be like them.”

Like Mav. Like Ice. Like his dad.

You’d been there for the fallout. He’d been crushed when he didn’t get to go to the Academy, the self-destruction that followed had been hard to watch. You’d seen the way he had to pick up the pieces of his life. The way the boy had quickly had to become a man. Every choice Bradley has made since then has been with one purpose in mind.

He’d set out to be a Naval aviator and he’d achieved it.

“You should be so proud of yourself,” you say, softly. “I know I am.”

You imagine Mav is proud too, but you don’t say that part out loud.

After all, he practically helped raise Bradley- in his own way. Always calling whenever he could. Sending presents. Spending his leave time with the Bradshaws. They’d been a family.

“Sometimes-” Bradley cuts himself off, trying to collect his thoughts. You can almost feel the tormented whirlwind of them through the phone. “Sometimes,” he starts again, “There are moments, when I see him fly- it’s crazy shit that no one but him can do- and I forget. Just for a second. But then I remember and it’s like I’m eighteen and feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut all over again.”

Your stomach twists in the same way it always does when you’re reminded of that rough period in time when the two of you were just teens. And now that you’re older, your ache even more for the boy whose whole world was so turned upside down by the one person he thought would never let him down.

It’s times like this where you can feel every mile between the two of you. Every inch of space in your long-distance friendship. And it chafes at you that all you can be is an ear for him to vent to rather than a shoulder for him to lean on.

“There’s no version of this where it wasn’t going to be tough. And I don’t think you trying to brush off who he was to you, like none of that mattered, is going to make this any easier for you,” you tell him. “Not with the history the two of you have. And you can’t punish yourself for having feelings about it.”

“I told him no one would mourn him if he burned in.” He all but blurts it out.

Your suck in sharp breath and you shake your head in disbelief, “Bradley, you didn’t.” There’s no hiding the shock in your voice.

You know there’s an unspoken code of conduct between aviators from the things you’ve picked up from the way he’s talked about his career and fellow Naval officers over the years. That when everyone’s lives are so dependent on each other to look out for one another, there were certain things you didn’t joke about. Things you didn’t throw around, not even in the heat of a moment.

“Shit, shit,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You don’t know what to say to him. It’s silent in your darkened living room. The only sound is of his affected breathing over the phone.

You can’t keep dancing around things with him anymore tonight. He cracked open the door, but now you’re the one pushing through it.

“Bradley, what happened?”

His voice is strained when he speaks again, “We had a couple accidents during training a few days ago- no one was hurt.” He is quick to clarify, and you know it’s for your benefit. “It was a bird strike and they had to eject, but they were cleared to fly the next morning.” It hits too close to home all the same. You don’t worry about anyone the way you worry about Bradley. “Mav found me in the Ready Room later that night, and it was just the two of us alone for the first time since everything happened. He was talking to me like I was the kid he’d helped raise, instead of the one he’d fucked over. And then all that anger came rushing back. So I did what I always seem to do, I went for all the things that I knew would hurt him the most.”

You squeeze your eyes tight in sympathy. You’ve been on the receiving end of Bradley’s sharp tongue before. You’ve never held it against him, but you’ve also never forgotten the way his words sliced straight through you.

The guilt in his voice is unmistakable and it's a confession you can tell that takes a lot out of him. No one holds on to regrets- or grudges- like he does. Even if the one he’s holding it against is himself. You know this is going to be something he’ll carry around with him for a long time to come.

But it is the way he stumbles over the mention of Carole that cracks your heart open.

You had grown up adoring her. She’d been lightning in a bottle. Her smile was always the brightest in the room, and her laughter always made people stop to look wanting to be in on the joke too. There was no one quite like her.

And after she died, you’d mourned that loss too. You still carried the evidence of that love with the scar issue on your heart. But for Bradley, that was a wound that no amount of time would ever fully heal for him. Forever a reminder of who wasn’t there.

He’d already lost so much. First, his dad. Then his mom. And now with his uncle.

Bradley had told you about Ice and his passing. You knew they had come to an understanding in the after of everything. It was a relationship held together by a monthly phone call or two, and a dinner invite whenever Bradley was in town. He’d called you during one of his breaks on the morning he found out, troubled because he didn’t know he’d even been sick.

Just more time missed with someone who had meant something to him.

You didn’t want him to regret saying those harsh words without the chance to make amends. You didn’t want him to miss out on any more time with people who wanted to be there for him. You didn’t want him to shoulder around that pain and resentment anymore. A decade and a half of it was more than enough to carry that around. You didn’t want him to forever push away the one person who probably cared for him just as much as you did.

“So apologize,” you gently urge him. “Talk to Mav and apologize. For him and for you.”

He sighs, heavily, “It’s not that simple.”

Gone is the quiet girl in her dark living room. You want him to hear you. “It really is though, Bradley. Tell him. Pull him aside after class or get there early. Or take him to that bar on the beach you told me about and buy him a beer. Don’t let this be a thing you can’t take back. You can still apologize.”

“I-I don’t think I can. There’s not enough time for that now.” His words are stilted.

You feel your eyebrows pinch in confusion, “Aren’t you guys there for a couple more weeks?” He doesn’t answer you right away and you feel a chill drift across you, even under your blanket. “Does that mean you’re shipping out soon?”

“It’s why I called.” There’s something more serious in his tone, you’re talking to the Naval officer now. “We got the orders, we ship out tomorrow. Or later today, technically.”

There’s a swooping sensation in your stomach and it feels like the floor has fallen out beneath your feet.

“Goddamn it, Bradshaw. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Your voice wavers.

“I know, I probably should have.” At least he has the good sense to admit it. “I just wanted to talk to you, like normal. Although we didn’t get very far before I derailed the conversation,” he says, self-deprecatingly. “Do you think you can give me a few more minutes of normal, kid?”

You know there’s not much you can ask, and even less than he can tell you. You’re surprised you even allowed to know this much.

But you don’t need a dossier of confidential government information to tell you that whatever he’s being sent to do is dangerous, because you’d be able to read even the most redacted version of Bradley Bradshaw. You’d known something was off from the very moment you’d seen his name lighting up your phone.

You don’t want him to feel your anxiousness, you don’t want to add to whatever else he’s currently going through. Bradley called you because he wants to let his mind relax. So if he wants normal, you can give him normal. You can give him as much as he wants, as much as he needs.

“I’m sorry for making fun of your beach shorts.”

Bradley huffs a soft laugh, “No, you’re not.”

“You know,” you muse, fighting to keep your tone light and airy, “I haven't played hooky in a while and I have some miles to use before the end of the year.”

“You want to come out here?” The suggestion works just like you hoped it would, he sounds less troubled than before.

“I could use some Vitamin D and a milkshake. Do you know a good place to make it worth my while?”

“I might. It depends on your opinion is about Neapolitan shakes though.” Your nose scrunches up on its own. “Are you making that face, kid?”

“No,” you reply too quickly.

“Liar.”

You smile to yourself. “I’ll even let you pick me up from the airport and you can finally show me that Bronco of yours in person. It only seems fair that I get to see what all the hubbub is about after I’ve spent hours letting you talk my ear off about it: V8 engine this and four-speed manual transmission that.” You do your best Bradley impersonation and earn an amused scoff from him.

He’d bought it right before he’d been sent to Japan. Ice and his wife had been looking after it for him while he was away. Bradley had even documented his reunion with it after landing back on US soil by sending you a video of it with him humming the Peaches & Herb song in the background.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Bradley says. You think he might be smiling too.

It’s all to easy for you to slip into a normal conversation with him. He asks about your mom and stepdad. You don’t mention the possible promotion, but instead tell him about the passive aggressive microwave fish debacle that plagued the entire floor for days.

The two of you talk about nothing in a way that feels like everything. And every chuckle you pull out of him feels like a victory. Your tired eyes flutter shut on their own, with them closed you can almost pretend he’s sitting right next to you, until a yawn slips out of you without your permission.

“It’s getting late, I should let you go.”

You want to keep talking to him, but you can imagine the circles that have already formed under his eyes over the last few days. “You should get your sleep. Rest up, because we have big milkshake plans…and you’re not allowed to stand me up. Got it, Bradshaw?”

“I hear you,” he promises. “Try to stay out of trouble until I get back, kid.”

“No promises.” You feel your lower lip wobble.

“Atta girl.”

You laugh. It sounds a little watery to your own ears, but you hope he doesn’t hear it. You’re grateful he didn’t choose to FaceTime you. It’s probably for the best he can’t see your face, you’ve never been a very good poker player.

“Be safe, Bradley.”

You’ve already decided that you’ll let him be the one to hang up first. You didn’t have it in you to hit the red button before he did.

He blurts out your name. “Wait.”

“I’m still here,” you answer, quickly.

You hear him sigh in relief. “I-You know you’re my favorite, right?”

“I know.” Your throat gets thick and your eyes prickle. “And you’re mine.”

“Yeah?”

Your friendship with him as always mattered the most to you. It wasn’t even a question.

“Of course. I didn’t make very intricate embroidery floss friendship bracelets at summer camp when I was thirteen for just anyone, you know.” You’d spent hours making him one in his favorite colors. He’d worn it until it fell off and then asked for another. “You’re my favorite too,” you repeat, wanting him to hear it again.

“Ok. Ok, good,” Bradley says. He lets out a slow breath. “See you soon for milkshakes, kid.”

“See you soon.” It comes out a reedy whisper.

You stay on the line until he hangs up.

And only when the screen goes black do you allow yourself to give into the emotions that had been surging up inside of you.

With the corner of your blanket, you wipe at the tears that are making hot tracks down your cheeks. There’s a hollowness that has settled in your chest that you don’t think will go away until he tells you when to book your ticket to come and see him.

It doesn’t matter that you remind yourself that he is one of the best at he does. Or that you know he’ll be with other people who are just as good as he is. In all the years he’s been in the Navy, you’ve never once heard him sound that unsure before, and it’s rattled you.

It’s not that you didn’t know there was risk every time he sat in the cockpit of his fighter jet, even if it was just to train. But this was the first time it’s ever felt like he was preparing you for the possibility that you might never see or hear from him again.

You didn’t want to imagine a world with Bradley Bradshaw in it.

He’s never once broken a promise with you, and he wasn’t allowed to start now.

You don’t know how long you sit there in the dark with only your feelings and the sound of the clock on the wall for company.

Your eyes drift towards the closed bedroom door, where you’re sure Jack is sleeping unbothered on a soft mattress between stark white sheets.

It hits you then that he hadn’t come to check on you.

It’s still just as dark outside. Only the little lamp next to the couch offers any light, as you look around your living room.

You’d liked all the exposed brick when you’d first moved in, had imagined all the ways you could soften the apartment with things to make it more cozy for you and your boyfriend. More like the two of you.

But the books on the bookcase had been carefully chosen to fit a neutral color palette, while all your favorites had been moved to the smaller one in the office. Their colorful covers hidden away. The spot where you thought some kind of landscape painting could have gone, had a photograph of a sepia-toned city hanging there instead. It was still art, but it was the kind of thing that had been made to disappear into the background.

You keep waiting to see a piece of yourself reflected in the room, some mark of you that had been left behind in the home you live in, but other than the black and white striped rug that had been too good of a deal to pass up on at a store with a no return policy, none could be found. You didn’t see any of yourself there at all.

You thought that you’d been making compromises, but it’s dawning on you that all along really what you’ve been doing is making concessions. A one-sided partnership. When all you ever wanted was to share a life with someone.

Earlier you found yourself making excuses to Bradley, but now it felt like something you weren’t sure you wanted to look past.

You are tired.

And not because it’s sometime around 5 AM now. You’re already well past the start of a new day.

You’re tired of being the one to trying to make something work.

You’re tired of being the one who always makes a genuine effort.

You’re tired of red roses.

Maybe people did end relationships over flowers. Or the art on the walls.

Grabbing your phone, you open your email ignoring all the messages that are already waiting for you, and start typing out a message. When you’re done, you read it over a couple of time before sending it off to your boss. The whoosh that follows as it bounces off the exposed brick in the quiet living room feels like progress.

You didn’t want to miss out on any more time either.

Not with the people who mattered the most to you. The people you mattered the most to.

Leaning over the arm of the couch you turn off the lamp and stretch out to get comfortable on the cushions underneath you. You tuck a throw pillow under your head and drape the blanket over you.

From this angle, you can almost pretend the city lights look like stars.

Your alarm is already set, and if you’re lucky you can doze a bit longer before it will go off all too soon.

But it’ll ok if sleep doesn’t find you.

You’re already California dreaming.

Who gave me permission to do this to myself?! Oh my heart. Don't mind me, I'm just in my angsty era. Thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed these two, you can read their story from the start here!

You can read my other stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

#thank you for reading and reblogging #here have a bradley #the babe with the big feels

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thecarriebradshawproject · 2 years ago

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7/12/2023

Journaling has always helped me in my life. Ever since I got a My Secret Journal when I was a kid. I continued to journal here and there throughout my life, but I always come back to writing about my feelings.

Now that I am writing my feelings on a blog, I truly feel like Carrie Bradshaw (hence the name).

Anyways, I have been in a depression SLUMP! There was signs of it coming, but I didn't have the energy to fight it. It wasn't hurting anyone, but myself, if I sat around all day. Never did anything but numb my brain to get through my days. It really does sound depressing...

I have struggled with depression since I was in about 8th grade (woohoo the American education system failed me). I have struggled with anxiety my whole life, I just didn't realize it until later. This is mostly because anxiety presents itself very differently in children. I was constantly getting sick before school, I would cry A LOT, and I always remember my parents telling me I am like Charlie Brown... So yeah, I have always been an anxious person.

So, I will be 25 next month. My frontal lobe will finally be fully developed. That means it's all downhill from here, right? I mean, I love my career and I can see myself being at my company for years to come. However, it feels like every other aspect of my life is constantly in shambles.

I have some great friends and such a loving family, I really do, but I am not always the best friend or family member. I am not going to lie, I am the person who flakes (sometimes last minute), and I am not scared to turn down invites either. Which makes sense why I am not always invited to things. I really get it. But... I am still feeling so distant from everyone in my life. I get I am not in my hometown anymore, but we are all in the same state! And it feels embarrassing to reach out to someone and basically tell them that I am mentally unwell and I need their support in this not fun time in my life. Sounds like too much for me, so I can only imagine how other people would respond.

I try to keep conversation lines open, but it is so easy to get "busy" or distracted in adulthood. I get this is apart of life, but I cannot recall in my life when my parents did not have their friends around constantly. I remember my mom being on a bowling league, going to concerts, hosting card game nights. I remember my dad racing throughout Michigan, celebrating birthdays at bars, and his bestie would stop by for coffee on most Sunday mornings, even if it was just for one cup.

I love my parents friends and they definitely feel like family. I have joked before that I could show up to my parents' friend's houses unannounced and I would be accepted in with open arms and no questions asked. They all agree this would be true.

Now what do I do when I do not have friends? I know I have not gotten to that yet, but if it keeps going like this, I could see it happening. Can I make new friends with such strong bonds? Will I even make new friends? Will I always just be a miserable person?!

I don't try to be miserable, but I can't help it. I get so sunken into my depression, that I can't even mask it. I always drain poor Justin's energy. I know it can be exhausting dealing with dealing with poor mental health, and I am scared I will continue to push him away. I wouldn't want to marry someone who may just give up on life...

I am slowly sleeping and numbing my way through life. This is not what life is meant to be or at least I don't think it is. However, I have no idea how to fix the damage I have caused to myself... Or how to have a fulfilling life to start with... Is it money, love, family, a career, or maybe even traveling? Who knows? I sure as hell don't know.

Hopefully, I will start getting more direction/answers in life. Hopefully, I do not become a cranky depressed woman who dies alone. I want to be able to reflect on genuine happy moments in my life. I am terrified that it might never happen...

Wish me luck! I truly need it...

#journal #mental health awareness

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derpinathebrave · 2 years ago

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Finders Keepers - IceMav SpyAu Part 4 - Loving

READ ON AO3

These chapters come out faster on AO3 just as an FYI. Sometimes it takes me a few days to get to post to Tumblr. Also This is now 40k in my writing doc. I will have to make a Masterpost I think. I'll put that on my to-do list...

SUMMARY: “Don’t get attached, Mitchell,” Ice said, mumbling soft enough that the kid wouldn’t hear but the words were piped through the earpiece to Mav.

Maverick gave him a look of mild disinterest before returning his attention to the kid. Just because Ice was a cold-hearted bastard, didn’t mean Maverick had to be. There was nothing wrong with being kind to a child that they had rescued from a house of traffickers. It wasn’t like he was about to adopt it…

TAGS: Tom “Iceman” Kazansky/Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, OC Child Character, Ron “Slider” Kerner, Nick “Goose” Bradshaw, Bill “Cougar” Cortell, Mike “Viper” Metcalf, Rick “Jester” Heatherly, Charlotte "Charlie" Blackwood, Penny Benjamin, Rick "Hollywood Neven, Leonard "Wolfman" Wolfe, Fluff, Family Fluff, Literally found family, MavDad, IcePops, SpyAU, Very Mild Violence, Spycraft innacuracies, Mild mentions of human trafficking, Selective Mutism, No Beta we die like goose.

WORDS: 7,069

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4

Mav had endured the reaming Jester had given him. It was an impressive forty minute tirade of why this was the stupidest choice he could possibly make and how he was throwing away his career. Mav stood at attention through the whole thing, mentally listing what needed to be done for Emma in his house.

They would need to head back to the safehouse, collect all her new clothes and the food from the fridge. It would be a pain in the ass seeing as he only had his bike here and there was no way Viper was going to let him have a company car again.

Maybe he could convince Ice to bring her in his car. Maybe he could convince Ice that Emma needed him to stay. Maybe he could convince Ice to hold him again. Maybe, if he really tried, he could convince Ice to kiss him soft and slow—

“Are you even listening to me, Maverick?” Jester interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes, sir. Irresponsible, career-wasting, talent-wasting choices, sir.”

Jester sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “You’ve already made your decision then?”

“Yes, sir,” Mav couldn’t smother his smile in time.

“Then get out of my sight.” He turned back to his desk.

Mav never needed to be told twice. He headed for the door, pausing when Jester spoke again.

“Mitchell,” his voice was quieter now. “I get it. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t try and talk you out of it.”

With a truer smile this time, Mav turned back to face him. “I know, Jester. Thanks.”

“Keep me abreast of that… extracurricular you and the boys are cooking up, OK?” He gave Maverick a stern look.

How he had already heard about it, Mav wasn’t too sure. He gave Jester a solemn nod and headed out. As he rode the elevator down to his floor, Mav added “sweep office for bugs” to his to-do list.

It was after dark when they finally finished all their work. Goose had headed off an hour ago, promising that he would keep Carole from bringing baked goods to Mav’s house for at least 48 hours. Slider had headed out on his recon job, ruffling Emma’s hair as he took the kit from his bench where she was tinkering with cut pieces of wire. Ice worked steadily through along with Maverick. They only stopped because Emma asked them to go home.

She put a miniature wire sculpture of Ice’s Ruger on his desk along with an encoded note. He skimmed the numbers a few times before picking up a pen and working the code out on a pad before decoding the actual message.

Can we go home soon?

Ice smiled at her and stretched his arms overhead. His spine gave a sigh of relief.

“Sure, Squeak,” Ice said easily, his mouth working before his brain had a chance to catch up.

He mentally cursed. There was no home. There was no we.

“Hmm?” Mav asked, eyes distracted as he carried on working at his desk.

“Emma wants to go home,” Ice said, trying to put all his thoughts into his tone of voice.

“Sure, baby, give me one more second.”

Ice wanted to smack him. Instead he stood and glanced down at Emma. She was watching Ice closely, eyes slightly narrowed and a kink in her brow. He wanted to smack himself. She was the smartest kid he’d ever met, of course she would pick up on his subtext with ease.

He gave a short sigh and knelt down to level with her.

“Emma,” Ice started. A fresh, slicing pain cut through his heart. He didn’t want to do it.

“All done!” Mav interrupted and gave a clap of his hands. “Let’s go! I’m starving.”

It felt like a life-preserver. Ice knew he should refuse it and forge on telling Emma he wasn’t coming with them. But he clung on anyway, letting Mav drag him back in again.

She walked on her own. The later hour of the day meaning the halls were emptier of people. Mav held her hand as they rode the elevator and after a moment, Emma slid her fingers into Ice’s hand as well. He smiled down at her.

“Ice, you’re going to have to drive Emma,” Mav said, voice a little too easy. “I only have my bike and she has no gear.”

Ice turned his upper body, staring at Mav openly. The other man avoided looking back until the elevator gave its ding and they had to get out.

Blinking, head half tilted in confusion, Ice released Emma’s hand and followed along behind them through the garage. That had felt suspiciously like Maverick was trying to get him to stay. There couldn’t be a chance he actually wanted to keep Ice around, could there?

The memory of Mav’s thigh pressed against his in the cafeteria rose and fell. Maybe Maverick did want him around? Maybe Maverick liked having someone to help out with Emma. Maybe Emma was the real reason Mav was asking.

That had to be it.

As crushing as it was to his ego, Ice could accept hanging around because it helped Emma. He cared about her. He wanted to see her happy and was willing to push his own happiness aside to do so.

Mav slowed them to a stop by his neon green Kawasaki. He moved to the wall lockers and pulled his helmet and jacket out. Emma was staring, eyes wide and hungry, at the bike.

“You can’t ride with me today, kiddo,” Mav said, shrugging the jacket on. “Not until we get you some leathers and a helmet.”

“Not at all,” Ice cut in. The idea of her on the motorcycle sent his heart into palpitations.

Emma turned to him, scowling with her bottom lip in a huge pout.

“C’mon, Ice,” Mav wheedled. “I’m a very safe rider. I’ve been riding bikes for decades now. She’ll be OK as long as we have the proper gear.”

“We can talk about it later,” Ice said, deflecting the impossible task of saying ‘no’ when Emma looked so desperate. “Until then, you’re with me, Squeak. I’m a few rows down.”

She gazed longingly at the bike until Ice took her hand and physically towed her away.

“Look, I might not ride a bike, but we’ll have fun, I promise,” Ice said, flashing a smile at her.

Her expression was dubious as Ice clicked his car to unlock. Sure, it looked like an innocuous hatchback in a boring steel-grey, but it wasn’t about looks.

The engine of Mav’s bike echoed through the garage and Emma looked back for it.

“You want to ride up front?” Ice asked her, pulling the front passenger door open.

Mav pulled up at the back bumper, the visor of his helmet flipped up. “Nice car,” he called, voice muffled. “We’ll meet at the safe house.”

“Sure,” Ice nodded. “Don’t wreck yourself on that thing.”

“Worry wort!” Mav revved the engine with a laugh and zipped off toward the exit.

Ice bundled Emma into the front seat with her backpack at her feet and rounded the car to his side. He checked for her seatbelt and found she was still frowning a little. He chuckled.

The i30N growled to life, giving snaps and crackles as Ice backed out of the park and followed Mav’s path for the exit. As they passed through the boomgate, Ice glanced at Emma once more.

“Ready?” He grinned.

She gave him a confused look.

He stomped on the accelerator. The engine roared and the force of it pushed them back into their seats. Emma let out a giggle. Ice laughing along with her as he wove the car through the scant traffic and breezed through a very late yellow light.

“See,” Ice said, unable to stop smiling as they burned through the city in record time. “I told you we’d have fun.”

She was beaming from ear to ear, watching the scenery slip by out the window. Ice took a few corners with more pace than strictly necessary, inflicting the inertia on Emma and making her laugh again.

As they cruised along an arterial road, Maverick’s neon bike came into view. Ice, an overwhelming sensation of smugness filling his chest, pulled into the lane beside Mav’s idling bike at the next red light.

He revved the engine to get Mav’s attention and rolled his window down.

The pair of them laughed as Mav did a double take. He flipped his visor up once more, eyes shocked.

“Jesus, Kazansky, and you think I’m reckless!” He yelled over the noise of their engines.

“I had it all under control. We got a run of greens!” Ice called back with a smug grin.

“Just be careful!”

“You be careful!” Ice laughed and shot off as the light changed.

Within seconds Mav’s bike peeled past and cut into the lane ahead of them. Emma and Ice laughed again.

“He’s got us for acceleration, Squeak,” Ice said with mock-sorrow. “But we’d keep up even if he wasn’t driving like a grandma.”

She gave him a toothy grin that didn’t shift the rest of the drive to the safehouse.

With the practice of two people that had bugged out more than once, Ice and Mav had the safehouse back to the way they had found it within an hour. They had all of Emma’s new things and all of the perishable food loaded into Ice’s car.

Emma was still and silent through the whole thing, watching with haunted eyes. Ice wanted to pause and comfort her, but he figured the best comfort would be getting her to Mav’s house where she could actually settle for a long while.

“What’s the address?” Ice asked as he helped Emma back into the car again.

Mav rattled it off as he locked the door and picked up his bike helmet once more.

Ice blinked, blindsided for the second time that evening. “That’s in the middle of suburbia,” Ice scoffed.

“So?” Mav laughed a little, clearly knowing that it subverted all expectations. “Where else would I live?”

“I don’t know,” Ice said. “In an abandoned warehouse or a beat up trailer somewhere.”

Maverick gave a cackling laugh and shook his head. “You’re a real charmer, Ice. Thanks.”

“I’m just being honest,” Ice raised his hands in surrender, laughing a little himself.

“I’ll meet you two there.” Mav pulled his helmet on. “Try not to speed this time.”

“I will if you will.”

Ice folded himself into the car, still huffing with quiet laughter.

As he drove, he couldn’t help but realise that Mav made him happy. Their banter lately was much less antagonistic posturing and much more teasing fun. He hoped that even after he left him and Emma, they could carry on with this energy to their relationship. He didn’t want to go back to the prickly treatment of the last few years.

Mav’s house was in a quiet street off a main road. It was a single storey with the garage jutting out from the house and a small covered porch. A garden of low-maintenance shrubs, that had gone slightly wild, lined the porch but the lawn was trimmed and everything looked perfectly suburban. It sent a jagged sense of jealousy through Ice. Compared to his loft this was right out of a House and Garden magazine.

The garage door ground open as Mav turned into the driveway and ducked under the door on his bike with movement that was clearly second-nature. Ice pulled in behind him and turned the engine off.

“We’re here,” Ice said with a forced smile. “Let’s get you unpacked.”

Emma gave him a slightly dubious look but climbed out of the car.

Mav was hanging his jacket as they strolled into the open garage. Suddenly Ice understood why Mav lived in suburbia with a double garage. There was another bike already parked there, it was more laid back than the sport bike he usually saw Mav on, not quite a cruiser but something like it. Beside it was a vintage car. It was mostly blue with some large gaps in the paint and the hood open. The engine was in pieces across a drop cloth on the floor nearby.

As Ice was taking it all in, Emma was hovering at his elbow, eyes continually returning to the dismantled engine. Mav stepped over and ruffled her hair.

“Maybe tomorrow, kiddo,” he said. “Right now we have to get your stuff inside and get some dinner.”

She gave a soft sigh of disappointment.

“C’mon, I’ll give you a tour of the house.” Mav chuckled and waved them both in.

The door from the garage led into a tight hall. Ice couldn’t help but immediately begin a tactical analysis of the house. This was good so far, a choke point for the entry, it was narrow enough to keep insurgents coming in one at a time.

Mav tapped the tall cupboard doors in the western wall as they passed. “That’s the laundry,” he said.

The hall opened a little into a right angle. He gestured to the door immediately to the east in the wall.

“This will be your room, kiddo,” Mav said and pushed the door open.

It was a mess. Ice supposed under the absolute mountain of stuff crammed in the room, there was probably a bed. He didn’t like the look of the large bay window in the far wall of her room. It was incredibly exposed and easy to breach. He made a mental note as they carried on straight down the hall.

“Linen cupboard,” Mav knocked on a single door. “This one is my room.” He gestured to the half-open door at the end of the hall.

With a glance at Emma, Mav carried on into the room. Ice, an awkward reluctance biting at him, followed them in.

It was reasonably clean. A few discarded clothes here and there. What appeared to be a technical manual resting open on its pages on the floor by the bed and two coffee cups on the bedside table. The bed was a tangled mess of blankets, sheets and pillows. Ice pressed his lips together to suppress his smile. It was exactly what he expected Mav’s room to be.

“I also have a bathroom and wardrobe in here,” Mav said. “You can peek if you want, nothing to hide.”

Emma walked a slow circle around the room, opening the cupboards that lined the eastern wall, peering out the dark windows and glass door on the north wall. Ice assumed they overlooked the backyard. She ducked into the en suite and wardrobe on her own. Ice turned his eyes to Mav, both of them were unashamedly proud of her progress.

From Mav’s room he led them back down the hall and down the other arm of the right angle. There was a bathroom, a dining room with a four-seater table and a cabinet cluttered with stuff. The kitchen and living area opened off the hall. It was nicer than Ice expected. He once more thought of his own studio and winced internally. He liked to say it was minimalist, but now looking at Mav’s place he knew it was just stark.

Everything was a riot of colours. The armchairs and lounge didn’t match at all but it ended up cohesive anyway. His rugs were a mix of old and oriental with abstract and modern. None of it should be working but the chaos overflowed onto everything and made it all fit perfectly.

The fridge was papered with documents, invoices, ‘drawings’ made of colourful scribble with Bradley printed in the corner. The bench was cluttered with clean dishes waiting to be put away and a slowcooker was plugged in on the island that bisected the corner from the rest of the room.

It was cozy and homey and Ice couldn’t have chosen a better place for Emma to be.

