#but i this has nostalgia to it and is good for practicing expressions and poses so I’m gonna do some doodles of these guys I guess

[seagull-scribbles]

*Clink*

#Cuphead #mugman #I’m still into sonic dw but idk I wanted to spend time this summer doing some nostalgic stuff and it never happened #or any big projects #but i this has nostalgia to it and is good for practicing expressions and poses so I’m gonna do some doodles of these guys I guess #postcard #so sorry for the tangent here please bear with me #anyone else played Cuphead here? who’s your main #I’ve always played mugsy which is funny cause I usually gravitate more to obnoxious red pro tags #oh well I’ll stop rambling

[letterboxd]

In Focus: The Mummy

Dominic Corry responds on behalf of Letterboxd to an impassioned plea to bump up the average rating of the 1999 version of The Mummy—and asks: where is the next great action adventure coming from?

We recently received the following email regarding the Stephen Sommers blockbuster The Mummy:

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to you on behalf of the nation, if not the entire globe, who frankly deserve better than this after months of suffering with the Covid pandemic.

I was recently made aware that the rating of The Mummy on your platform only stands at 3.3 stars out of five. … This, as I’m sure you’re aware, is simply unacceptable. The Mummy is, as a statement of fact, the greatest film ever made. It is simply fallacious that anyone should claim otherwise, or that the rating should fail to reflect this. This oversight cannot be allowed to stand.

I have my suspicions that this rating has been falsely allocated due to people with personal axes to grind against The Mummy, most likely other directors who are simply jealous that their own artistic oeuvres will never attain the zenith of perfection, nor indeed come close to approaching the quality or the cultural influence of The Mummy. There is, quite frankly, no other explanation. The Mummy is, objectively speaking, a five-star film (… I would argue that it in fact transcends the rating sytem used by us mere mortals). It would only be proper, as a matter of urgency, to remove all fake ratings (i.e. any ratings [below] five stars) and allow The Mummy’s rating to stand, as it should, at five stars, or perhaps to replace the rating altogether with a simple banner which reads “the greatest film of all time, objectively speaking”. I look forward to this grievous error being remedied.

Best, Anwen

Which of course: no, we would never do that. But the vigor Anwen expresses in her letter impressed us (we checked: she’s real, though is mostly a Letterboxd lurker due to a busy day-job in television production, “so finding time to watch anything that isn’t The Mummy is, frankly, impossible… not that there’s ever any need to watch anything else, of course.”).

So Letterboxd put me, Stephen Sommers fan, on the job of paying homage to the last great old-school action-adventure blockbuster, a film that straddles the end of one cinematic era and the beginning of the next one. And also to ask: where’s the next great action adventure coming from?

Brendan Fraser, Rachel Weisz and John Hannah in ‘The Mummy’ (1999).

When you delve into the Letterboxd reviews of The Mummy, it quickly becomes clear how widely beloved the film is, 3.3 average notwithstanding. Of more concern to the less youthful among us is how quaintly it is perceived, as if it harkens back to the dawn of cinema or something. “God, I miss good old-fashioned adventure movies,” bemoans Holly-Beth. “I have so many fond memories of watching this on TV with my family countless times growing up,” recalls Jess. “A childhood classic,” notes Simon.

As alarming as it is to see such wistful nostalgia for what was a cutting-edge, special-effects-laden contemporary popcorn hit, it has been twenty-one years since the film was released, so anyone currently in their early 30s would’ve encountered the film at just the right age for it to imprint deeply in their hearts. This has helped make it a Raiders of the Lost Ark for a specific Letterboxd demographic.

Sommers took plenty of inspiration from the Indiana Jones series for his take on The Mummy (the original 1932 film, also with a 3.3 average, is famously sedate), but for ten-year-olds in 1999, it may have been their only exposure to such pulpy derring-do. And when you consider that popcorn cinema would soon be taken over by interconnected on-screen universes populated by spandex-clad superheroes, the idea that The Mummy is an old-fashioned movie is easier to comprehend.

However, for all its throwbackiness, beholding The Mummy from the perspective of 2020 reveals it to have more to say about the future of cinema than the past. 1999 was a big year for movies, often considered one of the all-time best, but the legacy of The Mummy ties it most directly to two of that year’s other biggest hits: Star Wars: Episode One—The Phantom Menace and The Matrix. These three blockbusters represented a turning point for the biggest technological advancement to hit the cinematic art-form since the introduction of sound: computer-generated imagery, aka CGI. The technique had been widely used from 1989’s The Abyss onwards, and took significant leaps forward with movies such as Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991), Jurassic Park (1993) and Starship Troopers (1997), but the three 1999 films mentioned above signified a move into the era when blockbusters began to be defined by their CGI.

A year before The Mummy, Sommers had creatively utilised CGI in his criminally underrated sci-fi action thriller Deep Rising (another film that deserves a higher average Letterboxd rating, just sayin’), and he took this approach to the next level with The Mummy. While some of the CGI in The Mummy doesn’t hold up as well as the technopunk visuals presented in The Matrix, The Mummy showed how effective the technique could be in an historical setting—the expansiveness of ancient Egypt depicted in the movie is magnificent, and the iconic rendering of Imhotep’s face in the sand storm proved to be an enduringly creepy image. Not to mention those scuttling scarab beetles.

George Lucas wanted to test the boundaries of the technique with his insanely anticipated new Star Wars film after dipping his toe in the digital water with the special editions of the original trilogy. Beyond set expansions and environments, a bunch of big creatures and cool spaceships, his biggest gambit was Jar Jar Binks, a major character rendered entirely through CGI. And we all know how that turned out.

A CGI-enhanced Arnold Vosloo as Imhotep.

Sommers arguably presented a much more effective CGI character in the slowly regenerating resurrected Imhotep. Jar Jar’s design was “bigger” than the actor playing him on set, Ahmed Best. Which is to say, Jar Jar took up more space on screen than Best. But with the zombie-ish Imhotep, Sommers (ably assisted by Industrial Light & Magic, who also worked on the Star Wars films) used CGI to create negative space, an effect impossible to achieve with practical make-up—large parts of the character were missing. It was an indelible visual concept that has been recreated many times since, but Sommers pioneered its usage here, and it contributed greatly to the popcorn horror threat posed by the character.

Sommers, generally an unfairly overlooked master of fun popcorn spectacle (G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra is good, guys), deserves more credit for how he creatively utilized CGI to elevate the storytelling in The Mummy. But CGI isn’t the main reason the film works—it’s a spry, light-on-its-feet adventure that presents an iconic horror property in an entertaining and adventurous new light. And it happens to feature a ridiculously attractive cast all captured just as their pulchritudinous powers were peaking.

Meme-worthy: “My sexual orientation is the cast of ‘The Mummy’ (1999).”

A rising star at the time, Brendan Fraser was mostly known for comedic performances, and although he’d proven himself very capable with his shirt off in George of the Jungle (1997), he wasn’t necessarily at the top of anyone’s list for action-hero roles. But he is superlatively charming as dashing American adventurer Rick O’Connell. His fizzy chemistry with Weisz, playing the brilliant-but-clumsy Egyptologist Evie Carnahan, makes the film a legitimate romantic caper. The role proved to be a breakout for Weisz, then perhaps best known for playing opposite Keanu Reeves in the trouble-plagued action flop Chain Reaction, or for her supporting role in the Liv Tyler vehicle Stealing Beauty.

“90s Brendan Fraser is what Chris Pratt wishes he was,” argues Holly-Beth. “Please come back to us, Brendaddy. We need you.” begs Joshhh. “I’d like to thank Rachel Weisz for playing an integral role in my sexual awakening,” offers Sree.

Then there’s Oded Fehr as Ardeth Bey, a member of the Medjai, a sect dedicated to preventing Imhotep’s tomb from being discovered, and Patricia Velásquez as Anck-su-namun, Imhotep’s cursed lover. Both stupidly good-looking. Heck, Imhotep himself (South African Arnold Vosloo, coming across as Billy Zane’s more rugged brother), is one of the hottest horror villains in the history of cinema.

“Remember when studio movies were sexy?” laments Colin McLaughlin. We do Colin, we do.

Sommers directed a somewhat bloated sequel, The Mummy Returns, in 2001, which featured the cinematic debut of one Dwayne Johnson. His character got a spin-off movie the following year (The Scorpion King), which generated a bunch of DTV sequels of its own, and is now the subject of a Johnson-produced reboot. Brendan Fraser came back for a third film in 2008, the Rob Cohen-directed The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor. Weisz declined to participate, and was replaced by Maria Bello.

Despite all the follow-ups, and the enduring love for the first Sommers film, there has been a sadly significant dearth of movies along these lines in the two decades since it was released. The less said about 2017 reboot The Mummy (which was supposed to kick-off a new Universal Monster shared cinematic universe, and took a contemporary, action-heavy approach to the property), the better.

The Rock in ‘The Mummy Returns’ (2001).

For a long time, adventure films were Hollywood’s bread and butter, but they’re surprisingly thin on the ground these days. So it makes a certain amount of sense that nostalgia for the 1999 The Mummy continues to grow. You could argue that many of the superhero films that dominate multiplexes count as adventure movies, but nobody really sees them that way—they are their own genre.

There are, however, a couple of films on the horizon that could help bring back old-school cinematic adventure. One is the long-planned—and finally actually shot—adaptation of the Uncharted video-game franchise, starring Tom Holland. The games borrow a lot from the Indiana Jones films, and it’ll be interesting to see how much that manifests in the adaptation.

Then there’s Letterboxd favorite David Lowery’s forever-upcoming medieval adventure drama The Green Knight, starring Dev Patel and Alicia Vikander (who herself recently rebooted another video-game icon, Lara Croft). Plus they are still threatening to make another Indiana Jones movie, even if it no longer looks like Steven Spielberg will direct it.

While these are all exciting projects—and notwithstanding the current crisis in the multiplexes—it can’t help but feel like we may never again get a movie quite like The Mummy, with its unlikely combination of eye-popping CGI, old-fashioned adventure tropes and a once-in-a-lifetime ensemble of overflowing hotness. Long may love for it reign on Letterboxd—let’s see if we can’t get that average rating up, the old fashioned way. For Anwen.

Related content

How I Letterboxd with The Mummy fan Eve (“The first film I went out and bought memorabilia for… it was a Mummy action figure that included canopic jars”)

The Mummy (Universal) Collection

Every film featuring the Mummy (not mummies in general)

Follow Dom on Letterboxd

#the mummy #brendan fraser #stephen sommers #action adventure #fantasy adventure #action adventure film #the green knight #david lowery #dominic corry #letterboxd

[pear-pies]

Placebo in Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

Words by Jerome Soligny, photos by Carole Epinette

Wonky translation under the cut:

These three did it all. Shot with the QOTSAs and posed with Indo. They survived "Velvet Goldmine" and the Top Bab. They come back after the ordeal of the fourth album. Danger interview: “Jerome, what if you came out?” They ask our charming reporter.

"We do not regret anything"

Everything begins again with "Bulletproof Cupid", a punky instrument that pulls everything off. Then "English Summer Rein", mechanico-depressive spinning punctuated by twisted keyboards, and "Sleeping With Ghosts", the lament which advances while blistering during cooking, confirm the tone. Against all expectations, because you never know how will age the groups that the previous album installed at the Top, Placebo took over. And stuffed it in an iron glove. Further on, "The Bitter End" tumbles through yapping guitars which would stick to the hatches the thickest of the sailors. Be careful, Placebo is on the way out of being one. At the end of the record, Brian Molko, Stefan Olsdal and Steve Hewitt do not even run out of steam. The cows. They drop a "Centerfolds" which frolic like a cynical top under a shower of saving doubts. What augur still other perspectives.

The fourth album: a horror for all who have faced it. Often a stupid trap. Returning from the Gothic directly inherited from the glam of pageantry and from these hasty and harmful certainties which congest the face and the veins, Placebo publishes its first real great disc. Oh, not the marvel of wonders, not the album from the third millennium, but something very strong, compact, tenacious in listening, which proves that the future is indeed there, in front, where the light is most blinding. Calfeucée in their Parisian hotel (the Costes, of course), our three lads do not make the blow of the revelation, of the luminous questioning. Simply, they now think with their heads, a good plan most often Likewise, reality no longer frightens them, and it is probably she who is hiding behind this "Sleeping With Ghosts" which relates the sorrows only for the better. melt into hopes At the moment when rock brings us back to life and when we just want to ask them everything, the Placebo have decided to say everything. Not even in a hurry, they settle down on the couch, ready to talk like never before. Despite new batteries embedded in the carcass, the Panasonic barely a Brian Molko: Hey Jerome, you came to talk to us this time when you had not come to the previous album ...

Rock & Folk: Uh yes but I was there for the first two, that says a lot, right?

Brian Molko: Certainly, I also believe that over time, we finally appreciate the true nature of the problem: we were mainly criticized for the sound of the previous album, which I can understand but, paradoxically, it is the one that brought us to the Top.

R&F: Legitimately, we have the right to expect a lot from the people we love: while "Black Market Music" sounded a bit like a sequel, this new record is all about a renaissance.

Brian Molko: Actually, we were finally able to live a little. After having existed in a small bubble for a very long time, we forced ourselves to take an eight-month break. The album-tour rhythm put us on the sidelines: we no longer had normal contact with anything. We were losing ourselves. We have fully lived the old cliché which claims that we spend the first years of our life writing a first record and six months on the second. It turned out to be very true. We had to get back to the situation of the first album, see friends, go shopping, look at the buildings in our city.

R&F: So the freshness would come from there ...

Brian Molko: Yes, and it was essential spiritually, emotionally and physically.

Steve Hewitt: We had to be in tune with reality again.

Brian Molko: In fact, we find ourselves in a bit of the same state of mind as when we released "Without You I'm Nothing", although "Sleeping With Ghosts" is a lot less gloomy. The heroin has since stopped leaking. In fact, I feel like I've pulled myself out of what I consider my second teenage years, between twenty and thirty. I conquered the self-destruction, exorcised some demons, understood what had happened to me. I held on to what I had learned. As a human being, I am now able to continue living, to try to answer the big questions posed by existence.

R&F: Maybe that's why the melodies are needed this time. It took me four records to get a favorite Placebo track.

The whole group in chorus: Which one?

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want", of course ...

Brian Molko: The most paradoxical is that this song dates from the end of the "Black Market Music" sessions. I was not married at the time, but I was trying to get out of a particularly vicious divorce.just started. Then we wait for the lyrics, which don't arrive, it's rather intriguing. We especially wanted to avoid the big Rican producer side, we needed someone who shakes us up a bit. Jim could do that because he comes from dance and his pedigree is impressive. We have all his records at home, Bjôrk, Massive Attack, Sneaker Pimps and especially DJ Shadow. It is believed that guitar rock can only evolve by incorporating new genres, this is the only way to remain a modern rock band. At home, we practically only listen to hip hop.

R&F: Still, he didn't betray you.

Brian Molko: No because he actually brought out our rock side, which I'm particularly proud of. In fact, because we always wanted to control everything, it was not easy to be forced, to do certain things backwards, to walk on the head. But in truth, that's what we wanted: yes, there was some tension in the studio but we all took advantage of it. The challenge is necessary and it is also valid for the public. We opened up and rediscovered ourselves.

Stefan Olsdal (emerging from his chair): We found ourselves in front of the mirror, at the foot of the wall: someone had to kick our ass.

Brian Molko: Jim was like, "Why are you doing this?" We would answer him: "Because we always do it like that!" He would say: "All the more reason not to do it."

Stefan Olsdal: On the first day, he messed up all the demos, changed the tones, the tempos ...

R&F: Like Brian Eno ...

Steve Hewitt: Yeah, but with a lot more compassion. Eno is a bit (silence) ... We don't really like being told our actions, but at the same time, we are still young, still absorbing. Jim knew how to preserve us while making a modern sound.

R&F: Modern and rock'n'roll at the same time, a characteristic which does not necessarily apply to all the young groups in The which recycle the past gently but are convinced to have found the virus of the AIDS.

Steve Hewitt: Placebo doesn't belong to any current, has nothing to do with fashion.

R&F: You always pose as outsiders.

Brian Molko: It's the only way to survive.

Steve Hewitt: These bands, like The Strokes, play the nostalgia card.

Stefan Olsdal: And what happens next? I would not like to be in their place.

Brian Molko: If you want good New York pop, you better listen to Blondie.

R&F: In 2003, 11 seems that you have abandoned all the androgynous paraphernalia, sexual ambiguity, glam references ...

Brian Molko: I think today everyone knows what there is to know. Our sexual inclinations haven't changed, and we still wear makeup. It is just more expensive and better applied. We are ourselves, in our music and in private. I went through my travelo period (in French in the interview - Editor's note), and I understood that being androgynous was not wearing skirts. It is a way of being on the spiritual plane. It is not an image but a state of mind.

Steve Hewitt: It's like being punk, it's an attitude.

Brian Molko: At the same time, I don't regret any of my eccentricities. I grew up in the spotlight and it all kind of makes me smile.

Stefan Olsdal: People still talk to us about certain outfits or positions, as if it still shocks them.

R&F: Yes, and particularly in France, a particularly homophobic country which bumps heartily on gay artists.

Brian Molko: And you, coincidentally, you still hang out with.

Stefan Olsdal: Jérôme, it's coming out time (laughs) ...

Brian Molko: All that has to change, that all of France becomes gay (laughs)!

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want" precisely, here is a title heavy with meaning. What was the idea behind this song?

Brian Molko: For me, it's a study of the pathological need people have to copulate, the search for meaning in copulation. As if bachelors or monogamists were aliens. As if we were only one when we were two. The song is about the fact that one relationship has destroyed me but I can't help but look for another ... why do I keep coming back to this?

R&F: Wow, we're bathing in philosophy here!

Brian Molko: Yes and it's the same elsewhere in the record: in "Plasticine", I insist on the fact that you have to be yourself above all while asking myself all these questions. Why do we have to do a lot of forbidden things, bad or harmful?

R&F: It's therapy in public.

Brian Molko: At least I find some balance in it. These are not songs about compassion or self-pity. They came out like this because it was vital for me. I am in this privileged situation where I can express myself and the world hears me. Otherwise, I would be really frustrated and I would have suffered a lot more in the last fifteen years.

R&F: Music saved your life.

Brian Molko: Sure.

Steve Hewitt: Everyone: I think we can say that. Without Placebo, we would not be not even alive.

Brian Molko: Spitting it all out is not necessarily the right solution. There are things with which to live. In fact, I've always been afraid to go see a psychiatrist ...

R&F: Yet, listening to you speak earlier, you could have the feeling that Jim Abiss acted a bit like a shrink with you.

Brian Molko: That's right. You could say that.

R&F: At a time when Bush and Blair want to play World War III, what attitude do you adopt? What do you think of these Englishmen who left for Iraq to constitute a human shield?

Brian Molko: Let's say we stand together. We participated in the March for Peace on February 14th with Damon Albarn and 3D from Massive Attack. We were also surprised that so few groups mobilized, which increased our desire to participate tenfold.

R&F: Do you consider that it is the role of the artist to give voice in such circumstances?

Steve Hewitt: Yes, in the sense that we can help with general motivation.

Brian Molko: I'm very interested in seeing if Blair is going to let Bush bomb Iraq with the British present on the soil of the country. If he ever allows that, the consequences will be dire.

R&F: It will only be one more religious war, in the name of oil and money ...

Brian Molko: It seems absurd that we can still fight for that. And curiously, nobody speaks more, or almost, of Bin Laden. Wouldn't it all come from him, by chance, as a huge consequence of September 11? On the other hand, we have such a feeling that Bush wants to finish the job that daddy started. Its image is so bad that it needs at least one war to restore its image.

Steve Hewitt: And reinvigorate its dying economy.

R&F: The method is lamentable, deceitful. Like those employed by the recording industry which claims to be doing well by selling pop in damaged boxes to ignoramuses.

Brian Molko: The ability of this job to ingest people, bribe them and then spit them out is impressive. This is what happened here at Canal +.R&F: Business is the beast.

Brian Molko: All these pre-made artists are young and naff ...

Steve Hewitt: They'll all end up in a labor camp for ex-pop stars.

R&F: Warhol was talking about fifteen minute glory, we're brutally passed to fifteen seconds.

Brian Molko: We should have called them Karaoke idols from the start.

Steve Hewitt: And it only works because of the TV ...

R&F: Who washes the poor, helpless brains.

Steve Hewitt: You can tell how much people want to think less

R&F: And spend less. For many, music should be free: one in five thirteen-year-olds doesn't know that a disc doesn't have to be a computer-burnt puck. Some are flabbergasted when they see a cover for the first time.

Stefan Olsdal: And those who don't buy records put pressure on those who have them to pass them on at all costs, just long enough to copy them.

R&F: Exactly.

Brian Molko: That's why we blame Robbie Williams so much. Scooping 80 million pounds off EMI and then declaring that pirating music is a fantastic thing just makes him want to stick a chunk in his face.

R&F .: And then piracy is not a matter of environment. It's not a suburban thing. There are rich kids who find it normal to burn 80 CDs during their weekend and sometimes sell them to their friends ...

Brian Molko: What do these people believe? That we are there, the face in the stream with a syringe stuck in the arm singing "La Vie En Rose"? And who will pay for our children's school? Not them, anyway. Our mentality is quite different: we always want to buy records from people we love, from our friends. Personally, we are partly out of the woods, but it will be particularly difficult for new groups to make a living from music in five or ten years.

R&F: Come on, we're not going to leave each other on this, a little humor won't hurt anyone. If you were to be banned from any of these three things, which would you choose: making music, making money or making love?

Steve Hewitt (almost tit for tat): I would stop making money, without hesitation. It's because I love music and sex too much. And then, well, you have to choose.

Brian Molko (completely overwhelmed): Oh damn, that's not true. What a dilemma!

R&F: No Brian, that doesn't count, make an effort (laughs).

Brian Molko: Ah, I don't know. And then if. I would stop making money and get on well with someone super rich.

R&F: Or you would be pimp ...

Brian Molko: Yes, that's it. Good plan.

Stefan Olsdal: Stop making love does not mean to stop loving ...

Brian Molko (preparing his shot): And we can always masturbate (general laughter).

Stefan Olsdal: OK then, I would stop making love.

R&F: Okay, it will be written in black and white for all eternity.

Brian Molko: Will we live long enough to regret it? This is the real question.

*COLLECTED BY JEROME SOLIGNY

[Inset, Trash Palace]

Already present on the first album by Trash Palace which he had adorned with his presence one unhealthy recovery of "I Love You, Me No More "in duet with Asia Argento, Brian Molko is coming to re-stack. This time he cosigns directly "The Metric System " with Dimitri Trash Palace Tikovoi, an electro saw boosted to bleeps fundamentals available in two remix and its clip on an enhanced single recently published at Discograph. The result is particularly (d) amazing and sounds good logical, like of Placebo cyber.Placebo in  Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

#the cows. #placebo #brian molko #stefan olsdal #steve hewitt #the metric system is so chaotic i love it

[owl-with-a-pen]

Brainy getting Kara a cat that looks like Streaky after she gets out of the Phantom Zone

- Cute! Of course! x

Adjusting to life back in National City had been far harder than Kara had anticipated.

Never was that more apparent than when she found herself alone.

Not that she’d been alone very much. Since her family had come to her rescue, Kara hadn’t really been permitted that much time to herself. Alex had been bringing over care packages that she and Kelly had put together almost three times daily, and that was only during the hours Kara was home. At work, it appeared it was Nia’s turn to play the role of overbearing minder. She’d been sticking to Kara’s side for just about every second of the workday. Kara thought it was kind of sweet, all things considered, it was just… Nia was about as subtle about it as a brick through the window - or Brainy when he’d turned up in CatCo’s elevator last year.

Speaking of Brainy, he was just about the only friend Kara hadn’t been seeing on a daily basis. Even Lena was making her rounds, trying to find any excuse to get Kara out of the apartment or – failing that – inviting herself over unprompted.

Kara appreciated everyone’s attention, she really did, but as she sat there on her couch, curled up in her comfiest cardigan and sweats combo on the first day off she’d had all week… she couldn’t help but feel some semblance of relief.

As much as she loved her family, she hated hurting them, and when her mask finally came crumbling down after days of keeping it plastered to her face, Kara knew that was exactly what she would have inadvertently caused.

Alex may have let her cry in her arms for a solid thirty minutes after she’d stumbled into J’onn’s Tower-turned-ship, and even seen her at her worst on the days that followed when she’d slept over for those first few terrifying nights… but Kara couldn’t bear to let her sister hold onto that weight for longer than it felt necessary. She was Supergirl, the hero National City looked up to, that even her friends looked up to, and she hated causing any of them the same kind of heartache that they’d felt in her absence.

So, yes, maybe the stillness of her apartment was kind of stifling. Maybe every shadow that jutted across her walls reminded her of the Phantoms that had loomed overhead in that awful alien dimension, but at least when she was alone, jumping at something so fiercely she scorched a wall, or grabbing a pillow so hard it exploded into feathers in her hands could be hidden from any prying eyes.

She would get through this eventually. She just needed time to sort out her head, to focus on the positives, to…

Kara was thrown from her thoughts somewhat abruptly when she heard three quick knocks at her apartment door.

She frowned, lowering the TV’s volume as she heaved herself from the blanket and pillow nest she’d made at the couch corner. She padded over to the door curiously, relaxing into her heightened sense of hearing just enough to pick up on two distinct heartbeats on the other side. Although, one was… far less human in nature than she had expected, which certainly raised a big question.

When she opened the door to find Brainy holding a cat out to her much in the same way someone might offer flowers, she got her answer.

The cat, at least, seemed perfectly content to hang from Brainy’s outstretched hands, its back legs kicked up towards her, large amber eyes wide and unblinking.

It opened its mouth to yawn, as though it had grown used – if not bored – to this kind of behaviour.

“Hey Brainy,” Kara said, her eyes about as wide as the cat’s. “Um, what’s going on?”

“I brought you a gift!” Brainy announced, lifting the cat higher as though to emphasise his point. The cat, to its credit, didn’t appear to find this perplexing at all.

That made one person, at least.

Kara blinked in stunned silence, rubbing at the side of her head. “You got me a cat?” she asked, posing the question in a half joking manner. When Brainy’s eager smile only widened, realisation finally set in. Kara’s mouth fell open. “Wait. You got me a cat?”

“Indeed,” Brainy said enthusiastically, striding past Kara into the room, cat in tow.

Kara could only stare at the space he’d left behind. She shook her head, quickly turning towards him. “Why…?”

Brainy brought the cat closer to his chest, almost contemplatively, though he continued to hold it at that same awkward angle.

The cat licked its nose in disgruntled acceptance.

“Well, since you asked,” Brainy began, “I have been studying… both the medical and psychological benefits of having pets recently. Cats offer companionship, but did you also know that their purrs have curative properties, and petting them has been proven to work against stress and anxiety?” Brainy’s expression turned serious suddenly and he swivelled towards her, thrusting the cat out at her with not even a word of warning. “With that in mind, I present to you, Streaky 2.0!”

Kara reached for the cat instinctively, hastily taking it beneath the shoulders before transferring it into her own arms. Old habit kicked in almost immediately, and she found herself pulling the cat towards her shoulder with all the gentleness she’d put into practice holding this particular cat’s namesake. The cat sagged into her arms in seconds, kicking up a fuss as its whiskers tickled curiously beneath her chin.

“Streaky two point-” Kara began, only to be interrupted when the cat began to purr in soft breathy beats against her chest. Its damp nose probed her neck, tracking her scent. “Oh… oh.” Animals had always seemed to take a liking to Kara, that was true, but this was strange even for her.

Kara squinted at Brainy suspiciously. “This is a real cat, right?”

Brainy scoffed. “Why, do you think I would build one?” His eyebrows drew together suddenly, a deadly serious expression. “I did consider it. A cat as indestructible as Supergirl would be an incredible feat of science. But, no. This is a regular cat. I retrieved him from a shelter.” He leaned in, nearly conspiratorially. “Would you like to see the adoption paperwork?”

Kara snorted. “Y’know, I think I’ll take your word for it.” Her smile sobered as the cat continued to purr up a storm in her arms, closing his eyes into a half squint in total feline bliss. “You really got him for me?”

“Of course.” Brainy softened suddenly, folding his arms. He bit his lip, as though searching for the right words. After a moment’s consideration, he smiled awkwardly. “You were… in pain. Struggling with life back from the Phantom Zone. Additionally,” he gestured bluntly around the room, “you currently live alone.”

Kara laughed bleakly. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“What I mean to say,” Brainy hastened, “is that cats make people happy, and Streaky made you very happy. You felt more grounded learning to care for him, however, I believe this time it is time for your companion to take care of you.” When Brainy smiled again, it was far more relaxed. “I spent many days at the shelter making note of every cat’s characteristics, vocal patterns, requirements of other’s attention, and this cat surpassed all of my expectations.” He nodded succinctly. “He is loyal, I am certain of that.”

Kara grinned. “Well, he certainly let you carry him around like a crazy person.”

“Nia tells me cats are resilient creatures,” Brainy said with a shrug, “this one especially so. I think he will make an excellent fit.”

Kara’s smile widened further. “Brainy… this is incredibly sweet. I don’t know what to-” Her eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t have any supplies.”

“Fear not!” Brainy said, finger raised. “I have come prepared with the basics, although I am sure you would prefer to personalise your pet’s belongings in the long term.”

Kara rolled her eyes. Of course Brainy would have come bearing all the necessities for pet care. He was never one to do anything inefficiently. She pressed her lips into the cat’s warm fur, just between his ears. He was a little softer than her old Streaky, although she liked those small differences. It made this cat symbolise more to her than just the nostalgia she knew Brainy was hoping to achieve, but also the sense of a new beginning.

In truth, Kara hadn’t been considering getting a pet any time soon, not when she had so little time even for herself. As Supergirl, it felt wrong, somehow, to have another living thing rely on her as its sole care giver.

But, Brainy was right. Cats had always been her soft spot, and this one already felt like it was healing something deep inside of her, stitching an old wound that wasn’t even visible on the surface. Maybe having a pet around wasn’t such a bad idea, after all, especially when this cat was as perfect as Brainy had insinuated.

Besides, it got awfully lonely here at night…

Kara glanced up at Brainy suddenly. “Wait, is this why you haven’t been around the last few days? You were out scouting for the perfect cat?”

Brainy grimaced. “Busted.”

Kara laughed, she couldn’t help it. Brainy might have changed a lot over the last few months, but he was still as candid as he’d ever been, maybe now even more-so without all the secrets he’d had weighing him down.

She knew, deep down, that a part of her had changed, too. And maybe, maybe it was time she let down some of her walls, enough that she could let her family see her for every change the Phantom Zone had brought on – good or bad.

And, Brainy? Well, he seemed like the perfect start. After all, there was so much more she wanted to learn about him, too.

So, with Streaky 2.0 still snuggled contently in her arms, Kara smiled, taking Brainy’s arm with her free hand. “I think you’re right. I do want to personalise my pet supplies." She brightened. "Hey, maybe we can go to the pet store tomorrow!”

“But, I was just there,” Brainy pointed out.

Kara rolled her eyes. “Yes, but you put in the study-time. You know this cat better than I do, right now. I’m gonna need your expertise to find the best stuff to truly pamper him. Besides,” Kara squeezed his arm, “I want to spend some time with my friend.”

When Brainy’s eyes sparked and he grinned his affirmation, Kara was so, so grateful to see it.

“Very well, then,” Brainy agreed. “Tomorrow it is!”

#supergirl #supergirl fanfiction #brainiac 5 #kara danvers #kara zor el #kara & brainy #my prompts #anon #my writing #i didn't actually describe the cat's fur colour because .. the show and the comics are both different so like.. decide for yourselves xD #i hope this is okay it's 3am i've had a lot of coffee and i'm flagging

[be11atrixthestrange]

Waking Up In Vegas Chapter 6

After a night of debauchery, Ron and Hermione wake up in Vegas... married.

Muggle!AU. Romcom!Romione. Slow burning, smutty, angst-fest.

Rated M for reasons.

Ao3 | FFN

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More Chapters

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-NSFW Warning-

[Hermione]

The walk back to the hotel begins in silence, and at first, Hermione doesn't mind because her head is still reeling from their conversation with Dave. She and Ron are married — legitimately married — and it looks like, at least for now, it's going to stay that way. She glances sideways at him to see that he's wearing a focused and calm expression. She can't read it at all. What the hell is he thinking?

A better question is, what are they going to do? Will they tell people, or just keep it quiet? Will they at least talk about it?

Ron must notice her eyes boring into the side of his face, because he meets her gaze. It's only for a fraction of a second, because Hermione instinctively breaks contact. Ron snorts in response.

"What?" she asks.

She can sense him shrugging next to her and nearly rolls her eyes, but doesn't. He might interpret it as antagonization, and she is too exhausted to fight.

Shoulder to shoulder, they continue to trudge through the smothering heat, through dusty alleys and run-down buildings, searching for the glamorous side of the city again.

Hermione keeps her eyes forward, hoping to appear nonchalant, but for some reason, she's finding it quite difficult to ignore Ron the way she wants to. Instead, she's hyper-aware of his every action. She can hear his breath, which is more labored than usual, probably a result of the weather. She still feels his shrug and scoff, and for some reason, it really annoys her. She can sense him watching her from the corner of his eye, which leaves her prickling with insecurities. She wants to say something defensive, or at the very least, call him out on his attitude, but she can't. It's almost as if she cares what he thinks of her. Or worse, she wants him to like her.

"Are you ok?"

She startles at his question, but not because she doesn't expect him to speak up. She definitely anticipates it because she's both aware of his every move, and distracted by the potential meaning behind each one, even though there's no meaning behind anything he says or does, because they're not really married, and she doesn't really like him. It's none of that.

The question startles her because it's laced with compassion she doesn't expect, and she can't help but answer honestly.

"I don't know."

Ron sighs, and she imagines him wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. She doesn't know why and wills herself not to care.

Hermione opens her mouth to speak again, but a voice interrupts before she can.

"Hey! Will you two take a photo of us?" It's a petite brunette woman with hopeful eyes who asks. She's clutching the arm of a stocky, bearded man with thick glasses and a Hawaiian shirt. Like Ron and Hermione, they are clearly not from Las Vegas either.

"Uh, sure!" says Ron, reaching for her camera.

"Thanks!"

It's now that Hermione realizes they're on a bridge overlooking the city, and it's quite beautiful. The sun is lowering in the sky, and its rays reflect off the skyscraper windows like disco balls. She can faintly see elements of The Strip — roller coasters, the Eiffel Tower replica, fountains and ferris wheels. Even among the surrounding land — a barren and inhospitable desert — the city's bursting with life. It's unnatural, yet strangely hopeful, a true testament to both human ambition and hard-headedness.

Building a thriving city in a resource vacuum shows the same 'challenge accepted!' attitude that leads people into marriages when over fifty percent of them end in divorce. Hermione would laugh it off if that realization didn't hit a sore spot. Like a mirror to her psyche, it describes her perfectly — tell Hermione Granger that she can't do something, she'll set out to prove otherwise, even if it doesn't make sense. Just because she's brimming with ambition doesn't mean she knows where to spend it. She glances at Ron, frustrated by his blank, unreadable expression as he positions the camera.

She watches on as the couple poses for a few pictures. Their arms wrap around one another, they share a few quick kisses, and their skin glows from both heat and happiness. The bustling urban background of Las Vegas perfectly juxtaposes the effortless calm shared between the two. Hermione smiles as Ron crouches to snap a few photos from different angles.

When Ron hands them back their camera, they scroll through a few of the photos and smile. "These are great! We just got married yesterday and didn't have any photos!"

"Oh, congratulations!" says Hermione.

"So did we!" says Ron, slipping an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Yesterday, actually!"

Perplexed, Hermione glares at Ron, and he smiles back endearingly. I guess we're telling people.

Their exchange goes unnoticed by the friendly brunette, who's beaming and clapping excitedly. "Wonderful, let us take a photo of you!"

"It's really okay—" starts Hermione.

"Actually," interrupts Ron. "We'd love that!"

"Great!"

Ron hands the woman his phone, and before Hermione can process it all, he's tugging her across the pavement to pose for a photograph. Ron tightens his embrace, and she instinctively wraps her arms around his torso. Her head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck.

A smile spreads on her face, and she's tempted to glance up to see if Ron's grin looks as natural as hers feels. It's like they've done this a thousand times — posed for pictures, smiled together, embraced. It feels comfortable, and she wonders if it all felt that way last night. Of course, Hermione still doesn't know exactly what they did last night, at least beyond getting married, but this feels good.

His arm locked confidently around her feels secure and established. His stubble brushing against her skin sends pins and needles all the way to her toes. The smell of his cologne brings a powerful jolt of nostalgia. It's proof that they've been this close before, and Hermione suddenly wishes she never scrubbed his scent from her body earlier this morning. It feels like any important links to her memory disappeared down the drain with it, and who knows if she'll ever be able to get them back. It's not like she'll ever be covered in his cologne again, and she can't stand this close to him forever, breathing him in and trying to remember. He might find it odd.

"C'mon, give her a kiss!" The man's voice hits Hermione in the pit of her stomach. He has no idea what he's asking of them.

Her heart sinks when Ron stiffens next to her. How are they going to get out of this? She turns to him to discover his face has deepened to a crimson shade, and it's definitely not just from the sun this time.

"Well, you heard the man," he whispers. His jaw clenches with either nerves or dread. She doesn't know which one it is and reminds herself that she shouldn't even care. Ron's eyes move to her lips, and Hermione's heartbeat intensifies to the point where he can probably hear it. She's never been so curious about what her mouth looks like up close, and she wishes she had put on a spot of makeup or at the very least, taken a breath mint. She normally prides herself on her preparedness, but it never crossed her mind to prepare for this.

Before she can react, the space between them closes. If there was more time for anxiety, she'd worry that they'd fumble this and reveal their charade. She wouldn't know where to put her hands on his body, or how far to lift up onto her toes to meet his lips precisely. She'd worry she'd open her mouth too little and appear stiff or open it too much and seem overly eager. They might bump noses, knock teeth, or misread each other's signals about when to stop, demonstrating their utter lack of communication skills and compatibility.

Those anxieties don't have time to take root. They vanish completely when he closes the gap between them and draws her into a kiss. She can't worry about what her mouth looks like because she's overwhelmed by the confident yet gentle way he manipulates her lips. Any fears about her breath disappear when she tastes him, because his taste is just so Ron; it's exactly what she would expect if she allowed herself to entertain such preposterous daydreams. There's no need to think about where to place her hands because they automatically slide around his neck. Her fingers settle at his hairline where she can feel the muscles of his jaw driving their kiss, and his arm wraps around her lower back, pulling her body firmly against his.

In Hermione's experience, it takes time to learn the nuances of kissing someone. Finding a rhythm should require practice, so Hermione can't explain how they predict each other's movements and meet effortlessly in the middle, no trial, no error. When Ron's tongue drifts teasingly across her lower lip, she responds with an invitation that's neither hesitant nor over-eager; it just is. There is no bumping of noses and no clashing of teeth, and she's unconcerned with detecting any signal to stop because he definitely hasn't given one yet.

For a moment, she forgets they're in public. He seems to forget too, because his hand slides even lower on her body and rests on the curvature of her bum. His fingers grip her dress, unintentionally hiking it up a little further than her normal conservatism would permit. The sudden breeze between her legs results in a soft moan, and she playfully captures his lower lip between her teeth. He hums appreciatively, the sound vibrating right into her fingers that still rest on his neck, and his lips curve into a flirtatious smirk against her mouth. She presses her body more firmly against him, and his grip on her dress tightens in encouragement. He shifts his hips ever so slightly, but the effect is immediate, as she can now feel the extent of his affection for her pressing against her through his khaki shorts. He shamelessly pins her body to his growing erection, making no effort to hide it from her.

His mouth softens against hers, which evolves their kiss to a new dynamic, one that's slower, more sensual, and no longer about pleasure, but intimacy and communication. There's nothing vague in its message for Hermione to overanalyze, no confusing signals to misread and later weaponize. It's just clear and simple.

Much too soon, someone clears their throat, and Ron and Hermione break away from one another. Her dress falls back into place when he removes his hands. She flexes her fingers a couple of times, resenting the air against her palms. It feels so empty when compared to the luxurious feel of his soft hair, stubble, and dancing muscles in his neck.

"I think I got a few good shots," says the brunette awkwardly, and Ron swiftly moves toward her to retrieve his phone. The smell of his cologne dissipates, and its absence is immediately noticeable. As if she left home without her wallet, it feels like she's missing something essential.

"Erm, thanks," stumbles Ron. He sounds embarrassed, and the knot in Hermione's stomach tightens. The confidence she felt from their kiss is dissipating rapidly, and she imagines it whisking down the shower drain with his cologne.

"Well, congratulations again!" The couple smiles politely and turns away, whispering to one another. They send a curious glance back their way before hustling off in the other direction.

Hermione's mortified. They must have put on quite a show. Ron keeps his eye-line on the ground as he approaches her, and shoves his hands in his pockets. "So, I guess we should head back," he says.

"I guess we should."

They turn and begin walking in silence for the second time. This time, Hermione is stiff and unsure of herself. Questions now replace what were just answers in Hermione's mind. She was so confident that the kiss was real, was it not? It really felt like clear communication, but now she's back to overanalyzing and second-guessing. She wants an explanation, preferably in the form of words this time. Even better if the words would be as clear as that kiss.

"Why did you tell them we're married?" She asks the question mostly to break the awkward silence, half expecting him not to answer.

Ron surprises her by engaging immediately. "Because we are."

"I'm sorry they made us kiss," she says, stiffening in anticipation of his response.

She regrets asking when he doesn't answer right away. They keep walking together in awkward silence instead, and every now and then, Hermione catches a whiff of his cologne. It's a comforting smell, although it has no right to be, especially not anymore. Now, it just represents something unattainable, which makes her want it more.

Hermione is usually in good control of her thoughts, but not today. A breeze brushes past them, fluttering her dress, and she can almost feel Ron's hand gripping the fabric, sliding it up. She tries to prevent it, but her mind latches onto the memory, turning it into another preposterous daydream.

In this daydream, his mouth moves against hers in a steady rhythm, curving into that taunting smirk, and he moans hungrily when she tugs his lips between her teeth. His fingers thread through her hair — of course he's a hair-puller — and he turns her back against the bridge so he can press his hardness into her leg.

"Are you?"

She almost misses his question entirely because mentally, she's still back on that bridge, enjoying the sensation of one of his hands running up the front of her body and sliding over her breast. He kneads her through the fabric, and she instinctively wraps a leg around his hip to lock him in place.

"Sorry, what?" she asks. "Am I what?"

Ron laughs. "Are you sorry?"

He sends her a sideways glance, and she tries to keep her expression neutral. It's difficult because back on that bridge, his hand moves from her breast to her bum and slips under the hem of her skirt. He lets out a growl of pleasure when his fingers grip her arse and another when they caress the lace of her knickers, saturated from her anticipation.

She shakes the image from her head. "Am I sorry about what?"

"You're on another planet, aren't you?" he says, laughing.

Just that bloody bridge.

For the second time during their walk, she can feel him rolling his eyes at her, but it's overpowered by the sensation of his fingers sliding under the fabric of her knickers. At first, he tantalisingly draws circles around her center — of course he's a tease — and his smug smile emerges against her mouth.

"Are you actually sorry that we kissed?" he asks more firmly, and she forces herself back out of her daydream.

The truth is, no, she's not sorry that they kissed. Not in the slightest. What will he say if she tells him that? Why does she have to answer first?

If he's sorry, she'll be mortified.

But, if like her, he's not, maybe they'll kiss again.

Maybe they'll do a whole lot more than kiss again, and she'll find out if he's really a hair puller and a tease. Maybe she'll learn how he reacts when he finally runs his fingers across her center and discovers how wet she is. She imagines his sexy groan as he caresses her clit with his thumb, and she has to know what he'd do next. Maybe he'll bury his fingers inside her. Maybe he'll drop to his knees and taste her. Maybe he'll simply unzip his shorts, pull his cock free, and press into her. She'll wrap her other leg around his waist as he lifts her up and fucks her better than anyone ever has before.

"I'm not sorry," she says quickly, donning a false tone of confidence. "It was a good kiss."

Her heart pretty much stops as she awaits his response. She could have lied and told him she did regret kissing him. It's something she'd normally do to save herself potential embarrassment. Unfortunately, honesty seems like the only way to make her preposterous daydream a reality, and that might be worth risking rejection. Maybe.

"I'm not sorry, either," he says. "It was a great kiss."

He makes eye contact with her when he answers, and she's again struck with the reality of how beautiful this man is. Her cheeks turn rosy, and she turns away, watching the road ahead of her and letting out a sigh of relief.

Ron chuckles next to her, and suddenly, their fingers intertwine. It's tentative at first, as if he's trying to pass it off as an accidental brush of hands in case it's rejected, but she doesn't resist at all. They fall into a natural step, and although they avoid eye contact like nervous teenagers, it lacks the same awkwardness. It's probably because their hands fit together perfectly. Although none of her daydreams involved holding hands, this feels nice too. Amazing, actually.

It's perfect, and she doesn't need anything more than his hand touching hers. However, she's human, and Ron is objectively beautiful, so her mind still wanders back to that bridge, where she lets his hand touch her everywhere else.

She's too distracted to notice they've made it back to their hotel.

"Are you thirsty?" asks Ron.

Yes.

"Sorry… what?"

He laughs and gestures to the hotel bar with his other hand. It's still bustling with energy — drinks are flowing, conversation is popping, and it might just clear up the lustful fog clouding her mind. "Can I buy you a drink? Maybe a meal? It's almost dinner-time."

Hermione checks her watch — it's almost five o'clock. How did the day escape her? "Like, a date?"

"Yes. Like a date," he says. "Wifey."

Hermione doesn't cringe at the word this time. Plus, they both need a drink. "Sure, let's have a drink," she says, adding as her stomach growls, "and some food. We'll split the bill."

He raises his eyebrows at her as if expecting something more.

"Hubby."

"There it is!" He grins and slips into the bar, with Hermione following closely behind.

It's an odd journey to a first date. It's definitely not the way she has imagined it. However, Ron is an odd guy, and maybe it's time to let her imagination run a little wilder.

#Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #Ron and Hermione #ron x hermione #ronweasley #hermionegranger #ROMIONE #romione fanfic #romione fanfiction #hpromione #muggle AU #waking up in vegas

[watayaaratamblr]

Chihayafuru chapter 226 [long] impressions:

This is more of "everything that went through my mind while reading every page of the chapter"

naturally, gonna be super ..like SUPER long.

1) Shinobu in her fine Kimono was happy or proud? What are the flowers around her? Who knows, we only know that anything they might symbolize is already clear on her face and pose. She played a very strong opponent, she had “special” fun and she won. Only one remaining win and she will preserve her title for the 4th year in a row. Chihaya on the other hand was lost… She did everything she could “come up with” but she still couldn’t win any of the two matches… maybe “come up with something new” was her mistake? Could it be that it’s impossible to defeat the queen in her world, should Chihaya bring her out instead, Chihaya probably didn’t even thought of this because she is completely lost, she worked very hard and her hard work paid off somehow but it is not enough Chihaya seems unable to have any fun; it’s all about needing to win for some reason, why the passionate Chihaya feels so far away?

2) Arata is shook! He is no longer seeing the Meijin in front of him, he is rather calling Chihaya’s name! On the Meijin board we can see 4 poems, (one was shown clearer behind Hiro who was confused with Arata’s sudden distraction; Sudo also noticed and wondered + the 4 poems seem all on Suo’s side?)

30/Ariake no: the poet expresses his hate for dawns after he had to part from his lover at a dawn with a moon that looked so cold and indifferent. 76/Watanohara-ko: This is the second “Arata” poem (as it starts with the word WATA). The poet describes white waves rolling onward which can be mistaken for the white clouds up in the heavens. 20/ Wabi nureba: a consuming passion poem in which the poet tells the woman he loves that he is willing to sacrifice everything to continue their relationship and that he will go meet her despite the heavy price he knows he will have to pay. 74/ Ukari keru: The poet is in distress because the lady he loves is cold to him and his prayers to be happy with her were futile.

The choice of these poems might be clarified when the cards are read but (because Suo seems shadowed somehow and the focus is on Arata), we can still think that they are about Arata’s feelings and what he wants to do about Chihaya’s state now and how she will treat him after her loss .. She already turned her head away from him after her 1st loss, she avoided him, and now she lost again and Arata who is in love with her is really worried.

3) Arata assesses the situation, Chihaya has 2 losses which will put a great pressure on her for the next games and give Shinobu the chance to be more relaxed. The image of Chihaya’s back when she rushed out with her hand on her face as if she was crying was so strong for Arata, the background intensifies what he felt, he was really worried and repeating her name while sweating (dunno if this was intentional, but he wasn’t sweating before he noticed Chihaya (on ch225)) On the other hand, Suo was still completely focused.

4) 78/Awaji shima: was read and Arata was late. Suo took it

This poem tells about the sleepless nights of a guard at some gate caused by the cries of the plover birds crossing the place known as an exile (the plover is also used to symbolize winter) so this poem might invoke the feelings of loneliness and nostalgia.

65/Urami wabi: was the next one and Arata was also late, the difference is now only 1 card. Sudo was cheering for Suo and wandering if a luck of the draw will be the fate of this game. Arata was taken aback!

The poet of Urami wabi is a lady who is separated from her husband so she felt resentment to him, she cried and her sleeves were always wet but what concerned her more was her reputation tainted because of her failed relationship.

These two poems didn’t appear on the board (because only the upper part was showing) but 78 was on Arata’s side & 65 was on Suo’s. The fact that 78 was the poem read to pull Arata out of his thoughts and keep him focused on his match makes me see it as the plover birds keeping the guard from going to sleep. It can also hint at the distraction itself, if sleep is what we do at night but the plovers prevent it, then Arata should focus on his game but his worry for Chihaya also prevents it, so his feelings or Chihaya’s state is the plovers. As for 65, I can’t think of many possible reasons but it might be the “reputation” part, maybe it’s a hint at Arata’s “name” as the “grandchild of eternal meijin Wataya Hajime” that everyone was eager to see through him which might soon be challenged.

5) Murao & Kuriyama wondered what happened to Arata after he achieved such good result till now. Suo had his eyes glued to the Tatami, his aunt was there, he knew but he didn’t try to look. Arata’s club-mates explained that this was a sign of Suo’s strength: he would use the least of your mistakes like losing your focus for even a sec. Riza specifically was very nervous. Arata started to revise what was read and what wasn’t. he kept good track of all read and unread cards, including the dead cards (Taichi was always praised when he did this but now that Arata is doing it, it feels normal and so like him, I believe we all know that Arata is stronger, Taichi showed us the process to arrive there but Arata was the first to arrive there, he definitely passed by most what Taichi experienced.). With this review, Arata knows what he can use his cross sweep on: Wabi & Wata-ko. Ariake is the 3rd remaining card on Tatami (besides the two above & the thress are drawn earlier on the board) but there are also 3 A cards not read yet (dead cards) which are 58/Arima+ 39/Asaji+ 64/Asaborake-u, Arata expects that Suo will wait to make sure of the 3rd syllable. Arata was worried & his grandpa’s ghost came to support him like Taichi and Harada’s ghost too, Hajime analyzed Suo before and he noticed that he wasn’t good with the cards on the outer edge of his own formation, this is something Hajime noticed back when he was alive and sane, was it like 5 years ago? So is Suo’s condition worse than back then?

6) Hajime’s teachings calmed Arata a bit, he is ready to fight again (he moves so handsomely), those where only words told to him by his mentor, but he is also a real deal, his body is ready, his hands are used to attack, he practiced enough to be able to go under his opponent’s hand to take a card, luckily an ‘A’ card on Suo’s side was read, Arata attacked and he practiced enough to be able to protect that card until the kimariji is decided (also Suo didn’t practice enough to know how to break that defense, it was a card on the edge of his playing field too, but there are only 3 cards left, so he could commit it to his memory as Arata said before on ch 223, the most important thing is memorization, having a card in your sight Then committing it to your memory, you’ll be able to see it even with closed eyes and Arata played like that before when he couldn’t find his glasses)

7) 30/Ariake is the one read, Arata put his hand on it when he made sure and Suo couldn’t find a way to it. Among the 4 poems initially shown on the board, this one was read. Who does it refer to? (if it does). Who is the unpitying moon? who parted with what? who feels longing for what? I can’t really think of an answer and I can’t even tell if there is an answer to begin with. But, it might have something to do with the idea of “committing the card to memory after sight” because when this principle was explained on 223, this card was among the ones shown around Arata & Suo. Arata’s family members where happy contrary to Suo’s family members.. These two panels made me think that in these matches between these two, the families of the players are as involved as the players themselves. (And Akira looks more surprised than happy, maybe he still doesn’t realize how his own words back at the hotel are true: “Arata, you are strong”.) The commentator confirmed the greatness of Arata’s move and there was a suspicious man behind him LOL (why was this man drawn there?)

8) Arata’s cover seems to be a high level one too, this is all Arata’s Karuta because he is the one using his body for it. Suo now seems in danger like Chihaya. Kuriyama & Murao are overjoyed and Arata went out with rather an indifferent face? there are no signs of relief or happiness, he looks rather lost in thoughts.. I was thinking that Suo acknowledged Arata’s strength (that beat him), but for some reason and contrary to Harada sensei, it’s not only “I don’t want to play anyone who is not strong”, he seems like he doesn’t even want to play this strong Arata, even when Kyoko tan who gives him enough motivation to play, he still couldn’t bring himself to use enough strength to defeat Arata…it’s like he is disappointed, he wants something else from him that Arata isn’t showing him… Anyway, Arata now doesn’t even look tired or invested in his win in any way.

9) Now he looks surprised, is it because he can’t see Chihaya anywhere? the half black & half white background was used before and in my case, it represents “Confusion”. In addition to the blush, Arata makes a completely unrelated face with the one he made after he won, it’s like the moment he came outside, he became someone else, or better, he was someone else but the moment he came out, he became himself again (can we then take the blush as an “Arata is himself” sign & its disappearance as a “Hajime mode” sign? XD) The SFX isn’t BAM right? because who is still taking cards? According to Google, it’s rather (バツ/ turn suddenly); And seeing Kana searching for her confirmed that she was nowhere around so he went to look for her right away, even before he reports his win and gives back the cards. (he looked like an old man in the 3rd panel lol) and in the 4th, he looked very concerned for Chihaya suddenly sweating and turning around in a hurry. Kana’s way of searching was by shouting loudly everywhere, while Arata’s reflects more of his personality and I like it, he won’t do random things, he goes to the places where she might be, calmly & silently.. I really love this. So he asks around, the bathroom was a good place to look in but she wasn’t there (and he was so amusing being all shy but asking anyway) These few panels tell me more about Arata’s character; he really is used to take matters into his hands. He didn’t go to ask Kana when was the last time Chihaya was seen and where etc. he didn’t approach those who were already searching for her, he went to do it himself. I already said that, but I guess, his parents & his family conditions made him this way. he couldn’t get support, he was rather the one asked to help so he learnt not to ask for help and to take care of things himself instead. The outside was the last place to look in, is it because Arata was more intuitive that he could find her before Kana who was already searching before he even finished his match? Who knows, but I certainly see Arata as a reliable guy, he always was and he is also now. And there she was, Chihaya was crouching on the cold snow…

10) Arata stuttered like usual before he gets Chihaya’s name out; A whole page just to tell us Arata found Chihaya crying desperately in the snow and her bare feet were red from cold. No special backgrounds, no hinting no indirect messages, it’s all snow and white and they were the only ones there. Arata put his hand on her back casually then lowered his head to see her face (imagining this in slow motion is so warm) and then noticed her freezing toes..

11) As Arata noticed Chihaya’s feet, he held her up on his shoulder, no blushing, no shyness, no hesitation, no clumsiness, his familiar self was buried and Chihaya is what matters now! Arata is strong! He is 177cm and weighs 65kgs while Chihaya is 167 and weighs 54kgs, not much difference right? And this wasn’t the 1st time he carries her, He did before when she fainted in her 1st nationals, he carried her bridal style, now it’s an OTS carry (yep, read about this on TV tropes and they gave it an abbreviation lol “Over The Shoulder carry”) Chihaya was surprised but her focus soon was turned to the box of cards that Arata dropped while carrying her, She started to apologize, she certainly sees the cards as living humans now, Arata wasn’t as concerned, she was 1st for him and everything will come after. When the box fell, 4 poems were revealed:

6/kasassagi no: The misty bridge between distant lovers that will bring them together for sure. 51/Kaku to dani: This is about a fierce love that the poet feels burning inside him but doesn’t know how to express it to the woman he loves. 26/Ogurayama: The poet tries to invite an emperor to visit a certain pretty place that his father visited before and he wished his son would come to see it too. He uses the maple leaves to express the felt desire & longing to see the emperor-son. And half shown, 72/Oto ni kiku: it’s about the known waves of "Takashi beach" that the poet doesn’t want to approach not to wet her sleeve, but it’s actually about her not trusting the invitation she got from a man and fearing a love affair that will end in tears, this poem can be used to express avoiding something not to get hurt by it…

Again, none can say for sure why exactly these poems but I strongly believe that they are a hint. And for me, they are saying something about the relationship between Chihaya & Arata (they are a love story!!).

Looking back on the history of poem 6, we can expect that Suetsugu is going back to the idea of "there is a distance between Chihaya & Arata which is like the distance of the two legendary lovers Orihime & Hikoboshi" but this time, Arata is the one who is preoccupied with this distance more... Kaku to dani: needless to say, this is about Arata’s feelings for Chihaya, they are burning again because Chihaya needs something to cheer her up so he needs to convey them somehow. Ogurayama: I believe this is about the maple leaves carrying Arata’s feelings. Even if he doesn’t try to show it or be vocal about it, even though he used his phone only 3 times to send something to Chihaya (was only a msg through Taichi, then a message to her & Taichi and finally a call-what a progress lol), but he longs for her and wants her to be happy like how the emperor would have felt if he came to see those pretty crimson maple leaves. He wants his feelings to make Chihaya happy somehow. And the half-shown Oto ni kiku is about fear of love and tears. This is about Chihaya who isn’t allowing herself to be involved with love yet! there is something she feels lacking which is necessary before she lets herself love and I believe it’s the thing making her turn her head away from Arata ..

Then Chihaya realized, then looked at Arata’s head, he won his much! he now has 2 wins and one more win and he will achieve the dream he shared with her, the kinda promise: “this weekend, let’s make our 1st dream the reality”

12) Then Chihaya cried, helplessly. She congratulated Arata through her tears but she was rather miserable… It’s so hard to be happy for him right? this is not a win which will be enough to get by either him OR her, whichever happens should be good if they are friends right? but no, this is about her!! I have a feeling that if Chihaya won & Arata not, she wouldn’t be very sad for him.. There is something telling me that Chihaya is only scared of being left behind by Arata, as long as he doesn’t, she will be fine, but if he does, she will feel devastated. this is such a strong word, but I mean it.

13) And she voiced a bit of her concern, she was afraid she can never win, even though she lost only by 3 cards, personally, I’ll think that from 7 cards to 3, I can make it in the next game, but Chihaya seems to think that the strongest she can be is the way she was in this second game, then she can only get close to Shinobu that much, not to lose with more than 3 cards. Arata was surprised; maybe he never thought she could lose hope? or maybe he is confused how she can say so when he believes that she can win against Shinobu.. And ofc, before he says anything Kana & Tamaru finally found Chihaya. Kana is as wary of Arata as ever, the n°1 Taichiha shipper. But apparently, she didn’t see Arata bringing Chihaya from outside, she saw only when he put her down and that looked “too close” for her and “hurry up, let’s go to your waiting room, it’s like she is saving her from Arata.. While our gentleman was putting Chihaya down so carefully while looking at her feet whether they are fine or not.

14) Kana is indeed a typical Taichiha shipper, I have seen it a lot, no matter what Arata does, he is always a target for hate or at least disdain. Approaching Chihaya is a big no for them let alone take caring of her. I tried to laugh at this panel, I thought that sensei really is referring to those fans, she might have wanted it to be a comical moment but it’s not. What I saw is that, again, Kana is putting Taichi & herself before Chihaya & it sucks. Arata didn’t even notice her though, thankfully, all he could see was Chihaya, the painful face she was making & her tears (The background of confusion as I call it).. Arata suddenly took us for another rare moment inside his stubbornly concealed heart, the clumsy guy who seems shallow & insensitive to lot of readers.. Chihaya’s weight alone made him look so deep into her and see so much…She is unfamiliar to him, he didn’t get to learn earlier about her everything, but in every second he is given, we saw him pay a lot of attention and see her with more than his eyes. Chihaya’s tears meant that she worked so hard and that didn’t pay off, she wouldn’t have cried this much otherwise. And he can already learn that much about her by just imagining what he wasn’t there to witness, she worked so so hard. Looking at his hands (Chihaya was there lol), he looked so deep in thought, but he remembered the cards he left on the snow..

15) He rushed to bring them but his thoughts were full of Chihaya and how to cheer for her, Arata acknowledged her strength, she is an amazing strong player who can really defeat Shinobu (he seems to believe he can also defeat Suo).but he is not good at communicating his feelings & thoughts, he is clumsy & he knows it..so will he hide his clumsiness to look cool like Taichi does most of the time? No, that wasn’t what Arata thinking, he was rather wondering about a way to make her know what might save her.. He took the cards getting now wet from the snow, he took 77/SE while he was wondering.. “Se” is about the separated ones who will certainly meet again.. it’s like Arata feels a boulder blocking his thoughts and feelings from reaching her and he wants to find a way to bypass it & reach her. “Se” has always been a special card for Arata and it is because of Chihaya..

16) It was the 1st card Chihaya took from him and he already got it back from her in their match but for Arata, SE is more than that. It’s the card that started Chihaya’s journey in Karuta. and Arata is confident that he is the only one who knows, and he is confident that the level she showed in her match with him is the highest she reached, or the highest anyone can reach, or at least, if she is defeated by Shinobu in 2 matches today and was already defeated by her in ch169 then it’s a level she didn’t go to again after her match with him and she still can do it. Arata’s head was really full of Chihaya, he is so focused on her that he totally forgot he too is where he worked to be for so many years, longer and maybe even harder than Chihaya herself (for almost 12 years, more than half of his life, no it’s 2 thirds of his life!!!), so the Murao twins came to remind him of what he forgot since the match ended, of the Meijin title & his grandpa. Only one other win to be were Hajime Wataya seems to have wanted Arata to be (or at least that’s what Arata thought)

17) Yep, Hajime is telling him to focus, to forget about Chihaya & concentrate on him & his goal. “Se” was shown again with the words “the mejin title”, is that the boulder separating the stream of the river?

18) Arata placed Se back on top of the cards in the box next to another card:

18/Su mi no e no: This poem is about hiding from people’s gaze when going to meet the lover, trying to avoid exposure even in dreams.. Doesn’t it suit the moment perfectly? when the twins came to remind Arata of the Meijin title and his status, he hid “SE” (representing also his feelings for Chihaya) in the box, it’s like how the poet who is an aristocrat from the great Fujiwara family (Fujiwara men are known to choose their wives in the family) is afraid of being exposed.

Arata closed the box, it’s also like “Se” keeps him the real Arata (he said that he lacked love to be himself, so maybe Se is his love poem to Chihaya, his love saves him regardless of whether she reciprocates it or not contrary to Taichi, his love always hurt him, like a curse) The Karuta officials are the happiest for Arata’s win it seems, he pleased them, he revived Wataya Hajime for them again, they are blessed, for them, it’s all about them & Hajime it seems, Arata isn’t really seen for who he is… Arata remembered when that man told him that because Arata’s Karuta is exactly like Hajime’s, he was able to see Wataya sensei again. Back then Arata cried, he said that he really loves Karuta.. Could it now turn into a curse? because it’s too much? Because he is losing himself? because he is not seen? Why was Arata happy back then? and is the reason weaker than any probable desire now to be seen for who he is?

19) Suo was upset! His dear aunt that he didn’t meet for 8 years suddenly came all the way from Kyushu to see him, but he wasn’t happy..He lost two games but he doesn’t seem worried about that... Yukiko was kind and looks like the sweets are a family thing? Sudo is confused (he is amusing when he is like that) & Suo’s cousin is more impressed because Suo had lot of female friends lol Suo was nervous, he wanted to ask how and why they were suddenly there but he stuttered and According to Yukiko chan’s answer, we learn that Suo developed the habit of soft talking after he quit Kyushu.

20) After 8 years of separation, she wanted to touch the boy she loved so much and cared immensely for, maybe it’s because she can’t see him well too, but she failed to reach his face, she couldn’t see well, and Suo felt so hurt, but like anyone else with pride, his reaction was based on his suffering not on hers. And instead of being hurt herself, she rather was worried about him, why would he be cruel to her unless he too is suffering from her same illness.

21) The whole conversation in this page feels weird. Suo raised his voice from frustration and these relatives didn’t try to listen to him before. The cousin rather teased him about his loss as if it’s nothing, (he highlighted the fact that Arata is a youngster too) And Yukiko’s answer was soething I didn’t expect! She doesn’t seem to care much about the Meijin thing, she rather looked hopeful (notice the sudden blush), she thought that if Suo is no longer Meijin then he can go back home. What was even more surprising is that Suo looked agitated but his answer wasn’t what I expected, he asn’t worried that his title doesn’t see precious that his relatives would want him to keep, he was rather worried that what they are offering is impossible because he grew up to become a stranger and going back to his home is impossible.

22) Seems that Suo would consider his home any place Yukiko owns, but he knew that she didn’t own the house she told him to go back to. (isn’t this a reason to work harder in univ then get a job and buy a house to bring Yukiko to live with him instead?) The cousin got angry because things like these aren’t considered in a warm loving family where elderly are respected and considered owners before what papers say.. Suo didn’t seem to want to listen, and he left hurriedly causing his condition to beclearer to his aunt as he bumped with many things in his way out. (BACKGROUND of confusion in the last panel)

23) Still, Suo couldn’t leave before knowing why they suddenly came. and the description was so easy to tell him who, Suo realized it right away, the boy with big eyes who would wish for Suo’s family to come watch him (because he is incredible & wants his family to know that? or bc he pities him?) The boy with big eyes was “Mashima kun” they called him this many times, now they didn’t mention the name, I wonder how Sudou would have felt if he knew? would he realize that Taichi really got the closest to Suo, somewhere he couldn’t go?

24) Chitose left, Chihaya’s mom knew but didn’t understand why, Kana, tsukuba & Nishida stayed out of the room while Chihaya, Tamaru, Namida, Sumire & the last boy from Mizusawa that went to Shiranami were all inside, Kana told the mom it’s better to stay out and those inside were all experiencing the reason lol Ah no, Namida was doing great, he is such positive and hard working boy, he is not wasting his time by being afraid or nervous, he is taking notes instead! Chihaya is the most nervous because she is the reason Harada sensei is furious. Harada never taught Chihaya to send back a card because the opponent will place it again in its original place that they remember well (and we know that Chihaya sent it to provoke Shinobu -see ch222), provocative Karuta based on the knowledge of what Shinobu hates and the cards she won’t place next to each other was Watarai’s teaching.

25) Yep, Shiranami’s way is to target the opponent’s memorization as much as possible, Shiranai members are scared of Harada but can’t deny that he is right, he is a great teacher, has a good experience in Karuta and in teaching, maybe them being present here to hear & learn is the biggest proof. Chihaya also didn’t lift her head, she knew he was totally right, she can’t think that losing was because she was unlucky in front of the strongest queen, it’s because of those small mistakes she allowed herself to make.

26) Harada’s words kept hitting hard for Chihaya. Maybe he didn’t say that she was wrong, she learnt a new way in 2 months but she already had a strong way that she could fortify in these 2 months too.. Chihaya focused on Shinobu’s cards and neglected her own? isn’t this beneficial for an offensive Karuta player? I don’t get it well But Harada didn’t understand much of Chihaya’s new method either and he was honest & fair, he acknowledged what Chihaya still achieved: she got a strong reaction from Shinobu. Did Shinobu’s smile mean that she wasn’t indifferent with Chihaya? that she enjoyed the “strong” opponent? Harada told Chihaya that Shinobu seems to have enjoyed her match with her like she enjoyed her match with Arata which means that Chihaya played at Arata’s level back then and that is an achievement!

27) He smiled to her to make her feel better, because she really did great by learning new strong weapons in 2 months.. And now it’s time for the 3rd game. at this point, we don’t really know if Chihaya was better? if she calmed down? While Arata seems to be still in his grandpa mode, (he looks really like an old man here, calm and silent, he wasn’t like in the 1st break And he was completely the opposite of his father who was so energetic and very satisfied with Yuu’s gift, a design with the word “TOP” inspiring more will to do one’s best to reach the top! Akira seems quite fond of Yuu (I am too), she was admitted to her school of choice & he is happy for her, the Watayas talk so familiarly about her like she is really a close relative except Arata…

28) Akira is really hard to deal with, he does whatever he wants and he is very fond of Yuu. Asking for Arata’s phone to call her & thank her, Arata rejected any try to involve him in this mess (he didn’t even react when Akira said that he will make up a lie and say that Arata was touched because of her gift, Yuu would have probably known it’s a lie because Arata wouldn’t react like that… But it’s IC if he does for Chihaya right?), he was trying his best to focus, he didn’t show any enthusiasm about Yuu; Her, his father, the food or anything of the sort couldn’t break his grandpa mode. And finally, Taichi’s message was discovered, Arata didn’t want to read anything before his game but knowing it’s about Taichi, would that be still the case?

29) Arata stopped! getting a message from Taichi who didn’t come to watch made him really stop, Taichi is really special to Arata. And turning back he found Chihaya there too, she heard what Akira said & her face showed surprise!.

30) Chihaya seemed lost in her desperation, she didn’t say a word she just turned quickly wishing to find something for her too from Taichi, she needed him, when Taichi was around he could somehow find a way to make things better and she needs it now because she is not fine, Harada’s words didn’t seem to heal her fully, she sighed when she didn’t find anything.. Arata was confused (the BACKGROUND), and when Chihaya saw him she blushed & turned her head away in embarrassment, Arata lifted her suddenly earlier and she didn’t have time to do this back then. Why? if it was because Taichi now then what about the 1st time? It wasn’t because of Taichi, it was because she looked weak in front of Arata. Chihaya has always worked hard to reach him, to become someone who can meet his passion, to be worth sitting across him in Karuta.. but she kept losing where he kept winning, he was always ahead and she could never arrive there. Chihaya was embarrassed of her weak self who showed more weakness and dependence of Taichi’s help, it’s like she can’t go anywhere without his support… Arata knew that wasn’t true. Akira asked again if Arata wanted to look at Taichi’s message and Chihaya passed him just now without a word (and Kana still looked at him sideway lol) …so many distractions, Hajime Wataya’s voice was calling him again to focus, just a bit more & he’ll be the Meijin, that’s all he was about after all right?

31) NOT RIGHT!!! That wasn’t all Arata was about, not for those who care to look at him properly! Arata wasn’t worried about being ditched, or about what Taichi’s message might contain, he rather remembered when Chihaya showed him her special bond with Taichi that day when she crushed him.. This was good reason to feel jealous or upset but that’s not who Arata was… He took Chihaya’s hand and disobeyed his grandpa’s words!

32) Arata’s face looks desperate trying to reach Chihaya to make her see the truth he believes about her, she can defeat Shinobu & he means it, he knows her strength too and he could compare, he knows when Chihaya was the strongest and how Taichi is the last piece in what Chihaya fought for and became the strongest… The blush on Arata’s face says how much he wanted to make it through to her, how many times does Arata show emotions? the calm and collected guy, what does it mean when he shows such face? “You shouldn’t go play with Shinobu chan in her arena” Harada sensei pointed out Chihaya’s mistakes but he didn’t show her a way to follow, it’s like he no longer has an advice for her, he gave her everything he got and when she strayed from his path he reminded her, but that’s all, And Arata’s advice was something else, like a Karuta expert, he knew what to tell Chihaya, even though he didn’t watch her matches or maybe he did? because he didn’t seem in a pinch in his own vs Suo, maybe he got time to look sometimes…

33) Arata really had what to say, and Chihaya listened because what she heard was useful. She wanted o go where the lonely Shinobu is but she couldn’t face everything in that world and she came out leaving a still lonely Shinobu inside, Arata tells her to bring Shinobu outside instead, to show her the wonderful things outside that can give Chihaya the same strength as Shinobu, something she might want to come out to get? Chihaya saw an illusion for the calm Queen, the plant in the frame was always used for Shinobu too and it seems (and I’m not sure) that Suetsugu uses it for Shinobu who is Shinobu and not the Queen.

34) Chihaya found Arata’s words interesting, that was some good technical support but she had to think more to find her arena Though, Arata wouldn’t let her, he gives her now the emotional support, he knew Chihaya needed Taichi (not the person, but at least sensing his presence in what he left) so he decided to give her that, anything she needs, he wouldn’t be jealous or needy or immature, he put her 1st and I admire the way he loves even more!

35) Everyone saw what Arata wanted to show, it wasn’t a secret or personal message to Chihaya, and Taichi is the captain of Mizusawa, he pushed that team, and Arata brought it to push it again. Arata persisted bc he knew very well how much Chihaya values Taichi & her team, he didn’t need to be there for 3 years to know, he is very attentive and intuitive too and looks at Chihaya really properly!.

36/37) Arata’s words were moving to all Mizusawa members, they all blushed emotionally, and Chihaya cried, maybe because she missed this or maybe because she somehow betrayed it by forgetting it and not working for her team like she said she would before…(this chapter looks so direct, no BACKGROUNDs, no shoujo effects)

38) Arata held Chihaya’s hand so gently (I wonder why sensei drew this panel, it’s totally unnecessary for anything other than highlighting Arata’s love (romantic love because I can’t imagine him do this to Yuu if she ever goes through something like this)) He mentions his loss to her as something big which is a compliment to Chihaya & an acknowledgement of her strength & level. He says it with no embarrassment because her win was well deserved (I want to see Taichi make a confession like this to Arata). And Mizusawa captain was strong because she played for her team, she used all she had for them… so Chihaya again, only has to play her own Karuta, this is the opposite of what Chihaya told Arata in his match against Harada, she told him to play like someone else.. Amusing!

39) In Shinobu’s waiting room, Shinobu was acting like a child, so carefree; she only has 1 remaining win to keep her title after all. She also seems so close with Kokoro chan now (Kokoro called her Shinobu without “chan” or anything, it implies so much familiarity right?) also Shinobu is a bad example it seems lol. Though Kokoro mentions something that might be a hint to Shinobu’s next loss (a 3rd game is tiresome). And then when Shinobu was about to get up, something was off, she felt something but she didn’t see what it was? Kokoro asked but she didn’t answer? Chihaya was shown right after that still having her tears while Arata kept explaining what he wanted to say, like he himself does, he gave her an image he knows will push her to win, she had to think that she is playing in a team tournament, her team is losing, they have two losses and 0 wins, now the remaining 3 members should all win at all costs and Chihaya will play the role of the three players, it’s like when they played in the finals of last year’s high school team tournament vs Fujisaki where both Tsukuba & Tsukue kun lost and Chihaya, Taichi & Nishida felt the responsibility to win each their game, Taichi was the one who voiced this desire 1st (ch81). (That was the game Chihaya felt upset because Arata told her that he didn’t care for teams and now, he is showing her the opposite of what she feared back then, he treasures "teams" & knows exactly how important one is for any member.)

40) And Arata impersonated Taichi for Chihaya! He should have felt jealous, he already experienced that feeling and wanted to be the one Chihaya sees, but now & for her sake, he accepted Taichi and even revived him in her memory to get as much strength from that as she needs. He wasn't there but he must have known Taichi would say that for Chihaya so he reminded her of it for her sake instead of being selfish & feeling miserable or jealous (reminds me of when Chihaya hid in the closet after she lost, the way Taichi brought up Arata’s name all miserable & helpless, he couldn’t forget about himself for a bit for Chihaya contrary to Arata even though he didn’t have anything to be confident about, Chihaya was closer to Taichi, she cared for him so much, she showed him this care in front of his eyes, he had every reason to feel threatened but he didn’t, Chihaya mattered more than that to him …)

#Chihayafuru #arata wataya #wataya arata #ayase chihaya #wataya hajime #Harada Hideo #chapter_impressions

[gogogobarry]

@distortsverity​ submitted: 47. - stars (and if you're willing to combine, 10. - nostalgia)!

It’s the evening before Barry and Hikari depart on their respective journeys, but (naturally) neither of them are in their beds. Instead, the two neighbors--with the help of long-established hand signals through closed windows--now find themselves laying on Lake Verity’s soft, dew-stained grasses, their wide eyes trained on the sprawling starscape above, a celestial wall of wonder. It’s as if the lake itself is rewarding their final act of childhood rebellion...

“Hey...I can see Sirius,” Hikari murmurs, eagerly tugging on Barry’s sleeve as her attentive gaze falls upon the radiant body. “Remember those star charts that Professor Rowan gave us...?”

“Thinking about school right now? Nerd. You sound just like Lucas--ow!” the blond retorts with a smirk, only to wince as Hikari gives him a good pinch on the shoulder. “Okay, that’s a definite fine. And no, I just remember using my star chart as fuel for our last bonfire...it’s not like we’ll be needing it once we become Pokemon legends!”

Hikari can’t help but grin at her friend’s enthusiasm. As the pair begins to lapse into another comfortable silence, Barry can’t resist posing a question of his own. “...D’you think that there are Pokemon in space? Like...superpowered aliens?”

It’s Hikari’s turn to scoff (only slightly). “Are you sure that you’re not an alien...?” she teases--Barry’s fault for leaving such low-hanging fruit! Barry stews for just a moment before perking up again, jabbing a finger skyward. “Fine! Since you’re such a non-believer, I’ll just have to go into space, catch a ‘mon, and prove you wrong! After I become Champion, that is!”

“That’s quite the busy schedule...” Hikari observes bemusedly, but Barry’s attention is already focused on something new: “Check it out, Hika--it’s the Big Dipper!”    

There’s a pause, and then a sigh. “Barry, that’s the Little Dipper. Close enough, though.” Another pause, and then the blond finally speaks again, hazel eyes busy following Hikari’s constellation-tracing finger. “...Oh. Well, in my defense, it looked pretty big...”

The two friends talk until the pink hues of sunrise begin to shine through the Verity treeline. Little do they know, their next adventure to the lake will abruptly elevate both of them to trainer status...

---

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

A much-older Barry--now one month removed from his League title attempt--is home again, treading the familiar twilit shores with nostalgia thrumming loudly in his heart. As the Starly begin to tuck themselves in and the Kricketot begin to practice, the adventure-weathered runner-up sprawls himself upon on the grass, its blades tickling the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath. For once, he has no intention of moving. A breezy autumn wind sends a frosty ripple across the lake, but Barry is perfectly comfortable with the chill--he’s Sinnohan, after all.

The blond turns his gaze skyward, but tonight is cloudy, and only one star manages to shine through the obscurity: Sirius. He feels a sudden pang in his chest--how long has it been since Hikari captured the title, gotten swept up by Cynthia and the Sinnohan media? Too long. It’s been ages since their last choppy phone call or laggy Pokemon Center video chat. And suddenly, Barry feels very alone.

“Turns out you were the star all along...” he mumbles towards the sky halfheartedly, hazel eyes fixed on the enduring shine of Sirius. And then, out of nowhere and oh so suddenly, his glum mind state is shattered by a familiar laugh, and an even more familiar voice.

“Are you serious? Arceus, I think that’s the corniest thing you’ve ever said. By far.”

Barry looks up as Hikari’s shadow falls over him, and he can’t help it--despite his friend’s incredulous expression, he’s already grinning ear to ear.

Welcome back.

#distortsverity #drabble??? try novel LMAO #i couldnt help myself...hope you dig it :') #barry pokemon #rival barry

[rankdisasster]

in utero

“So, remember those prompts... well, I got more for you. Need 13 and 31, have fun with those two. ;P” requested by @fortheloveofhargrove

#13: “I thought you were dead.”

#31: “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

warnings: ANGST 

—

Billy clicked his tongue and sang along to some mindless catchy tune beneath his breath as he eyed the dark and lonely road ahead of him. The radio was playing something he’d never even heard of before, but he was in a mood so good, so rare that it didn’t even matter. Drives like these were his favorite, when the world would just shut the fuck up for a second and he could run away to fantasy land in peace without any unwelcome intrusions. His right foot eased the gas pedal further down, gradually accelerating in hopes to arrive at his destination early so he could surprise her once she’s off the plane. The blonde boy behind the wheel felt almost as if he’d gotten slapped in the face with nostalgia as he recalled the last conversation he’d had with her before leaving.

Goodbyes were a thing that were never not painful or unsettling. That all too familiar dread of not knowing whether it’ll be the last time he’d see her, hug her, hell; even fucking smell her. As if it happened only yesterday, the boy could still hear the girl’s soft weeping muffled in his chest, can practically feel the way her body moved up and down with each broken sob. It was difficult to see someone usually so fearless, so composed and put together, like some CIA agent from an action flick break down and curl into him for warmth and support. He let a couple (okay, maybe more than a couple) salty tears of his own fall as he held her in his lap.

Y/N had been an irreplaceable constant back in the glory days, her having never broken his trust nor the laundry list of promises she’d sworn once the heartache of his departure had blown over. It was foolish to think that even for a second he could get over the bitterness of starting all over again at some mundane public school. It was also just as foolish to think he could just forget about missing her as the weeks turned to months and the months added up to a year. But that was just another ploy the universe threw his way, seemingly enjoying Billy’s pain and suffering. Tonight though, tonight was gonna be different. He won’t let a single thing overshadow him any longer. He refused to listen to his inner tormentor deep down that laughed whenever he tried rationalizing how he would go about giving his confession, telling her his secret. As Billy goes over the script in his head, he clears his throat and adjusts the rear view mirror to himself as he practices his performance again. Real casual-like, he flashes a smile over at his reflection, pretending it’s her that’s watching.

“Y/N, lookin’ ah, looking good. Beautiful, actually. Know you already got a line of guys tellin’ you this every damn day, but I mean it when I say you somehow get prettier every time I see you. I really missed us hanging out, y’know? Takes me back to all those long nights, and uh... since I left I’ve been thinkin’ a lot...” he licks his lips and thinks back to the lines he’d gone over in his head like clockwork. His face twists into something more down and depressing, like whatever he’s trying to say will only burden their already troubled lives. “Too much, actually. I realize I’ve done almost nothing else worth my fucking time here except think of you whenever I feel shitty or, or like when everything is too much yet not enough. It’s been — been one of the only things I feel has real meaning to it for once, actually makes sense. ‘Cause you get me, and no one ever surprises me unless you do, and ah...” the blushing blonde shakes his head, a stray blonde curl falling to his forehead in the process of scolding himself with a swear before starting over.

“You know what? Fuck this. Let’s just go. We could just fuck off somewhere, go get a couple drinks, have a couple laughs, and... fuck. Shut up, you idiot. Don’t quote Die Hard on her for fuck sake,” he slaps his palm on his face, scoffing at his own stupidity before his eyes grew twice their size realizing how close the airport had become in the distance. He feels the same old doubt return right over his shoulder, and it smirks as if it’s being proven right; that telling her what he feels really is a horrible mistake. That it’s nothing but a rotten idea he’ll regret when she laughs in his face and turns around to fly right back to Santa Monica.

Billy’s heart is practically in his mouth by the time he pays for the ridiculously priced parking ticket and makes his way to the gate. His fucking leg somehow decides to grow a mind of its own, bouncing up and down with urgency while his teeth are occupied with chewing his fingernails down to the nub. He remembers when the roles were reversed once upon a time, when he was on the plane and she was the one agitated while sitting in the airport. Y/N still had that precious pink flush coating her cheeks when he was ready to board his flight, holding onto one of his biceps when she’d whispered something in his ear that had stuck with him:

”Don’t ever forget to remember me, okay?”

When Billy finally opens his eyes back up to the world around him, a herd of exhausted and enthusiastic travelers alike have exited the gate and met their loved ones with tired hugs and kisses. He rubs his pant leg to settle down while eagerly scoping the crowd for her hair or her face. When his wide eyes finally lands on her, the twang in his gut seeps back up to the surface, making Billy helplessly weak in the knees as he throws himself off the chair and into a pose ready for a warm welcome. He flails his arms in the air for her attention and calls out her name with repetition like a nuisance, both careless and unaware of the ruckus he’s stirred in front of all the annoyed families surrounding him. When Y/N had seen it was Billy that was screaming up a storm, her face cracks up into that same shit-eating grin he’s always known and loved then jogs over. The desperate pair reunite in the middle.

“I thought you were dead or something, asswipe! Why didn’t you ever write or call?” Y/N squealed in his arms as he picks her up and spins her around with sloppy grace. Billy bites his lower lip as he puts her down, his hands going down to cup her cheeks with tenderness, as if she were something to be cherished forever, and she is.

“Eh, some things are just better said face-to-face I guess,” he shrugged, giving her cheek a peck before bending over to pick her bags up and swing them effortlessly over his shoulder. As they bicker back and forth like the good old days while making their way to the dark busy parking lot, Billy can say with utter undeniable truth that he genuinely feels all is right with the world again.

—

“I can’t believe I’m even here right now and finally seeing this dump that stole my best friend with my own two eyes. I mean I got like eighty bucks to my name, little to no idea where I’ll stay, but I actually made it!” she hollered, playfully giving the blonde’s ass a painless smack. He reacted with a bashful jump and a laugh, struggling with her bags under pressure. “Can’t wait to see your car again ‘cause man I missed her. Old Martha still runnin’ smooth and pretty, I presume?”

Billy felt breathless as he set her luggage down to the pavement, reaching for his car keys to unlock the trunk before hauling them inside and slamming it closed. He stops to look back at her with a twinkle of mockery in his eye.

“So that’s what you named my car, huh? Martha?” he fact-checks, going over to the passengers side to open it for her, the chivalry he only abided by around her in particular coming back like it never left at all. Like they were still the same confused teenagers first meeting, getting into mischief just to busy their bland, empty agendas. She gives him a half-hearted shrug before explaining.

“Heard it’s good luck to name everything you own, amirite? Plus, you got no right making fun of that name. That’s my aunt’s name, ‘case you forgot stealing all her pot from her sock drawer and smoking it with me at school,” Y/N retorts with a finger pointed at him accusingly. The blonde behind the wheel let’s out a sarcastic ha ha at the memory, starting up the Camaro and backing out as the girl in the passenger’s side messes with the radio. The fond memories have flooded back almost uncontrollably; he can’t wait to make more, even if they only had tonight.

“In our defense that’s a shitty place to hide all that dope, alright? And uh, pretty sure that’s with boats. You name a boat and that gives you good luck. Not a car, you fuckin’ genius.”

Her face scrunches up in thought as if that’s the most mind-boggling thing she’s ever heard, and it ruins Billy with how fucking cluelessly perfect the facial expression is. He watches with intent as she snaps out of it in a hurry. “What you just said makes literally no sense, but I’ll ignore the ridicule and cut to the chase, Bilbo. What is it you’ve been up to without me or the beach? Gone insane yet?” she teased the last part in his ear, putting a hand on his right shoulder and giving it a squeeze. It takes Billy a moment to try and get used to how normal this really is, being touched by her, and he’d nearly forgotten that she’ll give any guy with a heartbeat the exact same treatment. Billy wasn’t an exception, and surely he wasn’t the first guy to get butterflies either.

With a clear of his throat, he throws back on his social mask for stability before shaking his head, the disbelief out in the open within his tone. “Are you fucking kidding, Smalls? ‘Course I did. What good is anywhere or anything when it doesn’t involve you or the goddamn beach?” Billy finished, finding his way onto the main road and putting the airport in his rear view. The driver thinks back two years prior and reminisced on all the adventures they had in Santa Monica before the inevitable happened. He fixed his hair absentmindedly (maybe even a little self-consciously) before reluctantly rambling on under his breath about what’s been ruined since he got taken away from paradise.

“Not a lot goes on ‘round here. Seriously. Place reaks like cowshit, haven’t met anyone worth my time. Max doesn’t seem to think so though, I guess. She’s even made more friends than me. Like... sure, I found this group of jackasses that worship me for knowin’ how to hold my booze, but I haven’t found anything like what we had. Not even close.” Billy swallows, looking back up to the rear view mirror like how he practiced on the way over. It isn’t the same, and he feels too vulnerable saying anything like that out loud with her sitting right fucking there. So he does what any man in the right mind would do, and reacts to his fear, his doubt. He backs down and changes the subject without looking in her direction to see her face. The boy faked a chuckle, an unconvincing one, then keeps his eyes on the road so he doesn’t fucking crash them.

“Tried to liven things up a little, but it’s so goddamn boring, y’know? So uh, anyway, that’s... yeah.”

It starts off sounding so pitiful, then it ends so fucking weak and pathetic. The blonde foolishly hoped and hoped, knowing he could do it, could put everything into English and say it. But he can’t. It gets stuck on his tongue, stuck like a gross aftertaste of something he can’t get rid of. It stings.

He feels his other leg not pressed on the gas physically twitch when the girl beside him puts a palm on his lap to soothe him of imaginary worries. Her eyes were practically scraping to get inside his soul and have it be her own place to call home when he merely glanced at her. It took an enormous amount of will power not giving in to the temptation, but he pulls it off by distracting himself with views of the dark road ahead.

“Yeah, also uh, my old man won’t know you came here for me. I made sure of it. We’ve got all night to catch up,” he ended on a high note, now finding himself grin at all the possibilities awaiting as the girl now has taken to copying him by eyeballing the lifeless scenery out the window that is Hawkins.

After a hasty moment, she hums to acknowledge him and follows it up with a soft, somewhat unsure murmur. “That’s good. Great, actually. I um, I got lots of shit to fill you in on, and I mean a lot, but... anyways, it’s not important. Fuck. Hey, there any places to eat ‘round here? I’m starving,” she finished with glee, deciding to ditch the mood-killing approach at telling him what had happened to her while he was gone.

The blonde hums as he threw a smile at the road, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in excitement, back in the groove. He had just overreacted, that’s all. Their evening didn’t have to depend on what she said back. He could tell her later on and be at peace whether or not she reciprocated his longing for more.

“Alright. Well uh, lucky for you, Smalls, I know just the right place for us. Get ready for the baddest burgers in this shit town, ