#like not only do the Wilson’s struggle with opening up and vocalizing their struggles directly but children often don’t know how to either | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-wintershade · 4 years

Text

— just like oil on my hands

pairing: sam wilson x f!reader x bucky barnes summary: you and sam having a myriad of bonding moments and the thought of falling for him becomes nearly unbearable, but, just when things get serious, there’s always something in the way. wc: 6.5k+ genre: flirting, good banter, heat, awkwardness and tension

Blue Shade: series — masterlist | 04

Sam makes sure to bring you to everything now. It’s as him disclosing his place of complete secrecy has opened up another side of him that you’ve never seen before. Dancing is more exciting, you laugh consistently when you’re together, and you meet up when class isn’t in session.

It’s as if the almost kiss was erased wholly from your memory.

You find out about his obsession with Marvin Gaye and the Trouble Man soundtrack. He’s got the whole album and listens to it almost everyday, but it took you a little bit to pry that slightly embarrassing detail from him.

“Oh, you must really like him.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty good.” He laughs into his coffee as you sit at the table you’ve officially decided to co-parent.

“To have over 300 listens to the same songs is pretty impressive considering that you only recently bought the whole album.” You wiggle your eyebrows and he tries his best to keep a straight face, sputtering into his drink. You grin at his momentary lapse in restraint.

“Well, like I said, Marvin Gaye is the best.” He watches you with a mirthful gaze and you squint your eyes at him, knowing there’s a part he’s not telling you.

“Well, Rachel knows that that’s only partially true.” You lean your head down and pretend that she’s agreeing with you, nodding your head enthusiastically. “That’s exactly right Rachel, he’s hiding something from us. He doesn’t love you like I do, Rachel.”

“Rachel, don’t listen to that. You know that I’ve been coming here consistently these past few weeks and we’ve been listening to the soundtrack together.” He folds his arms and leans back as if he’s won this battle. Ha.

“Everytime, huh?” You nonchalantly take a sip.

“Yep.” He purses his lips in triumph.

“Sounds like this is an everyday occurrence.”

“‘Cause it is.” He retorts and you point directly at him. He sputters through his drink, realizing he’s been caught, trying to scramble for a response.

“Ah—the truth finally comes out. He is legally insane.” You spread your arms in victory, sweet sweet victory. “He’s completely addicted to the soundtrack and cannot go a day without listening to it. Your honor, this case is officially closed; you have all of the evidence you need to convict this man.”

“You can’t prove that.” He chuckles, snatching his phone back to put it safely back in his pocket.

“If you were in love with Marvin Gaye, Sam, all you had to do was say the word.” You take a sip while grinning and he fakes annoyance and rolls his eyes before breaking down in laughter. You follow closely behind him.

…

He also takes you rollerskating. He tries to talk you through it and reassures you that it’s pretty easy. He just wasn’t aware that you used to hit the rink every Friday as a kid and although it’s been a while since you’ve gotten back on the rink, you used to be a pro.

This was going to be easy, but it wouldn’t be that hard to play a little prank on him.

He’d helped you lace your skates up tight enough that your ankles wouldn’t roll and you let him, pretending to be all dainty and unaware of the roller skating experience. You did enjoy taking his hands again as he hoisted you to your feet and held most of your weight, making sure you kept your balance.

He was extremely careful, walking you through the steps as you wobbled and shook heavily on phoney weak and unpracticed legs. His hands were strong and steady, a calming pulse about as soothing as his warm voice guiding you how to weave one foot in and out to create some speed.

“There you go, you got it.” His encouraging voice made you smile, a genuine display of teeth. Of course, it wasn’t because you were making small, fake steps of progress, but because he was willing to be patient with you as you moved through the steps. It made your heart soften and a warmth of pure adoration erupt in your core.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this.” Your legs shook violently and you pretended to stumble. He caught you, his hands gripping your forearms determinedly, not allowing you to even think of falling, drawing you into his strong chest.

He breathed a little slower, looking down at you with concern and laughter. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” You breathed shakily, laying your performance thick. “Let me try again.”

You stood up straight again and gently tugged against his hands. “I want to see if I can do it without you.”

“Okay, just be careful.” He didn’t look convinced that you could do it, but he slowly let go of you, keeping his hands out just in case you needed the security of them again. He made sure to stay close and you allowed yourself a small smirk at his protectiveness and concern.

You winked at him and spun around, taking off around the circle of the rink, sure that your legs and previous experience would be more than capable of supporting your own weight. You even ignored the stopper on the front and slowed your speed by dragging the side of your wheel.

His mouth hung open as you drifted right next to him, turning around to skate backwards. Then he let out a huff in disbelief. “You lied to me.”

“I thought it’d be a great opportunity to find out how good of a teacher you were.” You shrugged in false innocence and made sure to stay slightly out of his reach, even when he started to drift closer.

“And after I laced up your shoes, after I took all this time to walk you through all of the steps.”

“It was a nice added benefit.” You laughed.

“Oh, okay. I see how you wanna play this.” His eyes turned to something darker, losing the bright light they held and morphing into a deeper expression of humor and resolve.

You wasted no time in turning around and taking off, squealing as he rode fast on your heels. Giggles escaped you as his fingertips brushed against your clothing now and again. He eventually gained enough speed to pull you right next to him, forcing you to slow down and face him.

The vestiges of your laughter died down while you looked at him. He wasn’t mad at all. His chest heaved up and down, his teeth spread into a huge grin. “You’re not getting off that easily.”

The ensuing roller skating dance battle was epic.

…

“Keep up, Coffee girl. I saw the way you moved on those skates!” He called over his shoulder as he lapped you, the tall tower near the Lincoln Memorial loomed in the distance as you tried to catch up to him near the reflecting pool.

You huffed, your lungs squeezing with flame, and you struggled to take in air, your mouth crumbly and dry. You’d sweated through your exercise shirt and were about three seconds from passing out.

You should have expected this. Sam was in the military after all and it made sense that the regimen never really goes away that easily, but you hadn’t expected to get ran into the next century. Sure, you could move your way around roller skates, but the wheels did a lot more for you than you actually did for the skates. The running shoes you wore right now weren’t going to assist in keeping your pace. This was all manual labor.

And you hadn’t tried to run in years. Middle school P.E. was likely the last time you ever tried to pace yourself through a measly mile.

You saw him make his way around the halfway point and came to a stop, placing your hands tightly on your knees and taking in as much air as you possibly could in the moment. You closed your eyes, feeling the sweat creating small rivets down your neck and back, clinging to your hair and your clothes. You felt dirty, in deep need of a hot shower and three healthy gallons of water.

“On your left.” Sam huffed past you, but you kept your eyes closed and took in more air until you could feel like you would be able to form a response.

When you opened them, Sam was watching you with that mixture of mirth and worry. “You alright there?”

“Yeah,” You could barely speak the words, the syllables filled with air instead of the ringing of your vocal chords. “I’m okay. Just need a minute.” You closed your eyes again and took deep breaths until you could get your breathing under control.

You heard Sam tread over to you and crouch down in front of you. “Hey.” Your eyes peeled open slowly, and he was right there with a soft smile on his face. “Let’s take it slow.”

You nodded and stood up straight, ignoring the stabs of pain shooting through your side. Sam took his place beside you and started on what was undoubtedly a slow jog for him, but was a manageable pace for you. You ignored the pain, fighting to stay moving.

Sam didn’t treat you with pity or that you would crumble. He stayed right next to you, bringing up topics that you could bicker over or discuss to a deep enough degree to keep your mind off your jog. He was kind and supportive. He took breaks with you when you needed to stop and would slow your pace if you were beginning to struggle again.

He showed you time and time again that he was everything Bucky was not. He was giving you so many reasons why he was better. Why you should choose him.

And everytime, you thought you didn’t deserve him. He doesn’t deserve someone caught up in a relationship with someone else. The longer you dwelled on these thoughts, the sadder you became. A hole opened up, eating through your thoughts of him.

Because you wanted to be that supporting shoulder that he was for you, but you weren’t sure that would ever happen. By the time you got out, it might be too late for Sam. Besides, you had to prove that you weren’t boring, that you could be exciting too. That you could keep a man interested.

Sam picked up on your change in mood and slowed your pace even more. “What’s going on? Thinking about him, again?”

“No.” You shook your head and gave a sad smile. “Something else that’s more important.”

He nodded and smiled. “Well get your head out of the clouds, Coffee Girl. We got three more laps to do.”

You huffed in frustration and gave a sad attempt at a laugh. “People must really call you Falcon for good reason. You just fly around those corners don’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

...

Another day, another dance class. Sam spins you around as usual and dips you down, supporting you as you grab onto his arms. He whips you up and around with a flourish before pulling you back in, the both of you back to swaying to the beat. You let off a giggle as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You’ve all been learning choreography for the main dance that will take place pretty soon after the first dances. It’s been fun so far and everyone is picking everything up fast. It’s nice to feel like you’re part of something important.

It will all suck when he finally gets a replacement and he’ll get to dance with some other, more impressive girl. You just try to enjoy it all while you’re still here with him and he’s still willing to entertain your mess of a social life.

You and Natasha spin around each other, changing partners. Clint keeps you at a respectable distance while making sure you get your timing and steps right. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” He grins as he spins you.

“Not at all.” You huff, twirling back to him as you glide around the dance floor. “I trust you and Natasha are having a good time?”

“As always.” He smirks and you dance in a good silence before it’s time to change partners again. “Have fun.” He wishes you with a subcurrent of intentional enthusiasm. You just laugh as he passes you back, Natasha’s red hair becoming a blur. You catch her eyes mid-turn and she winks at you. You grin back.

Sam catches you easily and pulls you back in, making sure you're comfortable before moving. You didn’t notice how close you normally stand while dancing, but the apparent gap between you and Clint made it that more clear. You’re nearly touching his chest and your toes are just a breath apart.

But it wasn’t unusual to you before. It’s comfortable, easy. You don’t bother to change it now, because you like it this way.

You shouldn’t.

But you do.

The instructor moves closer to you. “Great form. You make excellent partners.” She claps in excitement and you both grin abashedly at the direct attention. “I’ll bet you’ll be the next ones to get married.”

Your blood runs cold and your eyes widen involuntarily. The statement carries more weight than she probably intended, but the fact that you’re technically still bound to Bucky brings the world back into focus. Until you can get the current boyfriend situation figured out, there couldn’t be a you and Sam. Not permanently.

No matter what your heart wanted.

No matter how much that statement, as much as it took you off guard, excited you.

Sam sobered as much as you did and stopped moving entirely. He looked to you to gauge your reaction and when he saw your face open in shock, his own frowned, his light dying slightly. Then he steeled himself. “Depends on who catches the bouquet.”

She laughed and gestured for you to continue. You took a deep breath and looked up to him. You both didn’t say anything to each other, but you shared a look of deep understanding of how serious a statement like that was.

…

You step out at a beautiful building with glass doors and racks on racks of differing pants and shirts, ties and cuffs. It’s even more impressive inside. Sam waits for you in a chair outside of the dressing room.

“Hey.” You breathe watching him get to his feet and walk over to you.

“Thanks for coming.” He nods and glances over your outfit. It’s a casual glance, but it sparks a hum of electricity down your spine.

“Yeah, well, the bridesmaid’s were having a fitting and I’m not technically invited so it’s probably a good thing I’m here.” You shrugged, flipping your hair over your shoulder and he laughed richly, rolling his eyes at your show.

Sam shows you to your seat just inside the dressing room, leading you to a place with a good deal of mirrors and a pedestal for the model to stand on. You take a seat on the plush chair and scroll through some ambient notifications, catching up on social media, and sending a few text messages.

Sam asked you a few days ago if you’d come be “quality control” over his choice for a suit. The only stipulation that Steve put on his groomsmen is that the suit needs to be white. It seemed oddly out of character for a man that appeared traditional and old fashioned, but you welcomed the change. You’d heard the bridesmaid dresses were going to be red instead of the pale pink that was usually encouraged. But then again, Peggy did rock a red lip better than anyone else you knew; you had no doubt that her lip color of choice influenced her decision.

Why Sam really needed your help, eluded you. He was a perfectly capable man that was more than equipped to make his own choices and could definitely shop for himself, but you weren’t complaining. He was getting you out of a ridiculous dinner date with Bucky and whatever other work friend he was so hellbent on impressing. Not being there gave you all the energy you needed to focus.

When Sam steps out, your breath catches in your throat. He waves his arms out, letting you see the white suit in action as he spins around. He adjusts his red tie in the mirror before looking back at you. “What do you think?”

You can’t form words. Your brain is having a hard time catching up to what’s going through your mind. How handsome he looks, how the suit is fitted perfectly, how he looks outstanding and beautiful. It’s like you’re back at the boardwalk again.

The white stands out starkly against his chocolate skin and makes it even more heavenly. It’s like white was his color. The only one he should wear for the rest of his life.

“It looks fantastic on you…” Your mouth still hangs open as you speak and it takes effort to control your eyes, keeping them at a normal wideness. You know your tone is dreamy and slightly slurred, but you can’t help it. “You-You look amazing.”

Sam just stares.

“You like?” The tailor flutters around him, adjusting his suit jacket and his pants. It wouldn’t matter if the suit was ill-fitted. He’d still look fantastic and your breath would still have suddenly disappeared from your body.

You nodded absentmindedly, drifting closer to get a good inspection of him. Your fingers reached for his tie, fiddling with it in your grasp and feeling the soft, silken texture. He froze completely now, just watching you adjust his slightly crooked tie. You straightened it.

“Well, good thing quality control was here to fix it for you.” You breathed out, softly chuckling at the end. It helped cover up some of your nerves. Your fingers shook as you kept your hands closed.

His smile was delayed by a good few seconds, but it was followed by a timid laugh, shallow and not a deep as you were used to. He must have felt the same jittery anxiety that you were.

You knew the reasons that you felt this way, but his were even more muddy and less clear.

“You know how these things work, Coffee Girl?” His voice was low, but took on a light and joking tone as he gestured to the tie.

You shook your head with a smirk. “Yes, bell bottoms, I know how to tie a tie properly.”

His following laugh was covered in nerves. He then lowered his eyes so that they were almost leveled with yours, all dark and warming. A fire ignited someone near your core at his gaze. “You don’t have to worry about my tie so much.”

You cleared your throat and turned him around, letting him get a good observation of himself in the mirror. You let your hands linger on his shoulders for a second longer than necessary, feeling the strength of his arms underneath his suit.

The tailor hums in approval. “Yes. Very good. Doesn’t he look good to you?”

The question was a bit more direct than you were prepared for and you sputtered for a second, Sam’s eyes catching yours in the mirror and sending another wave of fresh nervousness pulsing through your system. “Uh, yeah. I guess.” You want to slam your head into the nearest wall. What was that response?

You scratch the back of your head and step out of the way of his continuing adjustments. “No need for bashfulness. I can see the way you look at him.” He flashes a dazzling smile your way as you pointedly duck Sam’s inquiring eyes.

There’s not a response in the world that would be able to fix the conversation or steer it onto a path that would allow you to be honest while ignoring the feelings inside of your chest. You’re really in it now.