Mav ground his teeth thinking of the nightmare his spare room was as they toted all of Emma’s things inside. He instructed them to set them down in the dining room for now. He hadn’t been expecting a guest. In fact he had resigned that room to be his Stuff room forever.

Now it would have to be emptied and he would probably have to cull his Stuff to fit Emma into his life. It might have been exasperating to someone else, but Mav couldn’t help but relish the idea. It was so worth it. The thing that irked him was making her feel unwelcome or, worse, like a burden to him.

She was still gazing around at his house, picking up on every little detail. As much as he loved how switched on she was, a deep seeded hope that this could be a place where she didn’t feel she had to be alert at all times sprouted within him. He wanted to give her comfort.

“Dinner,” Mav said and headed for the kitchen. “You staying, Ice? For dinner I mean.”

“Uh,” Ice sounded unsure. It was odd enough that Mav glanced back at him with raised eyebrows. Mr Iceman, unsure? He wasn’t aware it could even happen.

Emma abandoned her inspection of Mav’s trophy cabinet and crossed to where Ice stood in the doorway. She reached up in an obvious bid to be picked up. He complied without even thinking about it.

Mav smiled to himself and carried on to the kitchen without them. It was getting too late to cook anything elaborate. Mav settled for frying some chicken and chucking together a salad while Ice and Emma resumed staring into the cabinet in the dining room.

It was yet another place that needed a cull. Mav could admit he was a pack-rat. He liked to collect things, he liked to keep things ‘just in case’, he liked looking around his home and seeing things. He had spent the majority of his life owning nothing and living in temporary places. It was comforting to see his own things everywhere.

“Is this a vintage Colt?” Ice called.

Mav ducked his head around the door to look. Ice was pointing at the gun half hidden behind a box of nuts and bolts that probably shouldn't have been there. He gave a nod, smug delight filling him at the impressed look on Ice’s face.

“Does it fire?” Ice’s voice carried through the door again.

“Last I tried it did,” Mav called back, rapidly chopping vegetables. “It’s been a few years though.”

“And a Derringer?” There was awe clear in Ice’s voice now. “What the hell, Mitchell? How do you have these?”

Mav laughed a little. “I wanted them. I bought them.” He flipped the frying chicken and wandered back to lean on the door to the dining room. “What else am I supposed to use all that money for?”

Ice gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. Emma was tapping his shoulder insistently, pointing at something else in the cabinet.

“A bayonet?” Ice spluttered. “A 1940s bayonet?” He turned back to Mav.

“It was a surplus. Pretty cheap really.” Mav shrugged and wandered off to check on the food. “I have the rifle it attaches to too. They don’t fit in the cabinet together so it’s down near the bottom shelf.”

He couldn’t help humming under his breath as he finished cooking. The happiness in his entire being needed to get out somehow. It felt good to have people in his home. Especially people that got it.

Mav ferried all the food in to the dining room. He nudged the pile of papers and detritus that was scattered across the surface of the table down to one end and laid everything out. The other two, with slow reluctance, came and took their seats to eat.

“Thanks,” Ice said with his gorgeous smile lighting up his blue eyes.

“No problem.” Mav had to grip his fist against his thigh to stop himself from reaching out and linking it with Ice’s instead.

Emma looked from one to the other, a small smile curling at her lips.

After dinner, Ice insisted on washing dishes while Mav began the arduous task of emptying his spare room. He and Emma carried everything out into the living room, making a large island of Stuff in the middle of a rug. Ice finished just as they brought the last bag (full of car magazines from the early 90s) into the room and placed them at the edge of the pile.

Emma immediately climbed into the pile and dragged out a small but heavy looking box. Mav looked up from the bag he was hunting in to see what she was doing.

“You found my carburettor kit,” Mav said, catching her attention. “I’ve been looking for that.”

“You ever think of keeping it in the garage?” Ice said, voice dry. “Y’know, with the rest of the car?”

He was leaning on the side of the bench with his hip, arms folded loosely over his chest and an amused expression on his face. Mav couldn’t help but get a little lost looking at him. He looked perfect. He looked like he belonged in the house with all of Mav’s other loved things.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ice. Why would I do something like that?” Mav gave him a toothy smile and headed off to make the bed in Emma’s room.

Emma let out an irritated squeak and leapt up to follow him.

“Well I gotta make your bed, kid,” Mav called back to her. “Otherwise you’re gonna be on the couch.”

Ice appeared a moment after Emma, face politely mild.

The three of them made the bed, pulling down all the spare bedding Mav owned but coming up short of a quilt cover.

“Sorry, Em, you’ll just have to live with boring white until we get back to the shops.” Mav gave her a squeeze, pulling her into his hip. “Now, shower, teeth and bed.”

She gave a whiney noise of complaint and flung her arms around his body.

“No, no,” Mav shook his head. “Don’t argue with me about it. It’s been a huge day for you. It’s bed time.”

She tipped her head back, giving him wide brown pleading eyes.

“You can have fifteen minutes.” He compromised. “No more. And shower first.”

Emma’s lips pressed tight together. She gave a single nod.

“Good,” Mav carded his fingers through her hair. “Come shower in my bathroom, there’s nothing in the other one and Ice and I can sit in the bedroom while you do. OK?”

She gave another nod, a smile sneaking out this time.

“Let’s go,” Mav released her. She tightened her arms quickly and raced off for the dining room where her things were.

He probably should have been a little embarrassed about the state of his bedroom. But Mav found himself not even thinking about it as he and Ice on the edge of the bed while Emma showered in the en suite. Mav teased Ice over driving his Hyundai on a factory engine with no tuning. Ice teased him right back for owning two bikes and one ass. The two of them chattering away so Emma knew they were there.

They were side by side, about a foot of space between them. Mav longed to close the distance, to slot himself into the space beneath Ice’s arm that he proved to fit into perfectly that day. He could still feel the ghost of Ice’s arm around his shoulders. Sure, it had been to comfort Emma, but that didn’t mean Mav wasn’t allowed to savour the memory.

It had felt so right. It felt like clicking two jigsaw pieces together. It felt like slotting needle bearings together; all the pieces holding the other pieces in place and creating perfectly smooth unity.

Mav was laughing on the outside but his heart was dragging at him. He wanted Ice to stay. He had already manipulated him into coming home with them. He should probably feel guilty about it, but as Ice leaned back on his palms on the bed and talked engines with him, Mav didn’t fucking care. This was where they were supposed to be.

Emma emerged from the bathroom, the unicorn-kitty pyjamas almost as bright as her eyes. She made a beeline for them, climbing onto Ice’s lap.

“Hey, Squeak,” he said and pressed a kiss to her damp hair. “What do you want to do for your fifteen minutes?”

“Don’t know,” she said with a shrug.

Their smiles softened and Ice gave her another kiss on the head.

“You talk a bit more when you’re with Ice,” Mav observed, tilting his head in thought.

She shrugged again.

“Does he make you feel safe, kiddo?” Mav asked, reaching out and taking her hand.

“Yes,” her voice was quieter this time but still there. “You too.”

Mav smiled wide enough to reveal his teeth. Warm happiness seeped through his blood like golden wine. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I know I do, baby,” he told her. “Thank you for saying it though.”

She leaned her head into Ice’s shoulder, eyes still on Mav. His heart picked up speed. He still had so much to tell her. He had to break the news about her parents. He had to let her know he was going to hold on to her and never let her go.

“Do you want to stay here forever, Emma?” His pulse hammered as though he was mid-firefight. Minsk hadn’t been as terrifying as this. His fingers might actually be going a little numb.

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

His heart stumbled, leaving him feeling like he had missed a step on the stairs. Mav let out a breath of relief.

“You can stay, Emma,” Mav said, voice soft. “You can stay forever, OK?”

She gave a solemn nod. Her brown eyes were searching him, a sadness standing in them. His chest ached. His throat burned. He knew that sadness. He knew that look having seen it on his own face as a kid.

“I want to ask you a hard question,” Mav said. He knelt down on the floor in front of them, letting her be taller than him, letting her be snuggled in her safe-space that was Ice’s arms.

She gave another slow nod.

“Did your parents give you up?” The words were like jagged glass in his throat but he forced them out.

A flinch of profound pain crossed over her, spasming her whole body. She turned away, burying her face in Ice’s shoulder and giving a sob.

Mav closed his eyes and pressed his anger back. He knew it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. But deep down he had known it. She never once asked about them. She never made any sort of attempt to get back to them.

A large hand came down on his shoulder, making him startle. He looked up into Ice’s eyes. The deep, pervading fury he felt was mirrored there. They stared at one another for a suspended second. An understanding passed between them and Mav took a slow, calming breath in. He held it. Closed his eyes. And let it out once more.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Mav said when he could trust his voice to be calm. “They shouldn’t have done that to you. And I promise you, I will never let that happen again.”

He laid his hand on her back, making soothing circles as she shuddered and shook against Ice.

Her fifteen minutes came and went, none of them moved. At the half hour mark, Mav stood and settled onto the mattress beside Ice, bumping up against Emma lightly to let her know he was there.

It was another fifteen minutes beyond that when the shudders faded and she fell still.

“She’s asleep,” Ice whispered, looking over her head at Mav. They were nose to nose with her between them once again. Mav couldn’t help but give a small, sad smile.

“We’d better take her to bed.” He stood before he did something stupid, like kiss Ice’s perfect lips.

They padded down to Emma’s room, sliding her into the bed without waking her. Mav covered her with the coverless quilt as Ice dropped a light kiss to her forehead.

“I need to get a nightlight for the hall,” Mav mumbled as they headed back to the living area.

“She needs a stuffed toy too,” Ice replied, equally soft. “I can’t believe you forgot one the other day.”

Mav moved to the kitchen and filled the kettle. “She didn’t choose one,” he said.

“Kids don’t choose their own plushies, Mav,” Ice’s voice was a mixture of amused and surprised.

“What would I know about it.” Maverick shrugged and set the kettle to boil. “You want some tea?”

“Thanks,” Ice said.

There was silence between them. Mav set about getting the tea ready as the kettle boiled. When he turned to ask how Ice liked it, he stopped. The other man was frowning, brows low over his eyes and lips almost twisted. He noticed Mav watching him and the expression smoothed.

“What?” Mav huffed, half laughing.

“You really grew up rough,” Ice said.

Maverick stilled, searching the tone and words for pity. When he found none he gave a cavalier shrug. “My dad was KIA when I was pretty young. My mum went not long after. I went into the system younger than Emma is now,” Mav said and brought the tea mugs over to the island where Ice was sinking onto a stool. “It’s different. Some places are rough. Some kids are rough. I don’t know. I don’t really have anything to compare it to.”

“You’re so much better with her than me,” Ice’s frown returned, his voice laden with sadness.

Mav chuckled. He shook his head and flicked Ice’s ear lightly.

“Ow!”

“I’m not better with her than you are,” Mav said, holding Ice’s eyes with his own. “Sure, I get her on the orphan level. But you’re something else for her.”

“Like what?” Ice asked. Hope that Mav didn’t quite understand was flittering through Ice’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” he hummed. The kettle whistled and Mav whipped it off the stove before it could wake their sleeping girl. “I think you’re steady,” he said as he poured the tea.

Ice was staring expectantly.

His heart thumped. A new, yet unsurprising, realisation hit Mav. Another piece of the puzzle of Maverick’s affection slotted into place. Emma wasn’t the only one that desired something level headed and stable. Mav had always loved Ice’s cool, calm energy; he just showed affection by being an annoying shit. Until now.

“You just have this… steadiness about you,” Mav tried again. He nodded them over to the couches. “I think its the ice-cold thing. You’re… unshakeable. Its reassuring.”

The corners of Ice’s lips lifted and he stared into his tea.

“When everything is shifting; houses, parents, schools, all that shit that should be stable but isn’t. That’s when steady is the best thing in the world.” Mav gave a yawn and slumped back into the couch. “I think that’s why you can get her to talk so much. Stability.”

Ice settled into his end of the couch and let out a long exhale. A yawn followed it. “I hope so,” Ice said, voice oddly soft.

The urge to reassure Ice was almost overwhleming. Maverick clamped his tongue between his teeth and settled for a longing stare instead. Ice appeared to be lost in thought, eyes staring down into his mug.

“What was your childhood like?” Mav asked. He hesitated a beat before lifting his feet up onto the couch and stretching out properly. His toes brushed Ice’s legs.

“Normal, I guess,” Ice shrugged. He crossed his legs into a tailor seat, letting Mav’s feet press into his thigh. “Mum’s a dietitian, dad’s an aeronautical engineer. I have a sister, she’s a fashion designer.”

“How very nuclear of you,” Mav teased to cover the sting of jealousy in his throat. “You get along with them?”

Ice gave a mirthless chuckle and sipped his tea. “Not particularly. Sarah is OK. My parents… not so much.”

There were huge neon signs in Ice’s voice that told Mav to drop it, so he did. He sipped his own tea and wriggled his toes against Ice’s leg.

Just like that, the tense line in Ice’s shoulders fell away and he smiled again. Mav smiled back, triumphant.

They sat in a companionable silence, sipping their tea and enjoying the calm. Mav knew they would have to talk logistics soon. They would have to tell Emma just what had happened with her parents. They would have to break into a police station and alter files. They would have to probably bribe Kit, the HR employee, to turn a blind eye. They would have to make sure Emma didn’t have any other family tied to gangs—

Mav’s busy thoughts were interrupted as Ice set his empty mug down on the coffee table and stood. He blinked up at him from the couch, intensely confused for a few seconds until he remembered Ice didn’t live there.

“What are you doing?” Mav said, heart flailing and brain not much better.

Ice gave him a perplexed look. “Going home,” he checked his watch, “it’s 10pm.”

Maverick scrambled to his feet and clonked his mug onto the coffee table. “Stay,” he said before he chickened out. He stood straight and looked Ice in the eyes properly. “Stay,” he repeated.

A guarded look slid over Ice. “Why?”

“What if she wakes?” Mav cursed his cowardice.

Ice gave a single, slow blink. “She’s going to have to get used to being here with just you, may as well start now.”

There was a coldness to his tone that Maverick hadn’t heard in days. It burned like ice against his heart.

“After two panic attacks in one day?” Mav knew it was a low-blow, but he didn’t care. He wanted Ice to stay. His intuition was screaming that if he let Ice leave now, he would never come back. Not like they were now. Not to this place of quiet intimacy and trust. This place of mutual respect and understanding.

There was a noisy sigh. Ice ran a hand through his hair and turned toward the door.

“She has to learn,” Ice said, voice miserable.

Mav’s heart leapt into his mouth. It felt like it was trying to fight it’s way out. He took two steps toward Ice before he even knew what he was doing.

“Ice,” Mav said, body hammering as his pulse raced.

Ice turned to face him, expression unreadable but his blue eyes burning.

“Stay.”

“For Emma?” It was tinged with acid.

“For me.” Mav pressed his lips tight and took a deep breath. “Stay with me.”

He was probably supposed to be doing something.

His legs were stuck, locked in place as the words sunk in properly.

“Stay with me.”

Ice blinked. His chest burned, his heart crushing against his sternum as though it was trying to reach for Maverick. He swallowed, trying to snuff the feeling. It failed.

“What?” He said. He regretted it immediately.

Maverick’s green eyes, pleading a moment ago, shuttered over.

“No, Mav, wait,” Ice turned, forcing his legs to move until he was standing right there in front of Maverick. “Wait, not like that. You caught me by surprise,” Ice said, softening his voice as he did when Emma needed comfort.

“No, Kazansky, don’t— don’t worry about it. Forget it.” Mav tried to wave him away. His shoulders squared and the work persona that had been absent for days appeared again.

Ice winced. “I…” Ice bit his tongue hard, the pain shocking his brain back to rights. “I didn’t think you’d want me. I didn’t think you’d need me around.” He pushed the words out.

Maverick wasn’t looking at him any more, gaze fixed to something in the kitchen to Ice’s left.

“You have Emma,” Ice carried on. It felt like pulling his own tooth from his jaw, the pain excruciating. “You don’t need me. You two… get each other.”

He was sure his mouth was filling with blood. He wanted to be sick.

“Look,” Mav sighed. “Don’t force yourself. I can handle a rejection.”

“Rejection?” Ice said, voice pitching up with confusion.

Maverick glared up at him.

The air was too thick to breathe but Ice tried anyway. With one last effort, he forced himself to finish the thing properly.

“I want to stay,” he said. “I want to stay.”

Neither of them moved. Mav’s glare faded into confusion.

“I want to be here,” Ice gripped his fists and lifted them, desperate to push them into his own face until it hurt. Instead he released them and let his hands drop again. “I want to belong here. With Emma. And with you.”

“You do.” It was a whisper. Mav was frowning at him now, half a smile pulling at his lips. That damn indomitable smile. “You fucking idiot, you do belong with us.”

“Don’t call me a fucking idiot, you asshole,” Ice puffed with laughter.

Mav’s hand wrapped into the front of Ice’s shirt and he gave a gentle tug. He was smiling properly now, eyes twinkling again.

Ice stepped closer, closing the small distance between them until they were chest to chest. The hand in his shirt released, sliding up and over his shoulder instead. Heat, giddy and frothy, filled him. He wound his arms around Mav’s waist, securing them together. He had never noticed before the way Mav smelt like cloves, engine oil and something a little sweet.

Mav leaned up, still half-smiling. Ice, a small smile of his own, leaned down. They kissed, a soft press of their lips together.

“Stay,” Mav whispered as they parted a bare instant before Ice leaned in once more and took another kiss.

“OK,” he spoke the words against his lips.

“Forever. Stay forever.”

The arms around his neck tightened. Ice’s own arms tightened in response, pulling Mav closer.

“OK.” Ice nodded as much as their persistent kisses allowed.

Mav’s hands combed through his hair, tingling a path across Ice’s scalp as he did. Ice couldn’t help but feel like they fit together perfectly. The soft, pillowy feel of Mav’s lips against his was as though they had been made just for him.

When they could finally bare to stop for more than a moment, Mav leaned back with his usual smile. Ice smiled right back.

“I’m tired,” Mav said. “Let’s go to bed.”

A thrill of happiness hit him and Ice stole another kiss.

“How lewd,” Ice mumbled, smirking.

“To sleep,” Mav giggled a little. “At least until Emma is sleeping through the night.”

Ice softened at the mention of her. He nosed at Mav’s cheek a little and pressed a kiss there too.

“Of course. Let’s go. I promise not to jump you in your sleep,” Ice said.

“I make no such promise.” Mav grinned and kissed Ice long and languid.

When they broke apart once more, both of them were breathing a little harder and holding on a little tighter.

“Tease,” Ice grumbled and extracted himself from Maverick’s arms. His body complained, yearning to stay tucked in tight against the other man. “Come to bed.”

Mav’s nose twitched as he beamed and let Ice lead the way down to the bedroom.

Mav was sitting against the headboard, looking down at Ice. The other man was reclined on his side, head propped up on an elbow. The warm yellow light of the bedside lamp caught on Ice’s tanned skin, making him almost glow golden. Now and then Mav found himself staring at the play of light across Ice’s defined shoulders and down to his biceps.

They had snuck past Emma’s door and into Mav’s room before Ice had realised he needed something other than cargopants and a knit shirt to sleep in. He had quickly snuck back out to his car for his bug-out bag. Now they were both comfortable in tanktops and boxers, mumbling away to one another about past jobs.

Ice was staring at him, eyes sparkling, as Mav detailed what life in an anarchist group was like. He could almost feel the physical pressure of Ice’s gaze. It made his tongue catch on some words and a blush rise and fall over his cheeks now and then.

“You were in the Navy, you said?” Mav asked when he couldn’t stomach talking about himself any more.

“I was.” Ice nodded, a sad sort of look coming over him. “I was on the teams.”

“Figures,” Mav rolled his eyes and wriggled down to lay facing Ice in the same position.

“What does that mean?” Ice’s tone was sabotaged by his broad smile.

“You’ve got swimmers shoulders,” he said, eyes sliding over them once more. “And you’re too… good at your job to be anything except a SEAL.”

“What was that pause?” Ice chuckled, keeping his voice low so they didn’t wake Emma.

“What pause?” Mav played innocent.

“You paused. What were you really going to say?”

“Nothing.” Mav stifled a laugh as Ice glared at him without any real heat to it.

They both turned as the door pushed open. Emma padded to the bed, rubbing at her eyes and frowning.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mav said, heart softening at the sight of her. “Bad dreams again?”

She climbed straight onto the mattress, crawling over to wedge herself into the small space between them. Mav rubbed her shoulder gently and pressed a kiss to her messy hair.

“You wanna talk about it?” Ice asked her as she burrowed into his chest.

Silence was the answer.

“OK, honey,” Mav said and rolled to turn the lamp off. “Go back to sleep. You’re safe.”

He settled down into the mattress properly with a soft sigh. Emma was curled into a small C, her feet pressed against the side of his knee. Her toes gripped and released his skin a few times and Mav gave a breathy laugh.

“I’m right here, kiddo,” he mumbled to her.

Ice’s large, warm hand settled onto his waist and Mav closed his eyes with a smile. It took almost no time at all for them to drop off to sleep, the sheer contentment was soporific.

#icemav #topgun #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchel #an oc child character #mavdad #icepops #spy au #found family #fluff #fan fiction

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rachelxhan · 4 months ago

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She hummed in agreement, her days of exciting and exhilarating days of news had become a lot fewer and far between since her move to Blue Harbor. Rachel's personal life felt too chaotic in the past few years to feel like reporting on matters other than her own opinion now. It was somewhat relaxing to be in a place that not a lot of things seemed to cause a lot of news. "Yeah, sometimes coming up with ideas of what exactly to write can feel a little like you're using every single brain cell to find it. We can't all be like Carrie Bradshaw. Unfortunately, I can't just tell my job that I simply don't have anything." She shared, hoping he would understand she was joking with her silly reference to the fictional character. Rachel had no aspirations to be like Carrie Bradshaw.

Sipping at her coffee, she nodded at his assessment of her career. "That would be about right, I mean when I lived in Boston it was a little different. I would go to work pretty much every day if I wasn't going to be field reporting. Here, there's a bit less pressure." Rachel offered as she was sure that there was no explanation needed there. Though, she would be happy to share one if he asked questions.

Rachel gave a smile as he explained the reasoning for his being able to meet her today. "Ah, trustworthy employees I'm sure are a relief to have." She shared with a small laugh, having had a friend who owned a record store and an instrument store, she was aware that it could be a lot to take on. It also mattered what type of boss a person was too. Rachel wondered just how understanding Roman was as an employer. "I feel like you've got to have a few good stories on some of the finds you've gotten in used records."

Roman had no intention of seeing the rip-off version of Cats originally, and the scathing article written by a not-quite familiar name in the paper all but put him off. Still, his lips twitched at Rachel’s comment. “I mean, I’m sure to anyone else it might be scraping the bottom of the barrel but I’ve come to appreciate slow news days.” He shared. The days where the crash had been splashed over every major publication and tabloid newspaper had been hell. The months following that publicly broke down his break-up with Matilda had Roman on edge. Anything that consisted of gossip or drama never sat right with him, so if the top story was a ridiculous local production of a widely beloved (for some reason) musical, well, Roman could live with that.

“Well apart from meetings, it always seemed like a very remote job to me so it makes sense.” Being out and about, conducting interviews, taking work home to make impossible deadlines, especially in a career where major news could break out at any moment. And now in the day and age of social media and technology advancement, it was like the concept of a newspaper office was slowly becoming obsolete. Not an ideal thought, but a reality people seemed to not acknowledge, preferring to bury their heads in the sand when it came to the change of work ethic. But some could say that about his own attitude toward records.

“It’s usually quiet at this time of day,” He admitted, though there hadn’t been much going on. Whether it was because people weren’t dropping large amounts of money on instruments or because no one bought physical media anymore was anyone’s guess, though both Ophelia and Toni had pointed out it was probably because the owner was a massive prick to people. “And I have a couple of employees who are capable of being unattended for a few hours.”

#convo #convo: roman daniels

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blindbatalex · 4 years ago

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joyful tidings that we have been blessed by a carraville ficlet from raisin anon, featuring duvets, sex and the city, and wonderful fluff

~*~

“So Sex and the City tonight then, is it?!” Jamie shouts into the apartment as he toes off his shoes in the hallway. It’s not pouring with rain outside for a change, so there’s no dripping umbrella or a soaked through coat to sort out, but it’s still England in spring, he thinks ruefully, as he folds his scarf neatly and places it in the correct drawer. Gary is a hardass about things like that.

“Piss off!” comes the good-natured reply from the kitchen, so Jamie pads in that direction and finds Gary pouring water into their teakettle.

He doesn’t feel the need to say anything. Neither of them is in top banter form if their team have done badly anyway, and he really doesn’t want to push it. And maybe he felt a bit possessive himself at the minute.

When Gary had casually announced to all of Twitter that “duvet sounds nice” over leaving for management again, he’d had a strong desire to do just that. Share a duvet. And really show in all the ways it is superior to management.

What he does instead at the minute though, is to walk over, wrap his arms around Gary’s middle, tucking himself against his back and places a lazy kiss on the small stretch of bare skin just above the neckline of Gary’s t-shirt. He stays like that for a bit and rather enjoys feeling the muscles in Gary’s back and shoulders move as he fiddles with the stove and places the kettle on the burner.

“What about the duvet thing then? Is that still on the table ?” he asks, when they’ve just stood there for a bit, Gary’s head leaned just so that it rests against Jamie’s. He feels the vibrations of Gary’s laughter rather than hearing the actual sound.

“You would like that wouldn’t you?” Gary asks and steps out of the hold to take two mugs from the cupboard. He holds up the box that contains their assorted collection of tea with a raised eyebrow. Jamie shrugs in response and Gary takes out two bags of Earl Grey.

C’mon, Gaz, he thinks. It will be brilliant, I promise.

“I always enjoy anything that involves us and duvets,” Jamie says in a half-assed attempt at being sultry, partially because he’s not good at it and partially because he’s opened a drawer and is more preoccupied with judging their biscuit selection for the evening.

“Jammie Dodger, Short Bread or Hobnob, love?” he asks.

“No Custard Creams left?

“No, ate them all. There’s a bit of Chocolate Bourbons here.”

“Short Bread then, and write Custard Creams on the list.”

Jamie places the biscuits on the counter and scribbles down “CC” on the grocery list hanging on the fridge by a United magnet. It’s the rule. The team highest up in the league got the honour of adorning their fridge even if it looked ten times uglier with the little devil in Jamie’s, honest to god, unbiased opinion.

“So duvet thing was a joke then ?” he asks again minutes later as he pours hot water into their mugs. Gary rolls his eyes and eats a biscuit, but there’s no real annoyance there, so Jamie smiles and heads of to the bedroom.

And that’s how they end up like they do that night. They’ve dragged the duvet from the bedroom and over to the couch in the living room, cups of tea long finished, Short Bread eaten, and the first series of Line of Duty flickering across the telly.

Jamie’s scooted down a bit so he can lean his head comfortably on Gary’s shoulder, duvet pulled up almost to his chest, and he’s reminded of exactly why it was such a treat the odd Sunday morning he and his brothers were allowed to drag their duvets to the living room.

Line of Duty, however, is not a treat and definitely not the same when you know the ending and what a let-down it was.

“Maybe we should’ve gone with Sex and the City instead”, he mumbles and hears Gary snort in response.

“I’m watching the replay of the shoot out before we’re watching that.”

Jamie almost suggests that they do that because it’s not often they go to all eleven players taking penalties, and it’d be an interesting analysis if nothing else, but he has a feeling Gary only said that to prove how unlikely Sex and the City would be so he keeps quiet.

“Well, it’s nice you wanted to share duvet with me at least then, even if you draw the line at the adventures of Carrie Bradshaw,” he says instead.

“How d’you even know that name?” Gary asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Watched it sometimes in hotels and that”, he confesses.

“Bet you have everything on DVD and posters all over your bedroom.”

Jamie laughs again and scoots up so he can place a kiss on Gary’s cheek.

“Just nice to know to what lengths you would go to for me s’all, love.”

He knows he hasn’t quite mastered pretend casualness just yet when Gary wrinkles his eyebrows and turns to look at him. He studies his face for a bit, but then his frown turns into a gentle smile and he leans in so he can peck Jamie’s lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, James.”

It wasn’t exactly a reassurance Jamie really needed because he knew logically it would not happen, but it was nice, he realised, nonetheless.

Gary’s Spanish misadventure had catapulted them down whatever road they were walking together now, and absence makes the heart grow fonder and everything, but it was a nice comfort knowing that this they would get to keep. Tea and biscuits and lazy evenings and the disappointment that comes with being emotionally invested in a football club.

And each other. Unlike a certain club, they didn’t end their season in heartbreak.

#carraville #football rpf #raisin anon #fic rec #ahh this came like a balm to my bruised soul

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redlance · 4 years ago

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I was wondering, now I’m curious.. prior to bly manor, prior to bechloe.. what used to be your fav ship?

Well, the short answer to that is Bering & Wells from Warehouse 13.

Affectionately known within the fandom as Angst & Pain, these two were just... something else. The actresses took it upon themselves to decide that they would “fall in love a little bit” and have that be the underlying theme of their entire relationship. They’re the reason I can no longer handle angst - reading, that is. I can still try and make people cry without issue - and we really could have had it all with these two. If only networks didn’t stick their nose in. If only show runners could see what was right in front of them and the potential it carried. They cracked my heart and then the ending of the show came down like a hammer to shatter it into pieces. It really sucks having a show you love so. Much. Just... give up and do everything it had been telling you for four years that it wouldn’t. But I guess that’s just the way shit goes sometimes. We’re lucky that we have two of the best ship captains (Jaime Murray, Joanne Kelly) around to talk about Myka and Helena’s relationship as the very real thing that it was.

