#if it happens then ill clap and eat my own hat but like man

[wormstar]

warrior cats official queerbaiting

#edit: forgot people look at posts on this blog hah its about the article they published recently about whistlepaw where they used #frostwhistle fanart. saw people acting up about it like 'ohhh could frostwhistle be canon' like I doubt it. #if it happens then ill clap and eat my own hat but like man

[7deadlycinderellas]

The Starks at War, 1941 part 2

AO3 link

(who knew all I needed was something called the “Abandoned WIP challenge to finish another chapter of this?)

Arya doesn’t stop shaking the whole way home, through to the next day. Asha accompanies her, sympathetic, but distant. The bus ride is hell.

When Arya walks through the front door, Jojen and Bran are playing cards, but stop immediately to look at her.

“Arya-” Bran starts, stuttering, “Mother?”

Arya feels a sob choke out, then get stuck halfway.

“How did you know?” Asha asks.

“Radio,” Bran says, pointing at the wireless set by the front window, “It said that the Germans hit a military hospital- the one we knew you were going to.” His voice suddenly becomes thick, and Arya realizes he sounds double his newly fifteen years.

“We were scared, we thought it might be both of you.”

Arya slumps down in her chair.

“It was stupid, really,” Jojen comments, “painting crosses on the roofs of all the hospitals. Just gave them something to aim at.”

“If half the stories out of France are true, it is our error to expect any kind of fair play from Nazis.”

Arya feels like she can barely move.

After a time, Asha stands to leave.

“I’ll spend the night at the inn and leave in the morning.”

She leans down to clap Arya on the shoulder.”

“You know where to reach me.”

Once Asha leaves, Arya slumps and clutches her face in her hands.

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” is all she can whisper to herself.

Autumn begins to turn over the coming weeks. Arya sleepwalks into it. Gilly ends up being the one who goes to the church to report. There are no remains to bury.

Sansa calls multiple times a week.

She keeps asking if they need her to come home. They all push her off. Winterfell isn’t home as it was, and they won’t bring her back if she is needed elsewhere.

She’s begun to settle in in London. The flat she shares with Margaery is tiny, just a bedroom and kitchen. The two beds they’ve managed to drag in barely have enough room between them to walk.The walls are papered, but it’s fading and peeling. The heating doesn’t always work, what with the coal shortages. Often at night, the two of them simply pull on all of their clothes before crawling into bed.

The tenement building’s shelter is outside. When the air raid sirens bellow, they have to shove on their slippers, grab their masks and barrel down the stairs among the other flat-dwellers. Praying that all they will hear is the sirens and not the whine of an incendiary or the gait shattering boom of an explosion before they manage to cram themselves inside.

Sansa’s begun adjusting to the work as well. She spends all day in the tiny gray office, editing and retyping papers, sometimes helping Margaery do translations. Sometimes, even work is interrupted by air raids.

She can’t stop thinking of what Catelyn would have said to see her now. With her short cut hair and simple office clothes, she looks nothing like the debutante she dreamed of being. This was not a world her or her mother would have even thought to be part of.

She’s good with idioms, her supervisor notes, so at least she can take pride in that. She was always good at French in school, longing one day to go there, to see the sights and the glamor for herself.

One night when they’re at home, eating some cobbled together vegetable medley, cooked in a pan, Margaery comments,

“I think I’m going to cut my hair. I’m sick of having to set the whole mess at night.”

Sansa nods. She had been surprised when watching Margaery do her hair the first time, to see how hard she worked to make it perfect. Without the curlers at night, one side would curl up perfectly, and the other would hang straight pin straight, stretched out by its length.

“They do say long hair is terribly old-fashioned.”

Margaery sighs when it’s finished, touching the ends as though she can’t believe it’s gone. But now the sides curl properly, and she won’t have to do anything but wash it and wrap it all up before bed.

“My mother used to put it up for me when I was little, the way she did when she went out,” she comments idly.

“You never told me what happened to your mother,” Sansa tells her, suddenly keenly feeling her own loss that she’s spent so much time shoving down deep inside.

“She died of the flu- not the big one, just the usual one- when I was ten. My father was never the same after that. I’m not sure any of us were.”

Sansa is quiet. She understands really. She’s almost appreciative that she hadn’t been at home most of this entire past year. She can’t imagine how her mother must have taken her father’s death. While the pair had never been the most demonstrative of their affections, their children were very secure in the fact that the two had loved each other, and that not all married couples were as lucky.

Margaery glances down at herself.

“She always wanted the best for me. Nothing specific, just that I would be happy and the best person I could be. She was the only one I think. Everyone else has their own ideas about who I am and exactly what I should aim for.”

“What do you want to do? What would make you happy?”

Margaery’s expression is pensieve.

“I wish I’d applied to go to university. I’d like to study political science. I’d like a proper little flat, near a park, one that’s not been bombed. Maybe I’ll marry, but only if I meet someone I want to. Maybe I will when the war is over.“

It has been strange, Sansa thinks, leaving school behind and seeing Margaery for who she really was. She had always thought they were friends, but here she’s stripped bare. She’s not a prefect, or head of the French club, or the beautiful polished girl Sansa had idolized. Here she chips her nails and ladders her stockings and forgets her hat just like everyone else.

That doesn’t mean Sansa doesn’t still look up to her though. She fits right in at the office, even with most of the others being London born girls who left school at fourteen and knew they would end up working if they didn’t marry. Many of them were pleased to work in an office, rather than in a factory, or worse, in service. Sansa sometimes feels tongue tied around them, and not just because the Starks have always had a few people employed in service.

Before October, both of them get letters inviting them for an interview with the same Baelish that Margaery had said recognized Sansa’s name. The instructions have them both come to a tiny, bare bones hotel room during lunch hour. Sansa’s stomach grumbles while she’s outside waiting  for Margaery to finish her turn. Her stomach is not eased by her own interview.

Petyr Baelish isn’t a tall man. Sansa’s used to looking most grown men in the eye, and finds that when he stands, she’s actually looking more at his hairline. He has dark hair, going somewhat gray, a neat mustache and an overall aura of having everything under his control.  

He asks her dozens of questions, some of which she doesn’t even understand. But by the time it’s done, she has a job offer.

And a new, horrifying, realization, about the nature of the office where she’s been working.

Her and Margaery both, are, on paper, enlisted in the FANY, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. In practice, they were brought aboard the organization that became known as SOE for secret operations, and being sent to Scotland for their training.

Sansa cringes at the slightest thought of what her mother would say. But her mother is dead now, and this gives her the slightest hope for vengeance. Vengeance. That was one of those words so beloved in those awful twopenny comics Arya and Bran devoured.

It doesn’t take long before she wonders what on earth she was thinking by accepting.

Even reaching the training school is rough. The terrain in Scotland is difficult. By the time they reach the facility, they are all exhausted, hungry, soaked through with rain and covered in scratches. And when they reach it, the real fun begins.

Sansa never once in her life thought she would someday learn to shoot a gun, or disarm a man, or be required to carry a suicide pill. These skills are not second nature to her, so she has to work at it. When her eyes threaten to prick full of tears and her throat threatens to close up, she thinks of her mother’s face, dead now for no reason, and no one coming to save her, or Sansa or anyone. No one is coming to save them.

She learns to parrot back the goal they are told. To resist the enemy by any means necessary. There aren’t a great many women in training with them, but there are far more than Sansa would have expected. Too many in England have lost loved ones in this war. Too many have seen their homes destroyed.

Learning telegraphy and morse code are much easier, even if they are still totally foreign skills for her. She goes back through Arya’s letters, remembering her speaking of learning these things for Girl Guides. These at least, don’t make the bile rise in the back of Sansa’s throat at even the thought of using them.

One night, she sits on the end of her bed and puts her head in her hands. Margaery has the bunk above her. There are bunks here, it’s like being back at school again.

“What’s wrong?”

Sansa’s shoulders slump as she responds.

“All I can think is how much my younger sister would prefer learning all of this than me. She always loved science fiction and pulp magazines and those awful two-penny adventure comics. And when I called home last, she sounded so angry...she needs to feel like she’s contributing as much as us, but she can’t. She’s sixteen, she’s tiny and she’s stuck at home still.”

Margaery frowns, deep in thought.

“Your sister Arya...you said she’s only sixteen?”

Sansa nods.

“She’ll be seventeen at the beginning of next year.”

“Then let her be a child if she can still, we don’t know how long this war will last. Besides, from your stories, she always sounded like such an impulsive and ill-refined girl.”

Sansa sniffs. Her stories had always been terribly unfair to Arya. She might still prefer running about outside, but she hadn’t thrown a tantrum in ages, and the shouting and even the insults were a thing of the long past. They might never have been as close as sisters in Jane Austen novels, but they hadn’t fought each other in so long.

Except when they did.

“She is.”

Margaery smiles, and plays with one of her gloves.