You just settle for an, “oh”, as you turn and resume your place on the chair, far out of the reach of touching Sam and away from the tailor’s focused stare.

It’s not the answer that the tailor was expecting and he must have picked up on the growing tension and awkwardness in the room. He weaves around the lapse in conversation like it’s nothing, quickly asking another slightly personal question that’s only that much harder to answer with certainty.

“You two are going to the wedding together, right?” Sam catches your eyes in the mirror and the pressure of a response once again falls on you. You have no idea how to answer this question correctly. It doesn’t seem like Sam has anyone else in mind, but your spot hasn’t been solidified for sure.

Plus, Sam’s looking like he wants you to say yes. Like he knows that there’s no one else, but he wants you to agree, to confirm that you’d be willing to go with him.

You try somewhere in the middle, hoping to not to give anything away.

“We’re dance partners right now, at least until his date can step in.” Sam’s face falls half an inch and he looks away. The tailor doesn’t notice, nor does he catch how instantly you deflate.

He just hums and pauses, watching Sam for a reaction.

Sam shrugs, turning his focus all on the business of tailoring his suit. “More or less.” He concedes.

“The woman that comes to see the tuxedo is always the one that goes to the wedding.” The tailor winks and returns to adding pins where the suit needs material eliminated. Your face still feels heavy and you feel guilty, like you gave a wrong answer on a test.

You stand then, determined to find something else to do to take your mind off of overanalyzing the situation at hand. “I’ll be over here.” You point at the racks near the back of the store full of dress shirts.

You meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror and see all traces of hurt or disappointment are gone. He just smirks at you and nods. You return it the best you can, going over to see what shirts would look good on Bucky, but your heart isn’t in it. It probably wasn’t in it for some time now.

But if you could just prove to Buckty that you could be interesting, then maybe you’d finally be interesting enough for someone else. Maybe you would be good enough for Sam.

You shook your head sadly to yourself.

You could live millions of lifetimes and still never deserve him. He needed someone that wasn’t caught up with someone else or preoccupied with improving herself. He needed someone that knew who she was. You weren’t there yet.

…

“Thank you.” He brushes against your shoulder as he says it. It could be written off as accidental, you do have to be close together on the sidewalk to avoid getting pushed over, but it’s a bit too firm for that to really be the case. His tone is low and courteous. “I’m sorry the tailor was so curious. He likes to keep the conversation going so that it doesn’t become awkward. He has a habit of asking personal questions.”

You smile to yourself and try to ignore how easy it would be to reach out and take his hand. These thoughts are fickle and dangerous. It’s becoming harder and harder not to do the thing you shouldn’t be doing. “It’s not a big deal, Sam, really.”

He cocks his head to the side at your use of Sam. He doesn’t comment on it though and you walk side by side through the streets. At times, he gets a little ahead of you to warn off some of the people that are beginning to get too close for his liking. It’s like he’s creating a path for you.

Then his walk changes; it carries an agitation that it didn’t before. Something’s weighing on his mind. “What’s wrong?” You ask nonchalantly, but know that he’ll recognize you picked up on his subtle changes in body language.

He looks down as you come to a pause at a red light. He searches around the street before he looks at you, taking a deep breath. Your anxiety raises at his hesitation. “I have a preposition for you, Coffee Girl.”

He looks straight at you now and that responding jolt spreads through you again, like it always does now. You try to ignore it as you look right back at him. “Shoot.” You step near him and narrow your eyes, like he’s a criminal spilling his master plan.

He laughs and you breathe a bit better. It’s not too bad if he’s willing to crack a smile at your approach. “What if...I never got a date to replace you? What if you went with me?”

His eyes look so pure and pleading now, it’s hard to look away. But you take a few steps back because you shouldn’t be so excited at the notion of going with him at all. This electricity is wrong, but it’s still happening, regardless of what’s going on in your life right now.

Sam sees the war happening all on your face and tries to backpedal. “Sorry if that was abrupt. If you’re uncomfortable, I can find someone else...”

“No, I want to go.” You fire back the response fast and his shoulders stop climbing, like a weight has been lifted off of them. “I just think I should talk to Bucky first.” And you should, he doesn’t know that he didn’t get another partner and Bucky is your significant other. If you’re going to a wedding with another man, it would be right to let him know about it.

“Okay, so,” He leans in a bit further than necessary, but you let him. You like being in his space. You like being close to him. “If that conversation goes well, you’ll come with me?” His eyes twinkle with hope and you blush at how open it all is. He’s letting you see that, whether he wanted you to or not.

You pretend to think about it, raising your hand dramatically to your chin and stroking it with finesse and refinement. You tilt your nose to sky to emphasize the deepness and complexity of thought that should be going through your mind right now. The pro and cons, the good parts and bad parts of the conversation that you’re going to have to have with Bucky, but it’s all absent. You already know your answer. You knew when he asked.

“Yes, bell bottoms, I’ll go with you.”

…

A day later, you’re knocking on Sam’s door, standing outside pacing to yourself after getting a cryptic text message about getting some extra practice before the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. You don’t really know what’s going through his head, your moves are fine and you’ve both got the steps down to a science, extra practice shouldn’t really be a problem.

But you knew what jitters felt like and you could understand wanting to do it one more time to calm your nerves. Your heart rate flew and a tingling sensation lingered in your fingers and your stomach.

Sam swings the door open, a pleasant smile on his face and a glimmer wafting behind his chocolate eyes.“Come on in.”

His living room is illuminated by soft candle light and the golden glow from a floor lamp. Another Marvin Gaye song echoes gently around the space, its place of origin a boombox on his countertop. You wonder if this is a passtime or if this was something more special. You hope it’s more special.

“Woah, you didn’t tell me you were an interior decorator, bell bottoms.” You’re so in awe of your surroundings, you missed that he’s standing right next to you.

“Are you ever going to let the teasing over the Trouble Man album go?” You smirk at him as you turn, eyes squinted and goading.

“Where do you think the bell bottoms nick-name came from?” You bump his shoulder with yours, but he doesn’t move away or create space when you do; he makes sure to stay just close enough to keep your arms in contact.

“Uh huh.” He hums deep from the core. It sends a buzz through you and you fight down a blush. Then he moves, spreading his arms and taking a few steps back. “Shall we or is this too old-fashioned for your liking?”

You roll your eyes and place your hand firmly in his, putting your trust in him once again, knowing that he won’t let you down. He draws you in, your breath thinning out at the proximity. It’s becoming more tolerable now and doesn’t throw you off as much as it used to, losing your breathing rhythm around him. It calms you down, helps you focus.

He’s eyes are dark and alluring as he watches you, adjusting his positioning until he’s satisfied that you’re comfortable. “Are we going to be letting Mr. Gaye sing us through this one?” You inquire in faux innocence and watch as his face twists into a humorous disdain.

“You, Ms. (last name), need exposure to real music.” He takes a step which you take with him, already knowing where he’s going from here as you begin the spins at a slightly faster pace than you’re used to in order to keep up with the beat.

“Real music, huh?” He spins you outward before drawing you back close in again, another jolt shooting through your blood.

“Yes.” He says it with a seriousness that silences you, but then he’s all smiles and smirks again and you wonder what you were expecting from a man with the nickname of Falcon. “Now just listen.”

“I’ll try.” You sway together, waiting for your cue before the next performance of turns and spins occur. You like this. You like his warm hands and eyes and glowing personality. How you can relax around him and not feel like you have to watch everything you say. How you fit together, like two halves of a charm that only fit around each other.

You close your eyes and listen, catching a few lines before you’re twirling away from him in a mix of gold and brown.

Yeah, darling you're not wasting my time What I see baby is so hard to find

…

A lightheadedness from all the dancing put a pause on your swaying session and giggle marathon. There were numerous times that you had to completely redo moves from laughing so hard. You almost fell over each other at times.

A funny spasm moved through your chest as you leaned your neck against the back of his sofa, trying to cool off while Sam brought water over. He placed the glass in your hand, a stark contrast from the warmth that he always pulsed into your skin.

You thanked him before drinking a bit, nodding along to another soft Marvin Gaye song in the background. You felt him watching you as he sat next to you, downing half of his glass. “Never met someone who likes Marvin Gaye so much for a person who claims they don’t like old music.” He smirked knowing over at you.

You shooed him with your hand. “I never said I didn’t like old music; I just mention and frequently tease you about your addiction to the music from the 70s. That’s got nothing to do with the quality of the music.”

Sam grins widely as he goes to get another sip of water before setting the glass down and smiling. You cup your drink in your hand, letting the coolness of the glass keep your body temperature lowered.

He leans back, sighing with happiness and you can’t help the small smile of happiness that spreads across your cheeks at his contentment. He’s infectious. “You know, I haven’t had this much fun in a while, thank you for coming.”

You let your head roll back as you look over to him. “Me neither. Thanks for being such a gracious host.”

His grins at your goofy head angle and weirdly moving eyebrows. Then he looks down and sobers up, his face losing some of the glow it already had. You sit up. Something’s coming, you can feel it.

You set your glass down and lean forward. “Did you ask him yet?” He doesn’t look at you, even when you stare at him for a minute before responding. You wish he would. You just need him to look so you can know what he’s feeling.

You hate putting him here. You hate that Bucky’s such a problem between you two.

You sigh and run your fingers through your hair, angling your body away from him. You don’t want him to feel like you’re pressuring him to accept the response you’re going to give him. “No. He’s out of town right now. He has been for a day or two.”

Sam narrows his eyes and fixes you with a hard stare, his tone ice compared to his smooth and gentle character. “He’s gone a lot for someone who loves to watch your every move.”

“Oh, he’s cheating. But then again it was never really official to begin with.” Sam’s eyes bug out of his head, but you know better than to take that at face value. He already knew. He’s just trying to act shocked for your sake.

“He what?” His voice sounds dumbstruck, but it’s still not enough to fool you.

“You don’t have to pretend to be surprised. I know you know.” You reached down to take another sip of your drink and let the liquid cool you down, slow down your brain so you could give clear answers that weren’t riddled with anger.

Sam sits for a moment watching you. He sighs, looks away, and then turns towards you. His jaw works and no words come out so you fill the silence.

“I’m just waiting. I think this will go away at some point. I’m just trying to be more interesting and exciting. I think that’s why I lost him the last time.” You fiddle with your pants to keep from facing Sam’s pointed stare.

“So dancing with me is just to be more interesting?” He sounds hurt and starts to turn away, but you catch him.

“No.” You make sure that’s firm and look directly at him as you say the word. He freezes in place and has to look away. “I’m dancing with you because that was genuinely something I was interested in doing. That had nothing with trying to make him jealous or trying to get him back, that was completely my own choosing.”

He had to understand, this whole thing had nothing to do with Bucky. It had everything to do with your choice and what you wanted to do. It wasn’t something you felt like you had to do to win Bucky back. You wanted this.

Sam doesn’t seem completely convinced. You scoot closer and place a delicate hand on his shoulder, squeezing it to get him to look at you. His eyes cut, but you’re determined to make him understand. To make him believe you. “Do you think I would still be here if I didn’t choose this. If this was my strategy, obviously it’s doing nothing to get him back and it would be in my best interest to leave, right? Why am I still going to classes and hanging with you if I didn’t want to be here?”

He nods and you breathe out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding. You start to let your hand fall from his shoulder, but he catches it, pulling it closer to his chest and drawing your eyes to his sad and pleading gaze. “You deserve better.” He utters it softly and an emotional wall breaks at his words.

You feel tears start to form near your eyes. It’s been so long since you’ve heard someone tell you that you’re worth more than what you’re in. You have to look away, too caught in his eyes and the way that walls are starting to come down.

You take a breath and when you’re sure that there are no traces of sadness or pain, you gently draw your hand and it hurts. You don’t want to pull back, but you have to do the right thing. You have to do what’s right, even when it’s the most painful thing you could do.

“I think I should go,” You stand and Sam jumps up inhumanly fast before you, slightly blocking a straight shot to the door. You don’t feel trapped, more like he doesn’t want you to leave. “I don’t want you to feel any worse about the situation.”

“Wait.” He says in a soft whisper. He takes your hand again, slowly, curling your fingers together delicately. “Just one more dance.”

Sam doesn’t let your hand go as he clicks to another song, a sweet and simple guitar and vocal combination filling the room. He rests his hand on your hip, his warmth bleeding through the fabric of your shirt, tucks you close to him, and sets you to a sway.

You don’t perform any of the moves you’ve learned in class, no waltzes or spins, just you and him and a beat.

Eventually, from enough courage and fatigue catching up with you, you lean your head against his chest, wrapping your free arm around his torso and listening to his fast but steady heartbeat. You feel his head dip down to lean where your head lays, a hand splaying on your back to curl you into him. The tears almost well up again, but you just close your eyes and feel him, concentrating on his closeness and the caring way he responds to you.

Just like a song in my heart

A hand on your cheek pulls you back and your gaze flashes up to his, a deep fire simmering in your chest reflected in his eyes. You can feel the kiss coming this time and you know you’re not strong enough to resist it. You close your eyes and tense, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

But they never do.

Instead, a soft kiss presses against your temple and lingers.

When you open your eyes, your heart almost breaks from his open eyes and the adoration and sorrow in them. You hope he can see how sorry you are. Maybe in another place in a different time. It’s the only thing you can trust to do, silent communication. Anything else, and you’ll completely crumble.

Sam presses an invitation into your hand. Come, his eyes say and you smile and tuck it into your pocket for safekeeping.

The song ends bittersweetly and Sam walks you to the door, still holding your hand tightly in his. You stand on your tippy toes, the kiss still warm and pulsing from your forehead. He begins to lean down, knowing what’s coming and eager to make it easier for you. Just when you’re about to give him another kiss on the cheek, you get a text.

Bucky: It’s done. I broke up with her. You’re the one for me

Just like oil on my hands.

#wintershade #sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #blue shade #sam wilson fanfic #sam wilson fanfiction #ms:blue shade #sam:blue shade #this is probably my favorite part #besides the next one #we love some good fluff and pure hearted interactions

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lantern-inthenight · 5 years

Text

Playing the Vocals (series)

Chapter Three: Power and Control

Pairing: Josh x fem!Reader Word Count: 1430 Warnings: Language, pettiness A/N: Alright y’all, it’s here already!! I’m on a roll with this one, so hopefully I’ll have Chapter 4 up soon (cause that’s where things get turned up to 11 hehe) Also, get ready to stan Miss motherfucking Michaels. Eternal thanks to @sparrowof-thedawn for proofreading this for me <3

Summary: Josh and Reader are competing vocalists at a music college. They are each trying to win a competition as soloists, but their advisor tells them they can only win as a duo. They begrudgingly become partners, but find that they may have bitten off more than they can chew.

You actually looked forward to practice that Friday. Your short conversation with Josh had given you hope that you might actually be able to get along. You almost felt a kinship with him, even if that kinship was founded only on your shared tastes in music. But still, talking to him had been kind of pleasant.

It was nice while it lasted.

“See, this-- this right here is why I can’t stand you!”

Your shout echoed through the music room, and was bounced back to you with an equally-scathing insult from Josh.