The longer answer is that I’ve been in quite a few fandoms over the last 20 years, lol. Some I’ve been more involved in than others, but they all hold a special place in my heart. Working backwards, we have:

Brooke McQueen & Sam McPherson (WB/CW’s Popular).

Created by Ryan Murphy long before his Glee days (and don’t think I didn’t see you reusing story lines, Murphy), this was a show I caught bits of back when it aired (1999-2001) but didn’t really fall in love with until like a decade later when I rediscovered them on Ralst. They hold both my favourite fic of all time AND the one that devastated me the most (which I somehow managed to read a second time without remember the god damn ending, and it got me TWICE). The show was cancelled too soon and ended on one of the biggest cliffhangers in television history. (Fight me about it.)

Quinn Fabray & Rachel Berry. (Glee)

Ryan Murphy at it again. We all know how this one ended. These two had such a great dynamic though and the potential, in terms of diving into fic writing for them, was sky high.

Lucy Diamond & Amy Bradshaw (Angela Robinson’s “D.E.B.S.” 2004)

I love this film with my whole soul. THE best lesbian movie out there. (Once again, Fight Me.)

Xena & Gabrielle (Xena: Warrior Princess)

Do I... I don’t need to say anything about these two, right? I think everything has already been said, anyway. They are transcendent

Willow Rosenberg and Tara Maclay (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

And this is where it all began. Back when I was a fledgling baby-gay and did not yet have my wings or really know wtf was going on with me, I found these two. And, without trying to sound overdramatic, they changed my life. Kinda saved it, really. The whole show, in fact. There was a level of obsession there that I think can only be experienced in those early teen years. Where it’s just completely all consuming in a way you can’t control. I LOVED Buffy. I still love it. Then... what happened on the show happened and it really kind of messed me up. I was still a kid, I was dealing with a LOT of stuff personally, and it was my first brush with the crushing disappointment of fictional gay relationships. So, it sucked. But while a distant echo of the pain still lingers – like that of a lost love – I can look back now and appreciate what I was given, regardless of how it was taken away.

Honourable mentions go to

Kara Danvers & Lena Luthor (Supergirl)

Alex Danvers & Sam Arias (Supergirl)

Claire Redfield & Alice (Resident Evil – Movies)

Sophie Webster and Sian Powers (Coronation Street – I’m not even going to apologise for this one, I don’t care how lame people think I am, I fucking loved these two.)

Am I missing anyone else... Possibly. I’m sure SOMEONE will let me know.

Hope this is a sufficiently acceptable answer to your question, anon!

#fandom #anon #ask #bering and wells #bram #lucy diamond #amy bradshaw #supercorp #danvarias #sophie/sian #claire redfield #alice #willow/tara #xena/gabrielle #faberry

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raereview · 4 years ago

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A Writer in Her Early Twenties Writing About Smoking Cigarettes and Feeling Inferior? …Groundbreaking

an essay I wrote in November of 2020 as I was nearing graduation from Columbia College-Chicago

You know when a bug gets stuck on its back and its little legs start flailing and it frantically rocks back and forth trying to flip back over? That’s how I’ve been feeling recently.

I started smoking cigarettes again to calm me down because smoking weed always makes me have an unwanted existential crisis. In high school, I loved smoking cigarettes because it made me feel like an adult. I dreamed of being someone like Carrie Bradshaw; smoking cigarettes at parties and being so terribly interesting that I only had to write one column a week to pay for a lavish lifestyle. That dream was only amplified when an English teacher wrote on one of my assignments in red ink that she wanted to read my memoir one day. After that, I smoked cigarettes my friends would steal from their stepdads, while I waited impatiently to turn 18 so I could be an adult, leave my hometown, and become a real writer.

Now I’m 21 and can legally buy cigarettes in the city of Chicago. I bought a pack of American Spirits two days after the 2020 Presidential Election because my anxiety was getting high and I couldn’t. I tell myself they are better than regular cigarettes— even though it clearly says on the package they aren’t. Just holding a cigarette is sex to me (I never describe things as sex, but my first Creative Writing professor used to, and she sounded so fucking cool when she did). I always feel dizzy after the first couple hits. I can’t imagine that’s normal. I know that weed is probably better for my body, but I like that no one judges me for not inhaling correctly like they do with weed. I can let the smoke barely touch my lungs before I puff it out of my lips, and no one says a goddamn thing. And so maybe it’s just the action of smoking, but I always feel calmer by the time I put out the cigarette, leaving behind that black mark and bits of ash.

On the 13th of November, Phoebe Bridgers and Maggie Rogers released a cover of “Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls because Bridgers tweeted that she would do so if Biden won the election. I didn’t recognize the song based off the title, but after a quick google search, I remembered hearing it on the radio growing up. It’s got one of those choruses that feels like it was written to be screamed at the top of your lungs in the car with the windows rolled down. I paid $1.50 for the song on Bandcamp (the proceeds went to Fair Fight), then I grabbed my pack of cigarettes, and went out to my back porch to listen to it. I’d barely been able to get out of bed all week, but I knew the cover needed my full attention because I recently became a “stan” of Phoebe Bridgers.

For a while I felt as if Phoebe was someone I knew through a friend of a friend; we ran in the same circles, but never really crossed paths. I adore Hayley Williams and Phoebe’s vocals were on my favorite song on her new album, most of the music I listen to is indie and makes you want to cry which is how you could describe her music, and her lowercase tweets always showed up on my timeline. I knew I’d become acquainted with her eventually, I just wanted to be ready; I had a premonition she’d change my life. I wanted us to fall into each other at the perfect moment.

Sometime in late June or early July, I was laying on the futon in my sister’s spare bedroom, staring at my phone in the darkness while everyone was asleep. The quiet nights of West Texas creep me out when I’ve gone months in Chicago without a moment of silence. I don’t remember what I was initially looking for on Spotify when her solo, sophomore album Punisher came up on the “recommended” section. I hit play because it felt like Spotify was a friend trying to set me up with her for the millionth time, telling me to just trust them and to meet her. It felt like the perfect moment, spilling our guts under the covers, “What if I told you I feel like I know you, but we never met?”

By “Moon Song” and “Chinese Satellite” I was silently weeping, trying not to wake up my nephews in the next room. Punisher made me feel introspective and existential, and the record almost gave me the same floating, panic feeling that weed gives me (but it’s cool when she does it). The strings from “Graceland Too” and “Savior Complex” swam inside my bloodstream and lifted me off the futon, off the part of Texas that I suspect she writes about hating. I was 16 when I had my first weed-induced existential crisis. My friends drove me around town in an attempt calm me down and I kept asking them if I was dead; Punisher feels like the soundtrack to that car ride. Receiving an impressive 8.7/10 on Pitchfork, the publication’s Sam Sodomsky describes her songwriting on the album as “candid, multi-dimensional, slyly psychedelic, and full of heart.” There are moments as a writer where a line makes me mad because of how well it described something I have yet to put words to, and Bridgers made me furious when she sang on the final track “I Know the End”: “When I get back I’ll lay around Then I’ll get up and lay back down Romanticize a quiet life There’s no place like my room.” It’s so simple, but it perfectly described the way I can get so anxious that I spend most of my days in bed, convincing myself I’ll never not feel this way.

That’s at least how I’d describe my recent state of constant anxiety. I know it started before the election, but constantly checking news sites seemed to amplify everything. I think the thing I have been most anxious about (personally, not politically) is the fact that I’m moving back home to my hometown after I graduate next month. I finally became an adult, but I will be graduating with my Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing, and I have no job prospects and no memoir in the making. I try to remain optimistic, but the catastrophic thinking my brain does is very convincing and tells me that if I can’t find a job in my field that I’m a bad writer, and if I’m a bad writer I’ll never be understood, and if I’ll never be understood I should just quit writing now, and if I quit writing then I should just lay in bed and not go to my zoom classes. It’s a long series of pointless, self-deprecating “and if’s”, but once they start it feels like telling yourself that you’re only going to smoke a couple cigarettes, and then you end up going through a whole pack in a few days and all you’re left with is regret and a headache. So, during that week of bed-ridden anxiety, I was thankful that my new love for Bridgers was stronger than my imposter syndrome. If I was doomed to be misunderstood, I wanted to listen to a writer who I feel like I understand.

When I went outside to listen the song, I quickly remembered that it was November in Chicago and my fingers shoved themselves deeper into my jacket sleeves. I managed to peak them out just enough to light a cigarette and hit play on the song. I was sure I looked very dramatic to the men doing construction on the apartment next door: a girl in her 20’s, smoking with her headphones in, staring off into the distance. The cover initially sounds more stripped and melancholic than the original, just Bridgers light vocals and an acoustic guitar. My legs were already shivering, but all the hairs on my body stood up higher when Rogers came in and their voices molded together. I don’t know her music, but the twang in Maggie’s voice that carries the second verse was comforting to my southern roots. I took a long drag when she sang “When everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you're alive.” If I didn’t know better, I would have thought this cover was the original.

“Iris” is a song I’ve always known all the words to, but I had never really listened to the lyrics. The song was written by Goo Goo Doll’s John Rzeznik for the movie City of Angels (1998) staring Nicholas Cage. Rzeznik told Dan MacIntosh of Songfacts that when he wrote the song he was inspired by Cage’s situation in the film and thought “Wow! What an amazing thing it must be like to love someone so much that you give up everything to be with them.” Phoebe Bridgers’ songwriting feels like it comes from the same universe as “Iris”, specifically her song “ICU”. Both songs could technically be described as love songs, but I feel that a disservice to both.

They differ from traditional love songs because write about it in a realistic way, almost as if the thesis of both is “I know everything is awful and we could hate each other one day, but I want to be with you anyways.” A line from the chorus of “Iris” almost says this exactly, but far more eloquently, “When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am,” and then verses repeat this sentiment of knowing the love could end, but wanting the love anyways. Bridgers’ songwriting in “ICU” comes at a relationship with the same approach. The verses describe things she thinks could complicate or end the relationship (the other person’s family, someone falling out of love, self-sabotage). Regardless, the refrain keeps repeating, “But I feel something when I see you”. All this to say that when Bridgers sings Rzeznik’s lyrics, they feel as if they are her own.

The Goo Goo Dolls must have also thought Phoebe would do the song justice as their twitter account replied to Bridger’s original tweet a few days after Biden was announced the projected winner, saying “We’re waiting…” with the gif of Judge Judy motioning “hurry up”. When I read or hear really good writing, I selfishly question if writing is even actually what I’m meant to be doing… if it was something that should have stayed a hobby, or a poorly constructed daydream of becoming Carrie Bradshaw.

Recently, I wrote a paragraph about one of my favorite albums with the intention of writing a whole essay about it. However, after that I got stuck. Every time I tried starting the next sentence, I hit the backspace button until it was gone. I spent two whole days watching interviews with the artist, reading reviews of the album, listening to the whole record on repeat for hours, and I couldn’t get anything more than that paragraph. The words simply would not come to me. Moments like that, combined with rejection emails from literary magazines or hearing Bridgers sing lines that take my breath away, I wonder if I should keep fueling my love for something that will always love someone else more or if I should quit?

I listened to the cover of “Iris” on repeat until my cigarette was out. The big tree in my backyard is barren because of the new season, and so now more of my neighborhood is visible. It was around 4p.m. and the sun was already starting to set thanks to daylight savings (until I wrote that sentence, I didn’t think to consider my anxiousness and my need to stay in bed all day could also be attributed to seasonal depression). I’ve always been obsessed with sunrises and sunsets. I know I probably write about them too much: how they make the whole world “glow” orange, the transitions of the colors in the sky, how they always represent an end or a beginning. My hometown has the best sunsets and sunrises: the land is so flat you can see all the way to the horizon, there are no clunky buildings blocking your view. I thought maybe this sunset would spark inspiration in me, so turned to go toward the edge of my porch to see more of it, and for a second I looked at the windowsill I rested my lighter and cigarettes on.

Lying there was a fly stuck on its back. Before they fixed the insolation, our apartment was infested with so many flies that all summer the surfaces of my home were perpetually covered in fly guts. The fly’s little body twitched frantically as it tried to push itself over. I felt pity for the fly even though others of its kind spent the warmer months buzzing in my ear and making me want to move. As I watched the insect, I realized that my anxiety doesn’t feel like drowning or spiraling or falling. It feels like flailing— like a bug stuck on its back trying desperately to get right side up again. It’s kind of pathetic how much it feels like the end of the world. I might not be the first person to think of that, but the metaphor came to me so clearly that it took my breath away. Quickly, I used my lighter to flick the fly back onto its legs. We stared at each other for a moment. I know flies don’t have facial expressions, but I swear, it looked confused. I thought maybe it heard horror stories about me from its friends about the sweaty girl who kills them with rolled up newspaper and wondered why I helped it. Finally, it turned from me and crawled away in the opposite direction.

That fly made me like a god, but more importantly, it made me feel like a writer. I found the words again. Relating to an insect isn’t exactly Carrie Bradshaw or Phoebe Bridgers, but I was excited. I immediately ran inside and started this essay. My frozen fingers started to warm up as I typed everything out. It felt like writing and I were a married couple who had sex for the first time in months; we got our spark back. And I know writers aren’t supposed to wait for inspiration to start writing, and I know this doesn’t make me as good as Phoebe Bridgers, and I know I still don’t have any job offers, and I know I didn’t cure my anxiety but writing this felt really good.

When I wrote this essay, someone I showed it to said they “got my angst”, but not my love for writing. Maybe that’s because I don’t always love writing in the explosive, epic way I sometimes think I should? I love writing with the kind of love that I’m told is in good marriages; the love is a choice. There are days when I can’t stand a word I put on the page, but there are also the days where I find perfect metaphors for sunsets or anxiety or bugs or Phoebe Bridgers. There are days I lay in the warmth of someone else’s words as if they were the sun. There are days where I can’t stand go to class after turning an essay in because I don’t want people to associate the person on the page with the person sitting across the room from of them. However, even on days when I can’t stand writing or being a writer, I still wake up, put on my fake glasses that make me feel like an intellectual, I grab my New Yorker tote, I write silly lyrics I think of on the train, I read someone else’s work and remind myself they had 20 drafts of this I’ll never see, I reread my own work and see if any lines make me catch my breath, and I write.

I write because I still have the desire to be understood. I write to try and understand why I can’t stop loving it even when I hate it. I write because I fear one day the inferiority will be too much and I won’t wake up and choose to still love writing.

I still listen to Iris on repeat because the lyrics are as painfully relatable as they are catchy. At its core, the song is asking someone to understand. I think that’s what all I want, understanding. I want to know that someone else feels the same way I do about sunsets, or Carrie Bradshaw, or Punisher, or smoking cigarettes to look cool. If I write my truth, maybe someone will understand? Alexander Chee wrote in his How to Write an Autobiographical Novel that “To write is to sell a ticket to escape, not from the truth, but into it.” Maybe that’s why I don’t love being high because I feel like I am trying to escape the truth? Maybe that’s why I love Phoebe Bridgers’ songwriting and writing in general because it makes me feel like I am trying to escape into the truth? Maybe if I can make it to the truth, I’ll be understood?

Maybe I’ll understand?

Sources: Bridgers, Phoebe. Lyrics to “Punisher.” Genius, 2020, genius.com/albums/Phoebe-bridgers/Punisher. Sodomsky, Sam. “Phoebe Bridgers: Punisher.” Pitchfork, Pitchfork, 22 June 2020, pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/phoebe-bridgers-punisher/. Rzeznik, John. “Goo Goo Dolls – Iris.” Genius, 7 Apr. 1998, genius.com/Goo-goo-dolls-iris-lyrics. MacIntosh, Dan. “John Rzeznik of Goo Goo Dolls.” ShieldSquare Captcha, 12 June 2013, www.songfacts.com/blog/interviews/john-rzeznik-of-goo-goo-dolls. Chee, Alexander. How to Write an Autobiographical Novel. Bloomsbury, 2019.

#personal essay #writing #phoebe bridgers #iris #writer #goo goo dolls #nonfiction #music #music writing

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insanityclause · 5 years ago

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Betrayal might not be the longest show on Broadway—the tense 1978 play by Harold Pinter runs a taut 90 minutes in its current production—but for star Zawe Ashton, it’s still part of a serious workday. And since the play, which co-stars Tom Hiddleston and Charlie Cox, moved to Broadway after winning rave reviews during its West End run, Ashton is getting used to spending Monday, her one day off each week, in a city far from home.

Exactly why are most shows “dark” on this day? It’s said to harken back to the loosening of blue laws in the 1970s when businesses were finally allowed to open on Sundays and Monday became Broadway’s day of rest. (Generally, a select few shows do perform on Monday.)

Here, T&C talks to Ashton about her one day of freedom.

Before Betrayal:

On a normal weekend, I’d go out as much as I can—I’d want to see my family, blow off steam, get together people—but these days off of Betrayal are a lot more internal.

Now Mondays are about:

When I’m doing a play like Betrayal, I have to be careful not to get stimulation overload. I have to take everything down to a one. It might sound sad, but it’s actually heaven.

Does Monday start Sunday night?

My day off starts as soon as Sunday’s show is done. I’m someone who really needs to turn off as quickly as possible. Once I’m in my dressing room, I sit for a bit and listen to some music and organize my very messy dressing table.

I also look forward to a roast dinner or a burger. For me, food is all about nostalgia. If I need something comforting on Sundays, a roast chicken is my go-to. I was thinking I might start hosting roast dinners at mine on Sunday nights after the show.

Where can we find you on Monday?

In addition to Betrayal, I’m working on a play I’ve written that’s going to be Off-Broadway. [For All the Women Who Thought They Were Mad, coming soon to the Soho Rep.] So, I love writing in a hotel lobby or a coffee shop. The lobby of the Ace Hotel is always great to break it up if you’re feeling a bit uninspired.

Workout or hangout?

I’m training in martial arts. It’s a whole new world for me and I’m loving it. I do that or hot yoga; I have to do some kind of exercise. I don’t necessarily do it on my day off. I will allow myself to be completely still as much as possible.

What’s your Monday indulgence?

Food is a big part of coming down off a show. During the week, I have to keep it really light. I have to be off of dairy and wheat. Each project you do demands a different diet in a way. Because there’s so much tension in Betrayal, so much holding of breath and emotion, I can’t get too happy in my food choices or I can’t get alert enough. I keep it really clean during the week and then have a carb party on my day off.

Do you avoid the theater district on your day off?

Yes. I really try to just stay close to home.

What do you binge watch?

I’m rewatching Sex and the City. I’m in New York and really attempting to have a Carrie Bradshaw fashion moment.

And how do you prep to go back to work on Tuesday?

Sometimes we also have a dance party before we go on stage. We all have very different styles; it’s very experimental. Charlie’s well known for playing his leg like a guitar. Of course, I’m the best dancer.

#Zawe Ashton #Betrayal #interview

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petuniatom · 6 years ago

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if you don't know, let me go

Pairing: Harrison Osterfield x Reader

Summary: “I love you,” you spoke. You felt liberated as soon as the words left your lips. It felt nice to say it.

Harrison’s eyes shot over to you, utterly confused. It was silent for a moment in the apartment. A sense of dread loomed over you. “Oh,” he said.

You’ve been dating Harrison for five months at this point, and now, you’re ready to cross another boundary with each other by finally saying the three words you’ve been meaning to say all along.

Rating: T (angst to eventual fluff)

Word count: 2.8K

Warnings: References to alcohol

A/N: Written for @tomsh0lland‘s 5sos writing challenge. Congrats on nearing 10.9K dear!! Pls follow her if you aren’t yet. (Also there are some serious Mr. Big x Carrie Bradshaw vibes in this; I’ve been watching SATC again so it’s slipping into my writing.)

You were about five months into your relationship with Harrison, a budding actor from England who you’d quickly grown attached to briefly after he moved to Los Angeles to jumpstart his acting career. You accidentally ran into him once at a coffee shop, then again at a mutual friend’s party on the outskirts of Hollywood, and now, here you were, sitting on the couch in his apartment in the middle of watching a movie together.

Harrison was exactly the type of guy your mother used to warn you about, truth be told. He was tall, charming, and someone whose career was starting to kick off. It was a dangerous combination, or at least, that’s what she used to tell you all the time.

But even so, you were content in your relationship with Harrison. You spent your weekday and weekend nights at his apartment, which he happened to share with his equally fun roommate, Tom. Sometimes, you got to accompany him to friends’ parties, where you’d meet just a small portion of people on the lower-tier of fame in Hollywood.

Except there was just one problem.

At the five month mark, you still had not told each other that you loved each other.

In fact, you avidly danced around it. In the past, it hadn’t been an issue. You and Harrison just went out on your dates — being careful to hide them from the public eye — and would then spend the night at each other’s apartments. Now, there were times when he’d simply be breathing next to you and the city’s street lights would filter through the curtain slightly to show you the slopes of his face, and you were so tempted to just say it out loud. Or he’d do something so extraordinarily romantic that you felt the words threaten to slip off your tongue.

You kept telling yourself not to say it yet. You definitely didn’t think Harrison was ready to hear it; he was still getting used to you leaving some of your own items in his apartment, and in general, adjusting to having a serious girlfriend after casually hooking up with people for so long. There was no way of telling how he’d even process it.

So you kept your mouth shut.

***

You were both sitting on the couch in his living room. Your legs were propped up on his lap, and you were sprawled across the couch, while Harrison sat upwards and relaxed into the couch. You were watching a new horror movie on Netflix which you’d both been meaning to get to for a while. Tom was out for the next couple of weeks as he finished another film. Things were calm.

You glanced over at him, watching him intensely focus on the television screen in front of the two of you. One of his hands was resting on your leg, simply drawing small circles. You thought of how if you and Harrison ever officially decided to tie the knot on this whole thing, it could be the two of you like this almost every day. There might be a kid sprinting and screaming into the living room at some point, or a dog that would leap up onto both of your laps even. You smiled at the thought.

Harrison looked over at you, a small smirk on his face. “What’s going on babe?” he asked teasingly. You bit your lip and shook your head.

He then proceeded to crawl over you, until he was propped up on his hands peering down at you. You giggled, one of your hands coming up to caress his cheek, as the noises from the television continued in the background. He kissed you softly on his couch and you felt yourself warm up with joy.

“You look so beautiful,” he said, and your smile grew. “You want to stick around for dinner? I’ll cook.”

You nodded your head. You loved whenever Harrison decided to cook for you — it was always a rare occasion, but that’s always how you were able to tell how special you were to him. He would call you pet names often and spend time with you, but it was these rare moments when he really pampered you that you realized exactly how much he cared about you.

So after the movie wrapped, you sat up on his kitchen counter and started drinking a glass of wine as he started cooking in the kitchen. He was making lemon chicken and rice tonight, simple but filling. You happily drank your wine as you watched him dribble some oil into the pan. You just looked over at him as he cooked, with a small smile still stretched across your face. He was doing what he normally does — teasing you, lightly brushing against you, and cooking for you. There was nothing particularly special about the moment itself, but looking at him in the yellow-lighting of his kitchen, you knew you couldn’t hold those three words in any longer. They were practically begging to slip off your tongue.

“I love you,” you spoke.

You felt liberated as soon as the words left your lips. It felt nice to say it.

Harrison’s eyes shot over to you, utterly confused. It was silent for a moment in the apartment. A sense of dread loomed over you.

“Oh,” he said.

Well fuck.

It was oddly silent for a moment, as you figured out how the best way to go about this would be. You didn’t want to apologize since you didn’t regret saying it and that would just be dumb. Yet, you also didn’t want to say, “You don’t have to say it back,” because well, you wanted him so badly to say it back without giving him a cop out.

Instead, he was the one who made the decision by entirely changing the topic.

You felt your heart drop a bit in your chest, but stuck around anyway. At least for the food.

***

“You two still haven’t addressed it?”

You were at lunch with your friend, Zendaya, filling her in on the whole thing. She insisted this time you both go to the Cheesecake Factory, and you were happily chewing on some noodles when she asked you the question, completely stunned.

“Nope, he hasn’t brought it up since,” you said. “I don’t know what to do about it. It feels like a fucking elephant in the room.”

She took a sip of her water and her eyes flickered up — usually her action for when she was processing something.

“I think you should ask him about it. Like, at least talk about where his head is at,” she replied. “It’s not doing good for either of you to just let that sit there.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, but you know how Harrison is. He’s one of the most closed off people I’ve met in a while.” You stir your straw around in your water.

“Well, you should start asking for more; do it for yourself.”

***

You were out for a dinner date with Harrison in the outskirts of Los Angeles. It wasn’t the first date since you slipped out the “L” word, so things weren’t as uncomfortable as they were on the prior dates. Admittedly, you were hoping he’d decide to bring it back up out of the blue — at least to say something substantial about it.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, a small smile curling up on his lips as he took another sip from his glass of wine.

“You,” you answered. Your foot came up to nudge his slightly and he grinned. You hated that you were almost always finding touching ways to touch Harrison, but you couldn’t help it. He was just that damn intoxicating.

“What about me?” he asked, leaning back slightly in his seat.

“That’s an at the apartment conversation,” you teased, letting it sound minorly suggestive. He grinned at your response, while internally, your own response was filled with anxiety. Zendaya was absolutely right; you needed to desperately talk about your relationship with Harrison. You owed it to yourself to get answers for yourself, but you had a sinking feeling that this was going to be a determining moment in your relationship. You crossed your fingers Harrison wouldn’t disappoint you.

You continued the rest of the dinner talking about upcoming things in each other’s lives. Harrison had a project he was auditioning for, and another party this weekend he was inviting you to. You were mostly just working and spending time with your friends.

By the time you were back at Harrison and Tom’s apartment, you were in high spirits. You were ready to kick off your heels and throw your denim jacket onto the couch so you could sink comfortably into his plush mattress.

As soon as Harrison shut the door, he came up behind you, instead slowly and gently helping you slip off your jacket, then placing it on the coat rack. He kissed your cheek and murmured, “So, what was that thing you were thinking about that you couldn’t tell me in the restaurant?”

You froze up.

You could either play this two ways: 1) You could continue along the suggestive banter and hop into bed with your boyfriend or 2) Tell him what you were really feeling.

You thought of Zendaya’s earlier pep talk, and decided option two was the best one for you.

“Well, I actually had to talk to you about something serious,” you said, pulling away from him. His face, once smug, turned serious. You took a step back into the living room of Harrison’s apartment, and slipped on to his leather couch. You felt jittery, either with adrenaline or anxiety, as you continued, “You know how the other day when we were in the kitchen while you were cooking.”

Harrison nodded. You could see realization lapse on his face. You decided to look away from him, biting your lip as you thought of the best way to phrase this. You didn’t think you’d follow through with confronting him about it if you looked at him. He was too beautiful, too charming to where at certain points you absolutely lost all your focus and simply moved back into his arms.

Finally, you spoke again, “I said something really significant to you, remember? And you- you didn’t even react to it. I’m just bringing it up now because I need to know if this relationship- if we’re worth the time.”

You nearly choked as the words left your throat. You hated the even remote suggestion of breaking up, but it’d been five months at this point. And you deserve someone who was going to be willing to be brave with you and who would say the things that were sometimes scary to say.

You looked up at him, seeing the frenzied look in his eyes. You thought you’d handled this well by waiting until you both got back to the apartment and giving him a few days time to think about how he wanted to react to this. Now that you were, you could see he had no idea what he was doing.

“I- I just need more time,” he said. You immediately scoffed. “Listen, no, Y/N, really. I just need a bit more time to say it, okay? It’s not that I- I don’t-”

“Harrison, it’s been five months,” you said gently. “We’re serious with each other enough now at this point. It’s time. Just stop leading me on and tell me if we’re definite or not.”

“Hey, hold up, I don’t think that this whole thing indicates whether our relationship is worth it or not,” he said. He was suddenly determined and succinct again. “Listen, I like you. A lot. It just- it takes me a while to say it, all right?”

You let out a long breath, at least grateful now for somewhat of an answer, even if it wasn’t the one that you wanted to hear. There was a small part of you that was still worried about the whole thing. Had you ended up in a relationship with a guy who never wanted to settle down?

For the duration of your relationship, it always felt like you were the one trying to push for things ahead. You recalled the adjustment it took on his end for him to even save a drawer for you, or start inviting you to more elite events with his close friends. You knew he was taking it seriously, but it felt like he was lapses behind you sometimes in doing so.

But maybe you were just overthinking it all. You were certain of one thing — you needed some space tonight.

“All right, listen, I think I’m going to head back to my apartment tonight. I just think I need to take a step back for a while,” you said. You saw something shift in Harrison’s face, but you looked down before you could start analyzing it. “I’m sorry, I just need some space tonight.”

He didn’t really say much beyond a simple, “I understand.” You grabbed your jacket off the coat rack and head out into the street again. As soon as you were back in your car, you let out all the tears that had been bubbling over the course of the past few days from your own frustration.

You’d started playing a game unintentionally that you didn’t want to get yourself wrapped in. It was a game of always chasing after someone who was always so unattainable.

For once, you wanted the person to chase after you too.

***

You told your friend Zendaya two days later. Harrison still hadn’t called, and you’d been spending most of your days either by yourself or in the company of your best friends rather than your boyfriend. Every now and then you were tempted to send him a text to ask him how he was doing, but you held off, reminding yourself that you needed this time to just focus on you and to figure out what you wanted.

Zendaya was proud of you. She told you advice that you would think a lot about in the years to follow, “You can love him, but you have to love you more. And have faith in yourself that you’re going to find the person who will want to take the risk with you.”