“Know why Baelish had been head-hunting us?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Because aristocratic women are good at a great deal more than picking out dresses and fixing their hair. We know manners, and pick up rules of etiquette with ease. We are good at talking to people and getting them to tell us things. And we are excellent at keeping up appearances under pressure.”

Sansa nods, and tries to put on her face.

And it is very easy to see why Margaery was selected. Her French is perfect and she has a great deal of knowledge of French geography, culture and fashion. Information that it turns out, Sansa has picked up quite easily having hung on Margaery’s words when she was just the glamorous school prefect.

And it’s so much easier to keep her face on in the dorms than out in the training field with a weapon in her hands.

One of the instructor’s compliments Sansa on her accent.

“A bit breathy, true, but the disguise of an excited young girl can be very handy. Very few would doubt the intentions of one.”

When the both of them get near to finishing training, Baelish’s assessment claims they would both make excellent radio operators. Even Sansa’s not naive enough to believe that’s a safe occupation, like Baelish insists. Mum had seemed fond enough of him, but Sansa doesn’t trust something in his gaze.

This is what sticks in Sansa’s mind as Margaery and her are sent off to parachute school. The first day of training, she stares out the window and wishes she were more like Arya.

That same day, Arya gets the telegram.

The months since Mother had died were hell. Arya has kept up with the girl guides when she could. She helps out with the WVS, who seems nearly as lost without Catelyn as she does. She helps Bran stumble through the paperwork needed to keep the family affairs in order. She tries to help Gilly with little Sam and Weasel.

She writes Gendry whenever she can. His letters are always so sweet, so understanding, but he can’t write often. And she doesn’t know if her own letters actually capture even half of what she feels.

He writes that he wishes he could come see her, but the Navy is stingy with leave, and when he gets a day, he’s stationed too far away to make the train ride south in the time given. Sometimes, selfishly, Arya wishes she could ask him to come anyway, but she can’t. She won’t get him in trouble because of her.

The day the telegram comes, she’s about to burst as it is. It’s only a few days after America has entered the war, wrapping her mind around that was hard enough.

She’s in the kitchen, staring at the paper when the others trickle in for lunch.

Bran notices first, Arya’s stony white face.

“What now?” he asks.

Arya’s hands are holding the card still, but her fingers are shaking.

“It’s Robb,” her voice says, low, dead. “His plane was shot down over France. They have no idea what’s become of him.”

Without meeting his eye, she hands the telegram to Bran, puts her hands on the table. Then she lays her face down on top of them and cries.

None of them could have known what was going down in France at the moment.

Robb was a competent pilot. He wasn’t a natural like Jon was, but he was good enough. This was very little comfort when his plane was currently on fire and quickly losing altitude.

He tried to radio out assistance, but the controls are dead. Robb’s head is throbbing from where it slammed against the inside of the cockpit and he can hardly think. It’s only through sheer luck that he manages to get his parachute on and leap from the rapidly descending plane and pray as he bails out for the ground.

The air rushes around him for only a split second it seems before he collides with the ground so hard that it feels like he’s being manhandled. He thinks he hears something crack, but he can’t stop to think. All he sees is blurs, all he hears is ringing and all he smells is blood and smoke. He tries to stand and run, but his body isn’t listening.

Eventually, one of those blurs comes closer, and grabs him, by the arm, pulling roughly. His legs screech in protest, his lungs wail, but it keeps pulling, and eventually the world begins to return to him.

The figure pulling him, he eventually sees is a woman. Young, perhaps in her twenties, with dark hair. She wears a heavy, dark green coat and her footsteps are heavy.

Eventually, the image of a barn comes into sight. The woman pulling him stops, moves something, and the next that Robbs knows, he’s being shoved into what seems like a hole in the ground.

“Stay quiet. Don’t make a sound until I come back for you. Not a single word, or you’re dead.”

Robb tries to stop himself from blacking out, but he doesn’t succeed.

When he comes to, he takes inventory of his surroundings. Dirt, a lot of dirt. A couple of what look like potatoes in one corner. A root cellar, most likely. The inhales and all he can smell is dirt too. His leg is on fire, and much of his skin is too. He fears when he wakes up fully, the pain will be so bad it makes him pass out again.

He can hear people outside, somewhere, faintly. He follows the woman’s advice and pretends he’s dead. He hears planes overhead, and gunfire too. He hopes his squadmates are alright.

Robb’s not sure how long it is before the cellar door cracks open and he jumps, squawking in pain, but the woman from before pulls him out again and leads him to the farmhouse.