“Well, at least I’m not a control freak!”

Miss Michaels sat at the piano looking tired. You and Josh were in the ninth or tenth round of a shouting match that started five minutes ago. You stood several feet apart, your shared copy of the day’s song (“Almost Paradise” by Mike Reno and Ann Wilson) laying abandoned by the wayside.

“Are you sure about that, asshole?” You shot back, prompting a white-hot glare from Josh. Miss Michaels stood up, exasperated.

“Alright, you two, stop it now.”

But you and Josh were oblivious to her interruption. You got right up in his face, which was slowly turning red to match your own.

“You’re the one that just had to sing louder even though the harmony is supposed to be obvious in that part of the song! But no! You just couldn’t let me have it!”

“Why the hell would I? The harmony should never be louder than the melody!”

“Well, that one is!”

Josh opened his mouth with an angry reply, but your argument was stopped dead in its tracks by a sharp, ear-splitting whistle. You both turned to find your instructor standing next to the piano with a small, metal whistle perched between her lips.

“Jesus,” Josh hissed, as you each placed hands over your ears. Michaels lowered the whistle and clasped her hands in front of her, looking unimpressed.

“When I ask you to be silent, you will listen respectfully. Is that clear?”

You and Josh glared at one another before nodding with matching frowns.

“Aren’t those made for dogs?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Miss Michaels replied matter-of-factly. “But I find they work rather well for students, too.”

You and Josh could do nothing but stand there, looking indignant.

“Quarreling like children is not going to win you this grant,” Miss Michaels chastised.. You looked at the floor guiltily, unwilling to look at Josh. The heat radiating off him spoke for itself.

“We’ve already determined your voices are more than compatible. But the two of you need to learn to complement each other and recognize each other’s strengths,” Michaels continued, walking up to you. “...instead of constantly competing. Because that will get you nowhere. Is that clear?”

You and Josh made similar disgruntled noises of admission. Miss Michaels reached for the whistle in her pocket, pulling enthusiastic “Yes ma’am”s from both of you.

“We’ll meet again Monday,” she declared, turning back to the piano. “Take this weekend to... gather yourselves,” she instructed, frowning at you both over her glasses.

“And next week, you will both receive lessons on power balance and control issues.”

With that, she was off. You stood there, mouth open. Josh folded his arms and sighed. When you looked up at him, he looked like he wanted to say something. But you didn’t give him the chance. You turned on your heel and left, fighting tears of frustration.

This was a massive mistake.

…

Upon leaving the rehearsal, you had called Emily to vent. She listened patiently as you ranted about the day’s events. When you were done yelling into the receiver at no one in particular, she gave you a half-hearted encouragement. But the best thing she could offer was to get you drunk, which you readily accepted.

So the following evening, you put on your tightest skirt, paired with a flowy blouse that you left unbuttoned a little further than it should have been. Emily and your other friends whistled at you when you got in their car, which made you blush. But you were secretly proud of yourself.

It was a glee that left you the moment you walked into the house party to see Josh laughing with a bunch of his friends in the living room.

Emily noticed you glaring, and followed your gaze to the opponent on the couch.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, dude, I didn’t know Matt invited him.”

“It’s fine,” you replied, shrugging. “Let’s just drink, okay?”

“Fine by me.” Emily grinned. She led you to the kitchen, where a makeshift bar had been set up. Every surface was covered in plastic cups, mixers, and various bottles of alcohol. You elected to mix some Fresca with the first kind of vodka you could find, handing a cup to Emily before making one for yourself.

You managed to dance for about an hour without event, effectively ignoring the presence of Josh and his brothers. But after several drinks, Emily’s wild side had come out to play. She ended up wrapped around one of Matt’s friends on the armchair, leaving you to your own devices.

...

You were sitting on the landing of the staircase, looking out over the party and mourning the emptiness of your cup. You were zoned out enough to not realize that Josh was approaching until he was right in front of you.

“Hey,” he greeted, looking a bit nervous. You felt a small sting of sympathy, which wrestled with the pang of annoyance that came at the sight of his face.

“Hi.”

“My brothers are completely wasted, whereas I am only a little wasted,” he explained. “Do you mind if I join you?”

You answered with a nod, and fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as he sat down next to you. It was a narrow staircase, and the sides of your knees brushed. You ignored it, and chose to continue people watching.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he began. You looked at him sideways, a little surprised. Was he actually trying to be nice? What happened to the asshole you were used to dealing with?

“I just figured I’d take the lead since you missed your cue,” he added, causing you to roll your eyes.

There he is.

“I wouldn’t have missed my cue if I didn’t have to be staring at your stupid face,” you snapped. Josh gave you a smirk, that goddamned smirk.

“Staring at my face a lot, mama?”

Previously, you would have been flustered at the unwanted pet name. But the vodka in your bloodstream willed you to face him directly with eyebrows raised.

“No. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Josh scoffed, shaking his head.

“Please,” you continued, feeling braver. “As if I didn’t notice you staring my ass during my solo. Is that why you forgot the lyrics in that line?”

Josh was silent, and you felt a wave of triumph. You had gotten him.

“That’s what I thought.”

You moved to stand up, but Josh spoke up.

“You watch me, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you staring at me, too,” Josh reiterated, looking at you with his chin lifted. You shrunk into yourself a little, turning red in the face.

“Well, yeah, you… have a… commanding presence,” you offered, struggling to find words that you wouldn’t regret.

“Oh, yeah?” He looked smug, and you wanted to punch him. So you stood your ground.

“Yeah.”

“Is it really so hard for you to admit you’re into me?”

The fucking nerve of him. You were speechless. When you scoffed and rolled your eyes, he spoke again.

“Fine, I’ll go first. I think you’re an incredible singer, and you’re insanely attractive.”

Wait, what?

You had to look at him, unsure if he was playing a cruel prank. But there was no lie behind the brown of his eyes. The tiniest bit of heat rose to your cheeks, and you couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or something else.

“You’re attractive, too,” you admitted. Josh almost smiled. You should have left it there, but the vodka wasn’t done with you yet. The words were out of your mouth before your brain had vetted them.

“If you weren’t such an asshole.”

Josh’s almost-smile fell into a frown. His annoyance, you could handle. What was worse...he looked hurt. And it was your fault.

“Thanks,” he replied darkly, before getting up and walking downstairs. Leaving you alone on the landing to contemplate your mistake. You couldn’t help but be a little angry at yourself.

Monday rehearsal was going to suck.

End note: AHHH What did y’all think?? Please reblog with your opinions or comment below! What do you think will happen in Chapter 4?

Taglist: @kissthesun-fightthefire, @lover--leaver, @myownparadise96, @satans-helper, @songbirdkisses, @bluewillowmom, @sweetkiszkadreams, @mountainofthesunn, @turntonightfirelight

#playing the vocals #gvf #greta van fleet #josh kiszka #writing

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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President Trump implied that his justification for separating families seeking asylum, and his restrictionist ideology for even legal immigrants, is to prevent the United States from enduring what’s happening in Europe, where, he claims falsely, immigrants are bringing with them a wave of violence that’s driving up the crime rate.

Trump has often referred to these kind of outlandish claims as just “politically incorrect.” But that isn’t really it. Trump — and key members of his administration — are embracing what used to be a fringe theory held by the furthest of the far right.

Believers argue that white people are being systematically “erased” by their inferiors, and thus require an influx of white babies and new white immigrants (and the exclusion of nonwhite immigrants) to survive.

To some among these believers, white Americans, and white culture, are threatened by a slow-running “genocide” via demographic replacement. (Indeed, Trump once retweeted someone with the handle “WhiteGenocide,” which refers to this theory.)