***

Los Angeles was in an absolute downpour. You were used to the rain sweeping through every now and then, but almost never like this. It felt more like Seattle weather, than the weather of your sunshine state.

You were cooking in your kitchen, preparing a meal that was originally meant for two, but it was just going to be you tonight. Your speakers were softly playing your music on shuffle, and an old song from 5 Seconds of Summer started playing. You sang along, “I want you to want me this way, and I need you to need me to stay. If you say that you don’t feel a thing. If you don’t know, let me go.”

The song was a little bit too applicable to your situation, but you sung along anyway as you grilled the peppers and meat. You heard a light knock on your front door and headed over to it, thinking it was one of your neighbors. You were surprised when instead you found a slightly soaked and absolutely frantic Harrison. His blue eyes, usually cool and collected, looked absolutely wild.

“I love you okay?” he said immediately. You were slightly taken aback by his admittance. “I- I’ve known for a long time that I was in love with you. But I didn’t want to say it because I’ve never felt so much for a person and it scares me all right? And every single time the people I’ve known who have said it, they’ve always gotten hurt.” He cleared his throat. “But listen, I want to take the risk with you. I don’t- it doesn’t matter to me anymore if I get hurt at the end, because I want to be with you now. I want to play long game.”

You stared at him for a long moment, examining him under the dim-lighting of your apartment complex’s hallway. You were still processing it all, the fact that he’d driven and walked through the rain just to be with you tonight to tell you a small string of sentences.

But it was that string of sentences that meant everything to you.

“Why don’t you come in, handsome?” you said, widening the gap between you and the door so he could slip inside. He grinned and you shut the door behind him, immediately kissing him.

“I love you too, you idiot,” you said.

“M’sorry. I really am. I was being stupid,” he admitted. “But I love you so much, and I didn’t- I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“It’s all right. I’m glad you’re here now,” you replied. “I’m making dinner, come help.”

And while you cooked in the kitchen together, you couldn’t help but to think that you’d finally found the man who was ready to take the risk with you.

#harrison osterfield #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield x fem!reader #harrison osterfield fluff #harrison osterfield x female!reader #harrison osterfield oneshot #harrison osterfield fanfiction #tomsh0lland wc #my writing #yahtzee!!

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ongoingcatastrophe · 6 years ago

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I was wondering

I told you before a bit about my best friend and she was over today. We were supposed to play mario kart and drink but somehow we ended up in shower. More spesifically laying on the floor of the shower with the steam mode on and turned the lights off. Also we had my bluetooth speaker and we were listening to music (this all happened between 12.00pm and 2.00am) Then we started to talk about stuff like how weird it is that some people (like both of us) have the need -while sleeping next to someone- to synchronize their breathing with the other person. And how it's dizziyng sometimes because they breathe so much faster than you naturally do.

Then we started to talk about absurd things (like me meating Taylor Swift) and then she goes "Ella you know we do such weird things like we do so many absurd things" (now I could reference the times we went skinny dipping on a nearby lake and shaved our legs and drank ice tea with vodka or stole a boat with a screwdriver or the time we drew our friends stomach full of stuff and went to see the sunrise and I stepped on a rabbit or when we were drunk and climbed on top of this thing where they keep temporarely a tractor and she took her bras off and did this theatrical show of throwing them on the ground and then these fifteen year old boys stole them) and we just started to wonder if we really do weird things or is this everyone.

(She told I reminded her of carrie bradshaw while writing this also she was really amused by my "secret" internet life on tumblr aaand she is the one responsible for the tags)

#showerthoughts #taylurking #taylor swift #storytime #carrie bradshaw #vodka #quacamole #nachos #bellybutton #rihanna #analthunder

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likewaterdotnet · 6 years ago

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randoms: “Highly Motivated”

Motivation is hilarious. How it works, when it comes, just the whole lot of it. It remains out of the grasp of your control, sharing space in your mind, but none of the rules, doing exactly as it pleases. Petulant teenager, shitty father-esque.

The subconscious is tricky.

I have been awake since roughly 10:30 am; it is a quarter til 2 now. In that time span, I have read Shakespeare, aloud, Loud (Does my roommate regret moving in here? Does a Terence Brand like void of interest in whether he does or not indicate that I am the shitty roommate?), signed up for a Spanish class that I thought was free, inquired about nude modeling, air humped (and came) to an v much non sexual Instagram story (still a virgin tho, see above), and scarfed myself on a manic blend of random facts, misogyny, and heartwarming gifs, compliments of the Internet.

All of these events have occurred in an unbroken chain. All of these events have taken place on the same mattress, without the aid of water.

Of course, I have things, actual human adult things, that I could be doing. This is a Monday, after all.

On Mondays, I usually volunteer. The place is an adult shelter for those normally termed ‘homeless’. I prefer ‘impoverished’. Home is a concept that everyone has, either tangible or in the brain. Not everyone has money.

My title, if I were to guess, would be something like ‘Assistant Resource Coordinator’. If I were to guess. It’s probably just ‘Volunteer’, which would be a shame, because that would mean that not only am taking part in a bureaucracy for free, but also I doing so with out a distinguishable title. Bad form.

It is, indeed, a bureaucracy. My job, my main task, is hear what the patron needs and tell them where to go elsewhere to get it. I have no idea if they’ll actually receive help from the institutions that I am sending them to. I just know that they are to be directed anywhere from here. Those needs can include housing and employment. I am fairly certain that my impact on poverty in Grand Rapids is inconsequential (as fuck), and that my two hours could be better spent eating a pencil for 10 bucks, and donating the profit to ten poor people.

I’ve been reading Martha Gellhorn, and her sunny disposition is rubbing off on me.

Last Monday, a man rolled, with difficulty, into my office, pissed off that the superglue solution to his broken glasses was as shitty as he expected it have been. Frustration is an essential human right. I watched my supervisor, I’ll rename ‘Log Cabin’ (for privacy, ofc) talk down to this man as if he was a child, and LC was the owner of the adult playpen he always felt he deserved. When the ice storm came in this Monday, I saw an opportunity to be sick, and I took it.

My shift was supposed to start at 1; I called in at 12:42.

I could also be using this fine, frozen Monday to be editing. Film (Movie) editing is an indoor sport, anyhow. I have no confirmation of this, but I’m pretty sure that the best movies are edited on rainy days. Pretty sure.

I’m working on documentary about........

doesn’t matter. My motivation doesn’t give a shit.

My motivation, at press time, sits across the room from me, laying lengthwise in a chair that doesn’t exist. On his phone, searching through gossip, not interested.

We play a short game of “Whatta you wanna do? I dunno, whatta you wanna do?” before I call it quits and lay back in my bed, trying my best not to jerk the tension away. Motivation sometimes helps with these impulses; sometimes, it feeds them.

My motivation, formally concerned with art and charity, not is transfixed on the idea of me channeling my inner Carrie (Bradshaw, not psychic), and writing on Tumblr about the sex life I desire (lol @ this sentence) and the failings of our society. (lol @ the whole sentence)

Motivation, I’m guessing, is a perspective thing. Half empty, half full sort of deal.

A whole Tumblr post before 3 pm. Still haven’t left the bed tho.

I am Motivated.

#writers #writer #journal #prose #motivation #monday

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mylifeinapost · 3 years ago

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dec. 18th 2021 8:43pm

sike today was my last day at lahey since i took vidals call for the 6a-6p chunk of the day. it was nice and im glad to have weekends off from the brigham with the new job. but at the same time im glad to staying per diem at lahey so that i have something to do when i have nothing to do. like for example today, i got out of work at 6 pm and it is now 8:30pm and i havent done anything today other than work, talk to my mom and drew and do a bunch of coloring pages lmao. i wish it was easier to make friends in real life. i have things to do to keep myself entertained but sometimes i want to spend time with my friends. the few frineds i have work reallllllly different schedules from mine so its a weeee bit difficult trying to plan. but i also need to accept the fact that we are coming to an age where we may not see each other as frequently as we used to or even want to. with that said i also need to remind myself that just because our schedules changed doesn’t mean that the relationship has changed.

i’ve been watching a shit ton of sex in the city lately and im taking quite a few things away from this experience. 1. being that i absolutely missed writing and am glad to have gotten back into journaling now that im taking time off of school and have time for it 2. i hate carrie bradshaw and her pick me ass attitude in season 2 and 3. women have been having the same problems with men since the 90′s. im currently on season 2 episode 15 and miranda is my fave so far. weird place to end this at but i stand by what i said.

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booklust · 7 years ago

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Futurelit Vol 5: Grace Byron

This time around, I had the absolute pleasure of chatting with Grace Byron, the Brooklyn-based columnist, writer and filmmaker and all-around brilliant, benevolent creative spirit whose recent book release party for NB Carrie Bradshaw (read it here via Epigraph Mag!) at Babycastles solidified my love for her and her work.

This interview was the first time I had the opportunity to conduct a classic interview over the phone instead of over text chat, or as I like to call it for reasons I’d gladly explain to you over a glass of wine, “The Tony Hawk Method.”

This resulted in a truly gorgeous conversation that flows synaptically and always takes surprising directions (Twin Peaks, the afterlife, and a tender moment involving Coldplay that occurs towards the end---when you see it then you’ll understand!). It also brought me right back to the days at my editorial internship where I would transcribe hours of interviews, but in a good way this time. I took great pains to not only get the content and diction right, but to convey the undertones of our exchange that made it so vibrant. Which, interestingly enough, makes it take on the visual form of a text chat.

Check out our conversation at the jump, with gorgeous illustrations by Becky Ebben:

You do a column called “Trans Monogamist” for the Bushwick Daily (I binged that…it’s really dope) and your latest project is NB Carrie Bradshaw (which is out now!). So I’m curious, what sort of came first: your interest in the format of an advice columnist/relationship columnist, or your love of Carrie Bradshaw?

Actually--I didn’t start watching Sex and the City until January 2017, which everyone is sort of super surprised by, and honestly? Me fucking too. Not that it’s a perfect show, but the aesthetic signals that it’s something that I should have seen a long time ago. It took me a long time to get to it. I had heard a lot of the negative stuff, which there is a lot of, and rightfully so. There’s this one terrible bisexual episode where Carrie’s just like, “I just don’t know….he’s bi .” And I’m just like… “Girl, so what.” The point is, the column writing came sort of naturally. I had a column a few years ago at my paper called Queer Art Vibes before I had even seen Sex and the City. And I was mostly writing about art, and capitalism, artists, and things I was finding interesting aesthetically. The last column that I wrote was after I had a break-up, and it was called “How To Date an Anarchist.”

Oh my God

And it got like, no comments. Because most of the columns that I was writing were about trans identity and stuff. I got all these comments like, “Why can’t people just make up their minds about gender?” And I’m just like, that’s completely irrelevant to what I’m talking about. So this column got no comments at all. There’s this huge anarchist population at Indiana University. It just closed down this month, but we had this huge anarchist bookstore that was this huge draw for the punk scene.

It was a column that didn’t make sense for where I was writing. But then as I was watching Sex and the City, and as I was doing a lot more dating my last year in college, I was thinking “yeah, this is really important to talk about.” And I started thinking of dating as a political and aesthetic and emotional practice. It’s more using this pop culture phenomenon to let people understand something about what it’s like to be trans and dating. It’s not like it’s me and my three friends that are all going through the same things. Or it’s not like me and my straight girlfriends talking about how our experiences are different. Or me and someone who is nonbinary even talking about how it’s different for both of us. But I do like that element of friendship in it, that element of comradery. But I think it’s interesting now that shows act like there’s this group of 4 friends and they’re all the same. And that was never my experience? You know, there’s always a nonbinary person, a lesbian person, and...maybe a straight man.

LOL the token straight

Right. At least that’s my college experience, where I’ve never had a group of friends that were all the same. There were always at least one other gay or queer person. It’s a helpful lens to think about dating, and think about dating how much it’s changed since the early 2000s. A column is a dispatch from the front lines, like “this is what happened this month! How’s it going with you?” The book [NB Carrie Bradshaw] has a little bit of a more narrative arc to it. But in the columns, there’s no resolution. -----keep reading below------

Right, and that’s what I like about it. There’s endless thinkpieces about dating apps, queer dating, etc, and it’s so frustratingly depersonalized. It’s very strange how the discourse tries to force dystopia instead of actually having a comprehensive view of how people feel. There’s a lot more truth in the way that you present dating than how someone tries to dissect it in a thinkpiece.

Yeah, thinkpieces are weird. I love to read them, but I also don’t know how helpful they are a lot of the time. Especially when they try to draw a definitive statement. In some things, sure, that makes sense.

Like in a college thesis, where you’re forced to come to a resolution for your life, pretty much.

What was your experience working at a college newspaper?

Basically, I came to college, and I was on the media floor--and basically what I thought that meant was cross-genre. But in reality, what it meant was journalism. And then I thought, you know, okay, it’s fine. I thought it was interesting. And so I almost went to join the newspaper as a writer and interviewer, I did a few articles. But a rule was that if you were a writer for them, you couldn’t be interviewed. And that was my biggest problem with it--I knew I wanted to do art. I knew that I wanted to get press. I didn’t want to prevent that from happening.

Right after I came out my freshman year, this guy on my floor was like, “do you want to talk about being gay at IU?” And I was like uh….sure! It was weird because it was my first time being interviewed for something real, and I was talking about being gay. But I was also trying to sneak a pitch for my website while doing it, I was like...go watch it! They promptly cut that out of the interview, though.

Good effort, tho.

I didn’t love that environment. I wasn’t taken with it. I started volunteering at a local radio station where I did stories about lots of things. That was much more interesting and fulfilling than the college newspaper. And my friend was like, “do you want to be columnist--we need one.” Not because I was special or anything, because they really needed one. And I was like, “sure.” So I started writing these extremely leftist columns, like “capitalism is the devil, and here’s why : )”

And I wrote one that was like, “nudity in art isn’t porn,” which isn’t even an extreme opinion. But I started getting all of these comments like, “Counterpoint: nudity in art isn’t not porn.” I was just like wow, I can tell that you really read this column….

People just read titles a lot of times.

Yeah for sure. Our campus was filled with a lot of views of all extremes, and not just anarchists. We also had a militant white supremacist population on campus. There were a bunch of protests from that group over the course of years--it wasn’t just one year, or just this year, which was definitely the worse than the years before. I also got tons of hateful comments from white supremacist groups on my articles. So I was just one of the people on the receiving end of those comments.

But as far as my involvement in the newspaper group itself, I think I only attended one meeting. I didn’t really feel a sense of community at IU that a lot of people there felt. I think a lot of people looked down on what I did because it was so personal. It wasn’t like I was talking about music, or like I was talking about hard-hitting stories. So I wasn’t really a part of the “IU JOURNALISM COMMUNITY.” But it wasn’t like I really wanted to be. I would still sometimes get people who appreciated my work, that came up to me and said “I love this, I love what you’re doing,” but they were usually queer people.