“I told them where I saw your plane go down. I told them I saw it on fire and was worried about the trees in the wood. I didn’t say anything about your chute, I burned it in the hearth.”

After she leads him in and lays him upon a wooden chair, she retrieves a glass and tells him to drink the liquid inside. It’s bitter, and he sputters, but she pushes it to his lips again, and after that, he fades in and out.

When he finally wakes, there’s the sound of a kettle whistling.

“Not real tea, I’m afraid, but dried mint is good enough to pretend.”

She sits across from him. Even still in pain, Robb can’t help but notice that she’s lovely. He sips the mint tea and tries not to choke.

When he finally gathers the mindfulness to speak, he picks his first question carefully.

“What’s your name?”

The woman sighs, before taking her own cup and sitting in the other chair.

“Talisa.”

“Talisa,” he says, feeling the name on his tongue, “I’m Robb.”

“I suppose we should use each other’s Christian names, given we’re going to be stuck here together for at least six weeks” she admits. Then she gestures at Robb’s leg, which she has immobilized with splints and thick rolls of bandage cloth. “Don’t try and move. I couldn’t set a proper cast, but I did my best. Don’t ruin all my hard work.” Dimly, Robb realizes he is covered in cuts that are also bandaged.

Robb is flush with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says. He examines her bandaging. “Are you a nurse?”

Talisa nods.

“I was going to be, before-” she waves her arm out, “All of this.”

Robb glances around the farmhouse, and realizes the place is empty, but has the signs of other people having lived here before. Four chairs around the table, more cups than one person would need.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

Talisa nods, sadly.

“My father died when I was young, of a fever. I was born in Guernica. When Franco bombed it, me, my mother and my brother escaped and fled here. My father was French, so getting asylum was easier.”

“Guernica,” Robb muses, rolling the word around in his mouth, wondering where he’s heard it. “That’s in Spain right?”

Talisa purses her lips before answering.

“I guess it was too much to expect England to have reported too much on our own little war. But yes, Guernica is in Spain. The three of us came here and worked this farm. Then the Germans came. It had barely been three years. Seems like such a little time of peace.”

She turns away, and Robb chooses not to press her.

“Once your leg heals enough, I’ll pass you off to the resistance, and they can see about getting you home.”

“The German’s won’t get suspicious of you?” Robb asks. He doesn’t want to bring any trouble to her.

“That’s no matter,” she insists, “It’s not like you can go anywhere on your own, and anything I can do to be a thorn in the side of the Third Reich, the better.”

Talisa drains her cup at this point, pushing it back down against the table, and briefly shuts her eyes.

“It’s probably not good to admit, but I am happy that at least I’ll have someone here to talk to this Christmas.”

Christmas, Robb thinks. He hadn’t even realized.

Christmas 1941 is hellish for his own family.

Jon can barely eat any of the Christmas dinner the servicemen are given. It feels like ashes in his gut.

Sansa is given a break over Christmas, but the next day is when they’re supposed to be given their first parachute lessons. She cries herself to sleep, in fear. Fear for herself, fear for her brother. In her more fanciful moments, she imagines parachuting into France and one day bumping into him on the street. Perhaps he’d lost his memory, she wonders, her mind a Hollywood fantasy.

Arya and Bran are still at Winterfell.

Bran is overwhelmed. The work that has been left in his lap threatens to consume him, even as he had wished so hard to be useful.

Arya feels nearly dead inside.

The past two Christmases without Robb and Jon had been bad enough, but at least there were his letters. Now she can’t read them without wondering if they’re the last she will ever receive.

On Christmas Eve, no tree, no lights, no Christmas dinner, Arya stares out her bedroom window. Father, Mother, Robb gone. Jon, Sansa and Gendry far too far away. Bran overwhelmed, even Gilly, Sam and Weasel ash-faced.

They see Rickon so little it’s as though he’s slipped away.

It hardly feels like Christmas at all.

Maybe it would be better if she weren’t here too. One less mouth to poorly feed.

She leaves her bicycle, and her books. She takes Gendry’s letters, and she wonders if she’ll be able to receive any more of them.

The day Arya turns seventeen, she calls Asha Greyjoy, asking if her offer still stands.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #fic #ww2 au

[bangtan-ballum]

what i remember from the interactive introverts show in belfast (28.5.2018) SPOILERS

 this is all from memory so quotes and the order may not be completely accurate but close enough.. *pretty detailed spoilers*

- before the show began and the playlist was on, 'dans siri' kept interrupting saying "this is dans siri he left me to go look at some memes i hope you’re enjoying the playlist" and it telling us there’s no recording allowed and to turn our phones off or "ill beat you up only i cant because i’m just an ipad"

- the playlist had bts mic drop and red velvet peek-a-boo and everyone started singing and dancing to it and i was shook so many were fans of kpop omg i was liVING. 