We don’t want what is happening with immigration in Europe to happen with us!

— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) June 18, 2018

Stephen Miller, in an interview this week:

“It was a simple decision by the administration to have a zero tolerance policy for illegal entry, period. The message is that no one is exempt from immigration law.” https://t.co/2c1crARYqg

— Jonathan Lemire (@JonLemire) June 17, 2018

This theory has adherents on the alt-right, across the conservative media, and even in Congress.

Wilders understands that culture and demographics are our destiny. We can’t restore our civilization with somebody else’s babies. https://t.co/4nxLipafWO

— Steve King (@SteveKingIA) March 12, 2017

In this worldview, it’s not “racist” to think that a Norwegian might be a better fit with American culture (as they define it) than an immigrant arriving from Lagos or Addis Ababa — it’s “racial realism.” It’s the only way to stop white people from being losers of a fight to the death between races.

These ideas are old, rooted in scientific racism and fears of miscegenation once held by Progressive Era stalwarts like President Woodrow Wilson and white supremacist hate groups alike. But now they appear to have the ear of those closest to the president — and are playing a part in the creation of policy.

This group included former White House chief strategist Steve Bannon. In fact, long before he ran Trump’s presidential campaign or took a role in the White House, Bannon believed that the movements of nonwhite immigrant groups, legal or not, posed a physical, cultural, political, and moral danger to “white” countries. As he told White House senior policy adviser Stephen Miller in a March 2016 Sirius XM show, “When you look and there’s got 61 million, 20 percent of the country, is immigrants — is that not a massive problem?” Miller agreed wholeheartedly. Now Miller and his former boss, Attorney General Jeff Sessions, are vocalizing the same views, both to the media and to the president of the United States.

AG Jeff Sessions on immigration reform: “What good does it do to bring in somebody who’s illiterate in their own country, has no skills, & is going to struggle in our country & not be successful? That is not what a good nation should do, and we need to get away from it.” pic.twitter.com/JwOBmbAG0P

— Fox News (@FoxNews) January 17, 2018

Trump’s internal racism might be that of a 71-year-old white man who marvels that, for instance, members of the Congressional Black Caucus didn’t already know Housing and Urban Development Secretary Ben Carson. But his external racism is heavily influenced by adherents of an ideology that believes whiteness is the essential character of America, with direct and very detrimental impacts on discussions regarding immigration policy.

And importantly, Trump’s language and policies are evidence of a worldview that holds that whiteness is more valuable to participation in the American experiment than anything else — even a deep and abiding belief in American ideals.

Throughout the 19th century, fears regarding miscegenation and “race mixing,” rooted in a belief that the dilution of white bloodlines — bloodlines that offered political, economic, and social authority over nonwhites — would result in societal disaster led to states across the country banning interracial marriages and enforcing strict rules regarding exactly what it meant to be white. In the 20th century, such views were espoused by Progressive Era activists, leading to restrictionist acts passed in 1917 and 1924. As Madison Grant argued in the 1915 eugenicist tome The Passing of the Great Race:

The resurgence of inferior races and classes throughout not merely Europe but the world, is evident in every despatch from Egypt, Ireland, Poland, Romania, India and Mexico. … Neither the black, nor the brown, nor the yellow, nor the red will conquer the white in battle. But if the valuable elements in the Nordic race mix with in-ferior strains or die out through race suicide, then the citadel of civilization will fall for mere lack of defenders.

More recently, the exact language of “white genocide” began to circulate among the white supremacist underground after the Second World War. In 1972, the official newspaper of the National Socialist White People’s Party published a piece titled “Over-Population Myth Is Cover for White Genocide,” arguing that the widespread availability of contraception would lead to a terrifying future in which “whites will be outnumbered four to one.”

A decade later, David Lane, a white supremacist responsible for the murder of a Jewish radio host in 1984, wrote the “White Genocide Manifesto” while in prison, arguing that “‘racial integration’ is only a euphemism for genocide.” He later shortened his three-page manifesto to 14 words: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” Three decades later, the term “white genocide” is the single most popular hashtag used by white nationalists on Twitter.

The sentiment among white nationalists has little changed since the Civil War: Whiteness is a valuable commodity, essential to the very nature of American and European life. And it is under attack — not by violence but by immigration, and by sexual intercourse between whites and nonwhites.

“White genocide” rhetoric circulated in mail-order publications and racist websites like Stormfront for much of the 1990s and 2000s, but also held sway within policy institutes and foundations that gave cover to scientific racism, also known as “racial realism” — a belief that racism is not only based in fact but has scientific and quantitative backing.

Among these groups was the Pioneer Fund — which the Washington Post found in 1985 to have “financed research into “racial betterment” by “scientists seeking to prove that blacks are genetically inferior to whites.” American Renaissance, a publication of the self-described “race-realist, white advocacy organization” New Century Foundation, held an online symposium in late 2017 called “Global Demographics and White Survival: What Is to Be Done?”

One writer included in the conference, F. Roger Devlin, compared African birthrates to that of the deer population in Arizona, arguing, “We cannot ‘cull’ Africans as if they were deer, but we can eliminate the misguided humanitarian aid that is doing so much harm.” He concluded his essay with the following:

Obviously, we must be prepared to do what is necessary to defend our own living space, up to and including shooting intruders. Whites are so used to seeing Africans as objects of humanitarian concern that many are unable to grasp that they may also be dangerous rivals. But in fact, fertility is a major advantage they possess over us. We should not attempt to compete with them directly, but we can and must prevent our living space from becoming a dumping ground for their excess fertility. If we fail, it will mean a darker future for all humanity.

Another white supremacy foundation is the National Policy Institute, created by William Regnery in 2005 to “give voice to the interests of white peoples.” Its current president is Richard Spencer, who has said he worked closely with Stephen Miller in college on campus activism about immigration.

It must be noted that these ideas are not only untrue but also ahistorical. The idea of whiteness as quantifiable and, moreover, essential to the notion of what it means to be an American ignores virtually all of American history.

In fact, hard lines dividing Americans by race were redrawn over and over; many American families seemed to cross from black to white to black depending on their social status and the region of the country in which they lived. Immigrant groups, too, endured changing racial norms, with Irish and Italian Americans, for example, deemed scientifically inferior for decades.

When Maine politician Ira Hersey declared in the early 20th century, “We have thrown open wide our gates and through them have come other alien races, of alien blood, from Asia and southern Europe … with their strange and pagan rites, their babble of tongues,” he was talking about Italian Catholics.

White Americans are declining as a percentage of the population of the United States, from roughly 69 percent of the population in 2000 to 64 percent in 2010. As of July 1, 2015, just over half of all babies under the age of 1 born in the United States were racial and ethnic minorities. Mixed-race Americans are the second-fastest-growing ethnic group in America.

Time magazine, “The New Face of America,” November 18, 1993.

For many Americans, this is a positive development. But for “racial realists,” this is an emergency.

As they see it, if there are more nonwhite people in America, there will be fewer white people. If there are fewer white people, there will be fewer white voters who would favor conservative policies. As “racial realist” Gregory Hood wrote for American Renaissance in November 2017, “American civic nationalism ultimately depends on white voters. The refusal to speak the truth explicitly about demographic realities [dooms] the GOP to electoral extinction.”

The underlying assumption is that only white people will favor conservative policies. As Hood wrote in the same piece, conservatives must understand “that many of the things they value — the flag, monuments to certain leaders, or cultural norms such as a tradition of free speech — really are dependent on a European-American majority.”

That’s an echo of the sentiments shared by immigration restrictionist John Tanton, who told a donor to his organization, the Federation for American Immigration Reform, “One of my prime concerns is about the decline of folks who look like you and me,” and warned a friend, “for European-American society and culture to persist requires a European-American majority, and a clear one at that.”

There’s markedly little discussion among “racial realists” of attempting to creating conservative arguments that appeal to nonwhite Americans. To them, race is political destiny, and to the racial victors will go the nation. In a way, it’s the very inverse of “demographics as destiny.”

In short, believers of “white genocide” think that any encouragement of diversity in schools or workplaces, or the increase in mixed-race Americans (and their presence in mainstream media), isn’t evidence of more progressive attitudes toward race, but of a sinister plot.

In the words of Richard Spencer: “America was … a white country, designed for ourselves and our posterity. It is our creation, it is our inheritance, and it belongs to us.”

Of course, much of the current GOP might not feel comfortable using terminology like “white genocide” and “racial realism,” in part because many conservatives simply don’t share these views.

Many members of the Republican Party think like Haitian-American Rep. Mia Love, who spoke out about Trump’s racist comments in January. In her words, Trump’s statements were “unkind, divisive, elitist, and fly in the face of our nation’s values,” and she told CNN’s Jake Tapper, “You have to understand that there are countries that struggle out there but … their people are good people and they’re part of us.”

In fact, until recently, the conventional wisdom was that the GOP needed to do more to appeal to people of color in order to survive and thrive. After the presidential election in 2012, Sen. Marco Rubio told Politico, “The conservative movement should have particular appeal to people in minority and immigrant communities who are trying to make it, and Republicans need to work harder than ever to communicate our beliefs to them.” Sen. Susan Collins agreed, telling the New York Times in 2012, “Republicans cannot win with just rural white voters.”

“One of the great projects and challenges of the conservative movement is persuading a much broader ethnic coalition of Americans of the value of conservative ideas,” said David French, a staff writer at National Review who experienced online attacks by far-right trolls in 2015, many of whom aimed their ire at French’s Ethiopian-born daughter.

But many on the right didn’t, and don’t, feel the same way. While Miller was advising then-Sen. Jeff Sessions on how best to kill the efforts of Rubio and the “Gang of Eight” to pass immigration reform in 2013, Steve Bannon and Breitbart News were fanning the flames of racial discord, complete with a “black crime” article label and stories about the imminent dangers posed by nonwhite immigrants.

It’s not just Breitbart. Conservative pundit Ann Coulter (who tweeted, “I don’t care if [Trump] wants to perform abortions in White House,” after the release of his immigration policy paper in 2015) wrote last November that “the only reason Democrats want a never-ending stream of Third World immigrants is because they know immigrants will help them win elections. … There isn’t much time on the clock before it’s lights-out for the GOP.” Trump is a noted fan of Coulter’s writing, and during his presidential campaign, Coulter warmed up the crowd at several campaign rallies.

In a way, the idea slots neatly into Trump’s zero-sum worldview. To those who voice the “white genocide” myth, a victory by nonwhite Americans, particularly immigrants, will inevitably lead to losses by white Americans.

As far-right commentator (and former White House senior adviser) Pat Buchanan wrote, “Endless mass migration here means the demographic death of the GOP. In U.S. presidential elections, persons of color whose roots are in Asia, Africa and Latin America vote 4-1 Democratic, and against the candidates favored by American’s vanishing white majority.”

To him, this puts America “on the path to national suicide.” American Renaissance shared his column.

Bannon may be out of the White House (and Breitbart News). But his attitudes regarding immigration and immigrants remain in place, voiced by fellow immigration restrictionists like Sessions and Miller who believe that immigration poses a danger to American culture and American life — unless that immigration is from a predominantly white country.

Most importantly, those views are being voiced by Trump himself. After all, when the white nationalist marchers in Charlottesville, Virginia, chanted, “You will not replace us” — a direct reference to the “white genocide” myth — Trump made sure to say that there were “very fine people” among those chanting.

This has a direct impact on immigration policy, including current negotiations regarding family separation at the Mexican border with the United States.

It’s making the process of dealmaking virtually impossible for Democrats, and for Republicans who desperately want to avoid any arguments that racialize immigration policy. If the debate over immigration is about border security and preventing the entrance of genuine threats to American security, compromise is imaginable, even possible.

But if the debate over immigration is actually about a belief that nonwhite immigrants pose an existential danger to America and Americanness as a whole, and that “demographics” require Haitian immigrants to be expelled from the country while hypothetical immigrants from Norway are welcomed with open arms, then there is no ready compromise at hand.

As my colleague Dara Lind wrote in January, “You can’t negotiate with people who believe that an America that lets in people from ‘shithole countries’ isn’t the America they know or love. Either America is a nation of immigrants or it is a nation of blood and soil. It cannot be both.”

Original Source -> The scary ideology behind Trump’s immigration instincts

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

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movietvtechgeeks · 7 years

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Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/2017-sundance-film-festival-day-1-inconvenient-sequel-whose-street/

2017 Sundance Film Festival Day 1 'Inconvenient Sequel' and 'Whose Streets?'

The timing for the 2017 Sundance Film Festival couldn’t have been better for Friday’s inauguration of Donald Trump. Even though Robert Redford said they would be steering clear of those topics, the films opening the festival more than speak for that.

WHOSE STREETS?

Directors Sabaah Folayan and Damon Davis balance raw footage of violent protest movements with the intimate, personal struggles of the people behind them to reveal the powerful story of an uprising for racial justice. It’s a movement that began in Ferguson, Missouri, following the 2014 death of Michael Brown, an unarmed black teenager, who was shot multiple times by a white police officer and left lying dead in the street for more than four hours.

Their non-fiction film Whose Streets? premiered to a standing ovation at the Prospector Theater Thursday night in the U.S. Documentary Competition at the 2017 Sundance Film Festival.

When the grand jury failed to indict Darren Wilson for the death of Brown, the movement against the continued police brutality intensified and the National Guard descended on Ferguson with military-grade weaponry. The film is packed with disturbing footage – some recorded by cell phones during the rioting and looting – as the citizens take to the streets to fight for justice. While the mainstream media typically focused on the extreme elements of the protests, such as burning buildings and looting, the directors here are equally unflinching in depicting the unrest – one particularly powerful image depicts an armored tank shooting tear gas grenades at the protestors beneath a street banner that reads “Seasons Greetings.” Folayan and Davis also provide an intimate look at the community members, such as Brittany Farrell, a 25-year-old nursing student and mother of a young daughter, who were forced to emerge as leaders.

During the Q&A that followed their film, Folayan and Davis brought their entire team to the stage, describing their film as “an extremely collaborative project.”

A Ferguson resident who was in the audience relayed how terrifying the protests were and asked how the filmmakers maintained the courage to continue documenting them. Farrell galvanized the crowd by insisting that turning away was not an option for her. “If we don’t do it, who’s going to tell this story?” she asked. “Just imagine all the undocumented stories of communities that are terrorized by the police and are hurting and mourning. What would the world be like if we all got off our asses and did what we have to do for justice and humanity?”

Folayan shared that she intends to continue telling similar stories. “The epidemic isn’t just police brutality,” she insisted. “The epidemic is apathy. The epidemic is the dehumanization of certain people who walk in certain skins and certain bodies. I hope this film can become a tool for people who are already on the ground mobilizing.”

I DON’T FEEL AT HOME IN THIS WORLD ANYMORE

A lot of films are inspired by true-life events – most, even. Yet it’s still a bit surprising to learn that I don’t feel at home in this world anymore. is one of them. The opening night film of the U.S. Dramatic Competition is a giddy maelstrom of a movie – combining elements of thriller, comedy, noir, romance, and small-town indie drama – that spirals deeper and deeper into “I can’t believe that just happened” territory. Yet according to first-time director Macon Blair, the first movements of his script were indeed based on personal experience.

“My apartment got burglarized, and they took a laptop computer and a sentimental no-value item,” Blair said during the post-screening Q&A at the Eccles Theatre. In the film, Melanie Lynskey plays Ruth, a hospital aide who comes home to find her laptop and grandma’s silverware gone. Blair recalled of his experience, “I asked the police, ‘What if I find out where the laptop is?’ And they were like, ‘No man, don’t worry about it.’” But in the movie, Ruth does worry about it, to the tune of recruiting her oddball neighbor, played by Elijah Wood – working kung fu moves and a rattail – to confront a shady lawyer and a band of local thieves, leading to everything from a Mexican standoff to an entanglement with a poisonous swamp snake. “It was a wish-fulfillment scenario of, ‘What if I had followed that down?” Blair said.

According to Lynskey, who returns to the Sundance Film Festival after previous visits for Hello I Must Be Going and Happy Christmas, Blair wasn’t the only one fulfilling a wish. “I think a lot of the time if there’s a woman running and being a badass in a movie, they tend to be a little bit skinnier. I wasn’t on those lists for genre-type movies,” she said. Yet this time, not only was she considered for the role; it was written with her in mind. “When I read the script it was such dream come true. I was like, ‘Are you serious? You want me to do this?’ I didn’t just cry when we wrapped; I cried for the five days leading up to wrap. I never wanted it to end.”

Other members of the cast expressed similar sentiments, with David Yow revealing that seven members of the cast and crew commemorated their time together by getting matching cat tattoos like the one worn by his seedy crook, Marshall. “That’s conviction and love,” he said. Strong attachments were also forged with the run-down car that Ruth drives, a vintage 1970s Pontiac that harkened back to the director’s first ride. They’d originally cast that very same model, a ’76 Pontiac Ventura, painted pine green to match his memory, but that car died on the first day of shooting. The replacement vehicle was apparently warmly welcomed into the fold by the film’s star. “Melanie just loved that car. She loved parking it and driving it,” Blair said, and Lynskey picked it up from there. “I loved shutting the door because it was so easy and smooth,” she cooed. “I loved being in it, smelling all the fumes.

AN INCONVENIENT SEQUEL

Leave it to Al Gore to discredit the show business adage that sequels are rarely as good as the originals. Eleven years after his aptly titled An Inconvenient Truth put the issue of global warming on the cultural map, the former Vice President and environmental activist returns with An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power, an unfortunately necessary follow-up to the Academy Award-winning first film, which remains one of the highest-grossing documentaries on record.

The documentary, with wife-and-husband team Bonni Cohen and Jon Shenk effectively taking over directorial reigns from Davis Guggenheim, premiered in the prestigious opening night spot at the Eccles Theatre Thursday night as part of The New Climate, a program dedicated to conversations and films about environmental change and conservation.

During his opening remarks, Festival president and founder Robert Redford informed the audience that he and Gore are very close friends, having worked together numerous times in the past. “Being out of politics and going into film allows him to work both sides of the street,” Redford noted. “He has done it beautifully.” Watching the film, few were able to argue with that assessment.

Following Redford’s comments, Festival Director John Cooper, without directly acknowledging the January 20 inauguration, told the audience that the night before was the perfect time to watch this film. As he called the directors to the stage, Cohen noted that on the eve of the inauguration of a president who has publicly described climate control as a hoax created “by the Chinese,” this documentary takes on added importance.

If ever a non-fiction film could be accused to playing to the choir, it’s probably this one. The doc opens with vocal criticism of Gore’s awareness campaign over heartbreaking footage of melting glaciers. Throughout, Gore clearly aims to clarify that global warming is not a partisan issue. He meets with the mayor of Georgetown, Texas, who has almost miraculously gotten his city to 100% renewable power. The film also offers a not-frequently seen look into political deal-making. Gore travels to Paris for a political gathering to sign a treaty, which would call for a net zero climate pollution by the end of the century. The talks are interrupted by the terrorist attack on the city.

While the film depicts a future that is unclear, Gore insisted on leaving the premiere audience with a positive thought. After the credits rolled Gore was called to the stage, where he insisted that environmentalists like him will prevail. “I won’t give all the evidence of why I’m so confident, but I am,” Gore told the Eccles audience. “For those who have any doubt, just remember there are so many others who are yearning to do the right thing and see the right outcome.”

He went on to call the movement against global warming a moral issue. “It’s a spiritual issue,” he said. “Are we a pathetic, self-interested, short-sided species whose run on the planet will soon be over?” Sounding incredibly presidential, Gore added that we have the ability to rise above our limitations. “No one person can stop this,” he said referencing President Trump, “It’s too big now.”

DAYVEON

The first film in the NEXT category to ever screen on opening night of the Festival, Dayveon is an evocative, closely observed portrait of a young man who gets pulled into gang activity in Little Rock, Arkansas. After the premiere at the MARC, debut filmmaker Amman Abbasi appeared alongside his cast to talk about the germination of the project.

“I used to work in documentary, and we were working on a project on gang violence in Chicago. I spent about two years there, and as I was talking to young kids and hearing about their stories,” he said, “I started thinking, ‘Why don’t I look at Little Rock, which is my hometown?’” Abbasi said that despite the disparity in city size, he was struck by the similarities of what young people have to confront, and he began to work on a script that would “look at gangs not as a criminal organization but as a form of acceptance for someone in adolescence.” Violence lurks around every corner in the film, but it’s also not hard to see why the protagonist, Dayveon, who’s still mourning the death of his older brother, would find a kind of kinship among young men taking power into their own hands.

The actors, all nonprofessionals prior to Dayveon, talked about the unusual circumstances and locations where they were recruited for the project, thanks to venturesome casting directors John Williams and Karmen Leech. Lead actor Devin Blackmon was found from among a search throughout the neighboring states, and he said his initial readings for the part were held at the local Starbucks. Chasity Moore, who plays Dayveon’s older sister, said she was looking up job listings on Craigslist when she saw the casting call. Kordell Johnson, who plays her boyfriend, said he was spotted at the Olive Garden. “She was just looking at me when I was picking up my food,” he said, referring to Leech. “I’m just a guy from a small town in Little Rock, Arkansas. I never shot a movie, and I never did drama. So I’m not taking it very seriously. But she hit me the next day on email and told me I had a meeting with Amman at McDonald’s.”

And Lachion Buckingham, who also served as a producer on the film, was working as a driver at a hotel in Little Rock when he got linked up with the film. “Unlike the person on the TV, I’m a good guy,” he reassured the audience. Buckingham talked about his own brother who was paralyzed by gun violence, and the people he knew, some of whom are imprisoned or dead, who dealt with similar pressures and outcomes as the characters in the film. “I put a lot of the people I knew growing up into one to create the character,” he said.

Abbasi said they workshopped the script for three months before shooting, which allowed for improvisation on set. He also said that some of the characters evolved based on the actors, particularly Dayveon. “He brought a certain introspection to the role that I hadn’t previously thought of,” he said, referring to Devin. “So it took me a while to let that guide the character.” Abbasi also tailored the film’s score, which he composed, to the development of the characters. “With a film like this, it’s not so much the dialogue but the emotion of these characters” that leads us through, he said, “and obviously music is a great vessel in.”

There were questions from the audience about some of the mysterious, metaphorical choices of the film, such as a swarm of bees that looms just outside of Davyeon’s house, as well as the lack of actual depicted violence, but Abbasi reassured them that was entirely by design. “I think … the things that you don’t see sometimes leave a longer impression,” he said.

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