Which is definitely the desired reaction, which is awesome. Talking about your webseries “Idle Cosmopolitan” -- what was your favorite audience, or your favorite venue that you showed it to? And what was that sort of reaction and vibe like?

I wasn’t at all of the screenings. It showed at Bloomington at Planet Nine--which is this small VHS rental/DVD rental video place that kind of reminds me of Ghost World or something. I wasn’t there, but a lot of my friends were there, since it was my home for so many years. I assume it went well. From the pictures, I saw that it went well, at least.

It showed at Sarah Lawrence, which I know very little about how that went. I wanted to be there, but I was scheduled at work. Which is a whole thing about how I’m not a full-time artist. I say that I’m a freelance artist, which means that I make MAYBE 50 bucks a month off of my art. If it’s a good month! So I can’t always go to everything that’s happening. It’s an interesting part about being an artist in this landscape. People expect you to be global, and there’s only so global you can be if you’re working class. Which I think is important to be transparent about. It’s not always fun to be transparent about that, but it’s important.

Exactly, you want to be honest about it, but you want to portray yourself as larger-than-life-to get attention, and at least the semblance of clout (whatever that fcking means). But being an artist, you’re a part of a community, and you want to treat that community well. You don’t want to stunt and act like you’re making a living off of your art when you’re not.

It’s not cool to lie one way or the other. It’s not cool to portray yourself as a poor person if you’re not, and I’m not super poor or anything, but I’m not living off of my artwork, and I make a decent living off of my work as a childcare worker. But yeah, you shouldn’t lie because you’re fooling yourself and making art seem elitist.

There’s the lie by omission, in a way. A lot of people are internet famous, or have a certain persona that makes people say “Oh, I want to be like this person, who so clearly lives off of their artwork.” When in reality, it’s probably a side hustle at best.

Or they live with their parents. Or they have rich parents.

It distorts people’s dreams and plans--it’s important to be responsible about that.

Totally. One show I was at physically was at Secret Project Robot, at this festival of poets, and my videos were showing between poets that were reading their work. So that was interesting---I was the only video artist at the show. And as many things as I have tried--I have written poems, but I’ve never called myself a “poet.” So I thought that was kind of cool to have that multimedia experience, to see my videos projected really large in front of a big crowd of 20 or 30 people. Which doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s actually a lot. I remember thinking wow, the crowds are gonna be so big in New York. And they are! But 20 or 30 people is a lot for DIY art. Even if you’re successful, or internet famous--it’s hard to gather a crowd wherever you are.

And it was really cool because people who were actually in the video got to see it, which was cool! Chariot is in it, and he was there, so that’s cool.

There was one livestream and q&a in the UK, which was really cool. And that was my favorite, because the moderator was super smart and always asked good question about the fantasy genre, and its intersections with queerness. It was refreshing instead of questions like-- “Why are you gay? Why is this here?” It was a good convo to have beyond the surface level.

It’s awesome that I saw so many showings of your series was in Indianapolis, in Indiana. You may not see a big crowd--DIY art isn’t an Ariana Grande concert--but What you do see is how it sort of transforms the room, and creates a living space, a community. 20 people is a community. Especially in Indiana.

Right, there’s very established artists and documentarians where the only place they have more than 20 people show up is in their hometowns. Even world-renowned documentarians may struggle to get an audience. Which is awful. But I think that one thing that is happening in the real world is that there are plenty of people I look up to, who are famous, whose twitter gets pretty very few likes! And they may have a huge amount of followers! And I’m like--why am I getting more likes than world-renowned feminist scholars? I think that’s happening in real life too. These people are having talks and showings of their work and sometimes DIY work is a different experience and maybe draws more people than these professional pieces, and there’s a community of people who can see themselves in that as artists.

I agree, it definitely changes the dynamic for people are used to when it comes to art, you think there’s the artist and this huge invisible wall and then there’s the observer, and it breaks down that dynamic.

Right, it changes the power dynamic. The artist isn’t a preacher. What we’ve seen in DIY venues is, everybody is sitting in chairs. The artist is in the front, but everyone is on the same level. There isn’t a stage to walk down from.

I think people are only starting to observe this change, and aren’t sure what to call it yet. Some people see changes like this as the death of something, like the death of some kind of empire of how art works. But especially with this project, I think I’ve not only been an optimist, but a realist in the sense that it’s for the better. So many people are screaming “death to media! Death to print!” and I’m just over here like, “You’re a Baby Boomer, please don’t talk to me.”

Ha! Right. These media aren’t dead, but they’re definitely dying. But I think they’re going to be dying for a while to come. People broadcasting the death of all of these things---like, they’re not dead yet. The Met is gonna be in trouble, but the Met is gonna be around for the next 100 years. The Met’s not just gonna crumble.

Going back to “Idle Cosmopolitan”--I love how it’s a series of very short films. And by short, I mean like, slightly longer than a Vine length. And some people may come across that and immediately compare the series to Vine culture, but my immediate thought was comparing it to poetry, with a lot of tightly-wound content being fit into a small space. So I was wondering how poetry influences your visual work, or how visual work influences your poetry, etc.

That’s interesting. I actually originally applied to go to college for poetry. I never called myself a poet, but I did think about it for a while. When I do write poetry, it’s usually about nature, and viewing nature through the lens of divinity and power dynamics. Which I think is definitely a big part of my video work. The “Queer World” in my piece is a forest. Somebody was talking to me recently, and said that “I think it’s interesting that the queer world is a forest. Do you think of urban spaces as, like, not-as-queer spaces?” I hadn’t really thought about that. But whenever I think of that sort of the afterlife, I don’t think of cities. And what’s our other option, really? Nature. An ocean would be a terrifying destination for the afterlife. I think that poetry is super important, I think when I’m writing anything, I tend towards a lyrical, poetic style. I love hard facts, but I was never super into Hemingway. I always loved the Great Gatsby. Not that I like showy, hyper-stylized stuff; I hated the Great Gatsby movie. But the suggestion of artifice, the suggestion of things like that, I think is really interesting.

There’s ton of talk about heaven and nature and sin in “Idle Cosmopolitan.” I’m sure it comes from a long line of being raised in Christianity, and having read all of the Christian classics. And as a kid, I was obsessed with the apocalypse. Once, I was between 6-9 I remember looking at clocks in restaurants and thinking, “Could this be the hour of the end?” I remember being super into Revelations, and the ghost stories that my friends and I would tell each other, and often confusing them as the same thing.

I think that’s a form of poetry true, a strange, mental form of poetry. I think the afterlife is poetic, because there’s no concrete that you can provide.

I think in terms of modality, I think I’m always writing in the form of the poetic, even if I’m not writing a poem. Even my column--it’s not a how-to column, it’s not a safari.

It’s not MTV Cribs!

Right! Definitely more reflections.

I always thought of videos sort of in musician terms, like “this is my new album---Idle Cosmopolitan.” This is the tracklist, and each has a poetic name, etc. And each year, there’s a self-image overhaul….well, there’s no image overhaul for me this year, but especially in college I was into that idea, where I wanted to amp myself up every year.

But this iteration, for me, was trying to marry these poetic ideals with my own lived experiences, to make it sort of autobiographical, but still have a flourish. I mean, I was watching Twin Peaks when I was working on it.

Yeah, I can definitely see that influence in there. Where there’s that magic-realism, but it’s so mundane. The suspension of disbelief is so well-dissolved into it.

Right as I was starting to write this, I just finished the season of Veronica Mars---I’m not sure if it directly influenced it…

But it was there

Yeah, and watching Twin Peaks: the Return. What I thought was interesting about it was its formal elements. There was this sort of suspension of disbelief present for both the characters and the audience. So then you’re just like, “Yeah, queer spirits! That makes sense!” So, it’s that magic realism that is super appealing. And also the fact that it’s episodic. One of the things about David Lynch that I’m really into is the episodic nature of his work. There’s this loose play with time and narrative, and it’s an experience.

I think what Lynch talks a lot about, especially in later seasons, is agency. But in Sex and the City, for example--Carrie isn’t a bad person, but she’s not necessarily a good person either. She has affairs, runs around doing whatever she wants, she tries to take a break from dating and has a guilt complex where she feels bad about her actions, and also places guilt on other people--it’s complex, which I think is interesting.

Like chaotic neutral, but a little more complex than that?

Yeah, definitely. I’m obsessed with people who are chaotic neutral. I don’t think I’m chaotic neutral, but I’m fascinated by that those people exists.

I’m a super-intense Virgo, Type A, Blair Waldorf type. I definitely pride myself on hard work--which could be problematic--but I have that crawl-my-way-to-the-top sort of vibe.

This character in the webseries, they’re sort of neutral. They’re a relationship writer, but it doesn’t seem like a main part of their personhood. The only thing that they seem mad about is when their boyfriend breaks up with them, which is fair. But they don’t seem to be making many choices, and there’s something very sidekick about that.

I was in this space in my life where I was having to make all these intense decisions--deciding to move to New York, having to make all of these choices about who I wanted to be as a person. The character is the exact opposite, where there’s no movement. There’s a movement in narrative, a movement in place, but it kind of happens to them.

They get a letter, a pep talk from Fate--and they’re just like, “Sure, whatever, I don’t care.” Then they enter the queer world, and they’re like “Alright.” And then the Blue Spirit is the one who was like, “No, this wasn’t actually a good choice.” And they’re like, “Okay, sure.” They never really doubt people’s motives.

There’s a sort of guilt about making choices that Type A people have. Inevitably, if you’re a type A perosn, you’re going to hurt people. Even if you’re not actually hurting them, you’re going to make choices, and choices affect people. There’s winners and losers. So what does it mean for the sort of stoner archetype, this chaotic neutral archetype, when they don’t make choices?

I’ve never been a chill person, so I gravitate towards writing characters that are like that. Because I’m always wondering….what does that feel like?

Right! I feel like it takes a lot of effort to be chill, which isn’t chill. It’s kind of a self-consuming concept. I’m not gonna say it’s the only real binary, but…

Haha, right! Ok back to influences. Actually, as far as the soundtrack goes, I’ve gotten a lot of feedback where people say it reminds them of Sex and the City, and that it’s derivative. Actually, one person said that the soundtrack reminds them of Rugrats….

Stop!!!

Right!? Well, it’s jazz, but it’s sort of this chaotic jazz.

It’s a typical theme song in a lot of ways, but it’s disarming. Which I like.

Some people said it makes them anxious.

It offsets the perceived chill in the series, which signals you to look harder.

Watching it back, I was like...something is wrong. Narratively, there’s something up. But I’m not sure if that thing ever gets hashed out or resolved, it just sort of hangs like a dark cloud.

Which is what’s so great about poetry. There’s always that lack of resolution. People always get angry at that, where they want to feel satisfied...where’s the sequel at??

Do they get the girl or not??

Yeah! It’s how we’re taught to view life. But especially with creative people, it’s paradoxical--they only thing that makes them (us) feel satisfied is poetry, that sort of form that leaves things unresolved.

Totally.

How has the internet shaped your writing?

The internet is definitely fucked up. It was created by the military, and is now owned by billionaires. That’s already strike one. But let’s assume that the internet is also provides a space that provides more access for more people. But it doesn’t provide equal access for everybody. It provides equal access for a relatively small amount of people. You have to afford a computer, internet access--and even if you go to the library, you have to afford to be there.

But let’s say it does level the playing field in that way---even still, people don’t have more of a chance of getting their art noticed because of it. It does mean more people can put their stuff out there, but it doesn’t guarantee more viewers, or more fans, or some utopia.

The internet has become this neoliberal promise of equality. This reveals itself in every aspect---who dominates media, who dominates internet celebrity, etc. This doesn’t discount the fact that there’s fantastic DIY spaces based on the internet, but there’s a lot being overlooked.

The internet as a structure is racist, sexist, homophobic, and transphobic. Even if we go back to technology like photography, for example, it was a technology developed to best depict white faces. It’s so great that the internet creates a platform for people, but that includes creating platforms for neo-nazis on 4chan, for alt-righters to doxx people. The web is pretty fucked up, and it amplifies our greatest strengths, like community. Especially the trans community, which is so important. But it also amplifies our problems, and reveals where we need to grow.

I don’t think the internet is the devil, but I think it makes it harder for people to feel like human beings. It mirrors capitalism, and degrades human beings in so many ways where we’re expected to become a brand, which is always tied to capitalism. We’re forced to reduce ourselves to something bite-sized, which is troubling me as a person and as an artist.

When did u start writing and being creative?

I was always drawing. I was super into Pokemon and all the Nintendo games. I was into anything cute and well-designed, like Zelda, and anything involving world-building. I was super into maps, and at a young age, I thought, “I wanted to do that.”

At a young age, I wanted to be a pop star. And I made the boys in the neighborhood be my band. Now I’m thinking that was sort of a strong signal of me being gay, haha. Boys---you’re gonna be in this band, and I’m gonna sing Breakout by Miley Cyrus.

I started getting really into bands. I was really into Coldplay, and I wanted to be Chris Martin.

STOP, ME TOO

I really liked “Clocks.”

ME TOO, when I first heard that, I was like, Now….that’s what I call music.

I also really liked “Lovesong” by Sara Bareilles, which is entirely different, but I was also like...that’s what I call music. Also Paramore and Deathcab, and I was like…..this is also Music. I still love all this stuff

I still listen to all this stuff pretty much on the regular, even though I laugh about it Yeah! And at the time, all of these things were coded as feminine. Even Coldplay, which was, not a boyband, but kind of more healing.

Right, like ~emotional boys~, ~soft boys~, this sort of soft masculinity before it was talked about and memed.

I went from wanting to be a popstar, to wanting to be in bands, to wanting to do comics, and then I was like...I want to be painter! I did a lot of paintings, and then I wanted to be an actor. I was fixated on stardom, on theater. I was in all the plays of my freshman year.

Then I moved schools, and this guy who didn’t even like me and stopped talking to me, but I liked him---I wrote this psycho-opera about him. It was all songs about him, and it was super awkward. I recorded an album about him. He started being nice to me, and then I was just like…...here’s an album…

I was like, that was fun, but then I started to getting into Wes Anderson. And Woody Allen, but #WORST. And then Godard, which was better. Then I started making movies. And I saw 30 Rock, and it confirmed what I wanted to do.

I love how you go from Godard to 30 Rock

I know!! I was very all over the map. Then I started watching more experimental films and wild stuff, so it’s been a journey to where I’m at now.

The wrapping up portion, something I ask at the end of every interview...this is actually the first interview I’ve done that’s over the phone, an actual physical conversation. And the form of how I’ve conducted each interview has really affected it.

How would you describe the future of literature in a tweet-length? Or a sort of verbal tweet length, also tweets are longer now so….yeah….

Smaller.

#nb carrie bradshaw #lit #futurelit #publishing #books #writing #spilled ink #becky ebben #idle cosmopolitan #trans monogamist #queer #grace byron

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