- explaining his tweet "the weirdest thing happened, sorry if you’re here but omg that would be weird, we were sat on a bench and then this little boy wearing a fedora walked by, stopped, looked back and did this *tipped his hat* like was that directed at me?? there was no hello, nothing! and then he waited and did it again?!" he asked phil if he seen him and he said he did. dan said "phew if you didn’t i thought, i’ve just seen god, god just came to me in this form to judge me. and if he did id be going down (to hell). i am not prepared for that" 

- talking about the stage and the amazing graphic design and the two big i's at the side of the stage and dan said "look at those long boys" then called them phallic 

- a photo of dan inspired by my horse prince with the caption "ride me senpai" and phil said it was from his own personal files so he doesn’t know how that got there.. 

- phil saying they want to get to know us better but bc theres not enough time for them to take us all out for a coffee and a chat (how cute, and then everyone became soft for them and said aww) so they decided to try to get to know use all at the same time

- the audiences collective name was karen

- "you’re just not there yet. you need to get inside karen" *dan looks at phil in disgust* "phil...join karen, connect with karen" dan later goes onto say "get inside karen" and phil says "see you’re as bad as me" 

things dan and phil will not be doing tonight: 

- 'erotic role playing': *phil wearing a police helmet and carrying a baton* "officer(maybe captain) phil(maybe philly) here, danny’s been a bad boy" then dan appears holding handcuffs "please be careful with the handcuffs i have sensitive skin" 

- the show will also not be a live viewing of dan and phil in their apartment. they then showed videos of them doing things round the house and phil was eating cereal out of the box and dan was on the toilet. 

- the show will not be a giant party with all their friends and they put party hats on and then the voice said “no because none of the people replied to their messages bc they have no friends. none.” lmao 

- the show will not be them stripping and they ripped their shirts off to reveal they had the same shirt on underneath

- "unleash the bees" then "sting me daddy" by dan ofc 

- they tested themselves and had to say the same thing under the topic of "kitchen objects" and they both said whisk and said that they never say the same thing and that was only the second time they’ve done that and they were so happy about it omg

- when doing the simulation part dan was in his fur suit and had to go to the toilets but the men’s was locked and the options we had to choose from was to "ask someone for the passcode" or "use the lady door" (i know) and dan went on to say that this is why we need to diminish the concept of gender and everyone clapped and cheered omg i love him

- during the how many think we know the real dan and phil bit, dan said something about how we know certain thing (that i dont remember) and how we know some of their kinks 

- dan being v concerned about how we kept cheering for satan and judged the people of belfast for seeming happy to be making a deal with the devil lol. 

- during the sacrifice of dan (what context?) phil came out in a leather apron with gloves and said he is wearing his best serial killer outfit. 

- phil getting ready to shoot a spinning dan with an arrow and says "forget katniss everdeen, this is philniss philerdeen" 

-phil misses the board and hits dans hip and dan said “if that was 5 inch to the left then we would not have been friends anymore”

- dan trying to get off the wheel and phil asked if he needs to unstrap him and dan said "i’ve had enough of you unstrapping me" idk if he actually said that but i s2g that’s what i heard at the time and how i will remember it LMAO 

- dan had to untie phils apron and the audience died and dan was done with all of us. 

- phil saying it was distracting watching dan get out of his padded suit and then dan tried to sexily get out of it whilst phil was talking and phil stopped and stared at dan and said "im just gonna let him do it" and so in the end we all just watched as dan struggled to step out of it and then literally also tripped. then a few minutes later he realised he still had one of the shoe protectors on his foot (he called it a shower cap lol) and then took it off and awkwardly walked to the side to set it down then awkwardly walked by and laughed under his breath.

- according to the audience dan has a stress mushroom, apple and a girls motivation locked in the box under his bed. dan was extremely concerned as to why she thinks he has locked an apple in the box. and everyone laughed when the other girl said her motivation and dan said "i too have my motivation locked in a box and i’ve lost the key" 

- phil saying the key to dans box was v 50 shades of grey bc of the red ribbon

- at some point they both said a word wrong and both times they did The Thing™ they do when they mock each other when they make a mistake.

- 'phantastic phacts' as a title on screen. phil says "like what we did there?" 

- dan saying his phil trash #1 

- phil saying “put your nipples away” (when a photo of a topless man appeared on screen) and said it in some type of accent LMAO i died

- dan saying they are super best friends and soulmates -im dead- 

- wholesome howell and x-rated lester made an appearance (they swapped roles and were given topics and phil had to make good things sound bad and dan had to make bad things sound good) also when dans photo of him as an angel with a halo and a rainbow behind him, he looked at the audience, smirked and said "its very fitting" i would like the think he meant the gay ass rainbow behind him but y’know. 

- dan saying to god "implode me daddy" when he had to make the topic of the world imploding seem appealing. phil laughed under his breath and said “never say implode me daddy again” 

- *phil having to make meeting beyonce sound bad and he said bc hes so clumsy that he'd trip and kill her and was really dramatic whilst saying it and dan was stunned and just looked in shock at phil then us and said "are you as traumatised as i am right now" 

- dan having to make stepping in a puddle while wearing socks seem good and screamed and said "NO that is literally the worst thing in the world..ok you dont appreciate dry feet until suddenly they’re not. once a day we should all put on a fresh sock and go to the kitchen and step in something moist just to remember-" phil interrupts shouting no and dan continues saying "do you ever feel like you need a drink. well, with a wet sock you can just- *lifts his foot to his mouth and everyone dies on the spot* 

- dan and phil struggling to pronounce all the irish names and everyone was screaming how to pronounce it and dan made everyone be quiet and squealed "wAIT. just one person" LMAO and then the one time phil said a name right and everyone cheered for him 

- dan would happily become an amazing dancer even if it meant phil would wake up with 2 left hands and 2 left feet because he says it wouldn’t make a difference in phils life bc hes that clumsy now it’d probably be the same with 2 left feet. 

- phil would save dan from being bitten by a vampire even though it would mean that buffy the vampire slayer never existed. they talked about how the vampire could bite him and he could live forever as a vampire and phil said he would bring him bloody treats (then dan referenced to before when phil was x-rated lester*) and said "what kind of bloody treats?? omg it would be beyonce he killed beyonce and will feed me her corpse" then said "no what if they just want me dead" and then phil decided to save him. 

- dan thinks this phil without the fringe is an impostor and he killed the real phil. he screamed a couple of times throughout the show to ask where the real phils body was and said will get him to confess eventually. 

- "are you really just a lizard in a phil suit..because that would explain a lot" phil is a scalie confirmed. 

- phil constantly squatting/slut dropping to the buzzer sound effect 

- i cant remember the context but phil said something about him having layers and dan stopped and said “layers?? are you shrek? what do you think this is, shrek the musical?”

- phil had to say dans biggest fear and he said moths, and it was wrong so he got an electric shock and dan said "wHAT NO! ok right i have this thing where i hate anything underwater. like imagine you’re in the sea, what are you scared of? sharks? woop no, whales? no. but there’s a boat and beside the boat there’s a buoy and attached to that is sLIMEY CHAIN. EW NO. i’ve got submechanophobia. (i googled it i think that’s what he said idk) so its not moths, phil you know that!!" 

in the deep chat bit: 

-they talked about phobias. someone submitted saying she had a phobia of balloons and asked if she was weird and asked what they’re scared off. phil said "no you’re not weird. everyone has their fears. whats yours dan" and dan said "as we discussed before, things underwater, slimey things! uHH. but yeah i get that, its the anticipation of when its gonna pop and that’s stressful" and asked phil what his was and said "i’ve always had a thing where i was scared of the deep sea ever since i was a kid. also, not that its really a phobia but, horses. i don’t like them i don’t trust their intentions. like imagine waking up one day to a horse in your bedroom" lol 

- they talked about procrastination. talked about how changing your environment, like "doing a very not dan and phil thing" and going for a walk (dan squealed at the thought) could help distract your mind, getting some fresh air and then going back to your work with a different mindset. then talked about how phil has the need to reward himself when he does something and said that he always says to himself that if he finishes a certain task that he will reward himself with a marshmallow. and then said that if you reward yourself with something that it could motivate you to finishing whatever you’re putting off. dan said phil is using the example of a marshmallow but that he really does this and that he tells dan not to let him have the marshmallows until he finishes whatever he needs to do. dan then said that even if your procrastinating school work or whatever to just write the first word, or try writing a few sentences bc atleast you’ve started it and if you start writing that you could get into the mindset and keep writing until you finish. 

- they talked about making a youtube channel. someone submitted that he has started a youtube channel about reptiles and if they had any tips. and dan said "omg stephen. phil is probably already subscribed" lmao. phil praised him for starting a channel about something he is interested in and how its bad to start a channel just for the views and the subscribers. then said that instead of talking about what hes going to do, he should "just do it, show us that lizard" and dan said "yeah dont start off like "hi, so my name is [stephen], nice to meet you. ive always wanted to make videos about reptiles but i never rea-" lmao 

- phil saying bitch in his disstrack oh my god 

- the song at the end: "hey buddy can you give me some editing tips" 

- when dan was playing the piano and phil was singing and said that even though they’ve been friends for so long they’ve never fallen out and then starting listing things they could fall out over eg. phils dying houseplants, how dan never goes outside, phils vision is blurry and dans a furry. 

- for the most inaccurate prediction of interactive introverts someone submitted "2 hours of dan and phil twerking to the teletubbies theme tune" and then dan proceeded to twerk whilst singing it and saying the teletubbies names.. 

- d: "its basically two oscars tied together" p: "oh and they’re naked, look at those butts" d: "wow statues of two naked men tied together may not be the best thing to have when its meant to represent us"

there were some really soft things they said at the start and the end, and how we were there bc were happy(?) (i dont remember the exact context or quote but it was something like that, all i mind is that it was v sweet) and idk i just love them omg it was the best night!! 

#ii spoilers #interactive introverts #ii belfast #dan #phil #phan #dan and phil

[rebustein94-blog]

Clean Shoes

Yeah, I know. But I let it happen because the funny thing is I was just thinking about how dirty my shoes were. For a couple days, actually, I had been looking down at the bastards and thinking, “You bastards. Look at you. All grimed-up.”

And obviously they didn’t have anything to say for themselves. 

The bastards. 

I had very mixed feelings about my dirty shoes. For one thing, there was a thick line of white sludge along their tops and sides, from Manassas, where I had been trudging through snow all the time. There were big splotches of bright brown mud from Toccoa. Dust from Gainesville. Filthy white gum from Atlanta. More dust from New Orleans.

The mess of the journey, all mapped out. 

And that’s what I liked about it. That stark white line and the mud and all told a story that only I could interpret. But at least anybody else could look at it and go, “You been places.”

I been places.

But I had really been feeling low the last day or two. My shoelaces snapped as I was putting on the dirty bastards and that felt like an ill omen of many kinds. My phone, in the middle of a text, went, “Actually, myeh,” and died suddenly. I had to buy a new one, the thing was so screwed. I had booked a swamp tour and they never listed me on their pickup sheet so I had to reschedule to a later one. The kid I “tutor” got his report card this week, so I texted his mother to ask how he did. His grades went down in both reading and writing, which nobody saw coming. He had been doing so well! It all added up. 

Things really hit a head when I was walking down the street, talking on my phone. Just gabbing. Not a care. Suddenly, a soft “Excuse me” wandered up the street. I whirled around to see what it was and what it was was a woman on a bicycle. Coming right at me. I didn’t have time to react before she hurtled around me and almost into a pole. She paused, stared at the sky. 

“Fuck!” she cried. I figured it couldn’t have been serious because she was smoking a cigarette and the cigarette stayed in her mouth. But I said sorry anyway and she pedaled off. A guy pedaled after her, also smoking. 

A ways down the street, I stopped dead. The woman was sitting on the pavement. Her leg was stretched out before her. Her head back in pain. The guy had one hand on her knee, the other just hovering in the air by his head.

“Oops,” I thought, and “Shit” and turned down a side street. I planned to avoid them altogether, lest they shout, “YOU!” and come at me. I walked for what felt like a long time down this side street. Feeling like I had gone far enough, I turned back-- and almost ran right into them. Luckily they didn’t see me, so I spun about and went further up the other street. I never saw them again, but felt bad about it all day.

What I felt bad about specifically was the whirling motion I had done. Because some crazy secret part of me, which was actually all of me, strongly believed that in doing so, I had whipped my negative energy at her. I was a dark vortex. In my swirling, I had hurled a black wind her way and it hurt her leg just as much as I had been hurt. Just as much as I had been feeling hollowed-out by all the little and medium things happening to me.

So I used that as I made my vow to feel better about things.

And now we’re getting to the part where the shoes get clean.

***

It was night and I hadn’t eaten. I wandered for a long time down a lot of streets. I was hungry, looking for food. What I found was music popping out of the very ground. Bands on every corner, in every joint. But none of them were jazz and I considered them all a waste of time. Because I had heard so much about Orleans and Jazz and why listen if it wasn’t The Thing? 

But then. 

A small, linoleum and old wood place on the corner. Four men on stage. All in suits. All narrow-eyed and crooked. Finally. A band playing The Jazz. Everyone in there, at all the little tables, was over fifty. The young were in other places, other bars, behind windows, listening wrong. Gazing outwards at things on the street that just weren’t It. But here we had a catfish-looking guy in a newsboy cap on the drums. He pointed with his sticks at the others, and they careened into their own movements. They all wore suits. The trumpet-player did his thing. The pianist: a skinny guy named Big Al. The tuba: a big guy named Lil Ernie.

I leaned in the doorway and Listened for a very long time. They played up and down. All over the place. All the audience in awe that it was happening. You could feel it. A different decade. A guy crept up to the stage with his trombone. The drummer pointed to him and he took off, joining them. 

I couldn’t believe it.

A table opened up. I could have pounced on it but I didn’t. Too nervous. Too shy. I just kept leaning in the doorway. Kept watching the table as it remained empty. Waiting. Just on the other side of the doorjamb. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go in. I was just too damn nervous.

And then I realized.

“This is everything,” I thought. “I lean in the doorway. Always the door, eyeing the table. Halfway through. And I’m in New Orleans to go through.”

But I never did.

The set ended and the band dispersed. 

I peeled myself off the wall and ambled away. I wondered what I had done and what I would do now and if it mattered at all because I hadn’t gone in.

I hadn’t gone in when I was in New Orleans to become the guy who goes through the door.

So now the shoes.

***

“Sir, sir!” A man swung himself into my path. “How you doin’ sir? Those are some nice shoes, sir.”

“Thanks!” 

“I bet I can guess the exact place--the state and town--you got them shoes.”

“Alright.”

I smelled the scam a mile away. But I needed to see where it went. Because I hadn’t gone through. It just mattered a lot, is all.

“Okay?” the guy said. He raised his fist. “A gentleman’s bump.”

We bumped fists. A fat man slowly eating pizza appeared on the edge of this scene. He watched.

“Okay, okay,” said my guy. He had gold teeth and eyes that didn’t sync up and always aimed over my shoulder. “Alright, I will guess the exact place you got those shoes. You ain’t from around here.”

“No.”

I knew I was doomed.

“Okay, okay. Now. You know where you got those shoes? Don’t tell me. Keep it to yoself. But if I guess right, you tell me?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, alright. Sir. I can tell you. You got those shoes on yo feet!” He clapped his hands. “You got them on yo mothafuckin’ feet in the city of New Orleans in Louisiana. And now you get them shined.”

He produced a bottle from thin air and spurted goop onto my shoes. He swatted at them with a rag. I just watched and smiled stupidly, saying, “Oh!”

“You got these shoes on yo feet, sir!” He laughed as he worked. Cleaned them right up. All the dirt, all the sludge. Gone. 

Suddenly, the fat man was at my side. He spoke at a snail’s pace. “He played you, son.”

I gazed at him with this dumb wonder stuck on my mug. “Yeah, but wasn’t it great?”

The shine guy stood. “That’ll be twenty for the shine, sir.”

“And I was the judge,” said the pizza man. “So twenty for the bet. He got you.”

The shoe guy laughed again. He leaned into me, right up against my face. “Welcome to New Orleans, man.”

I looked down. My shoes looked almost new. 

Feeling awestruck and wonderful and stupid and hungry and lobotomized and asleep and happy and upset, I paid the guy twenty bucks. He swiped the bill from my hand and vanished.

The pizza man remained. “Twenty for the bet.”

“I’ve only got these two ones.”

He took the last of my cash, rolled his eyes, and sauntered off.

I bought myself a drink with my debit card and meandered back to the hotel.

New Orleans had cleaned me the fuck out. My wallet, my phone, my soul. My shoes. My whole journey and selfhood up to that point had been spat out of existence. Sucked out of me with a grin, a wave of the hat and the blare of a trumpet. 

I had been feeling low but I hadn’t gotten It yet. I hadn’t really hit refresh, because of all the things I was lugging around with me. Spinning this way and that. Vortexing, you know. Tugging myself down. And sticking myself on doorjambs. Instead of through them. 

Listen. I know it was dumb. But I paid the twenty dollars because it’s one thing to look down at your shoes and go, “You’re dirty but you’re familiar and I love you.” It’s another thing to just have some clean fucking shoes. 

(New Orleans, LA)

#shoes #clean #new orleans #pizza #jazz #thisisntforyoucarl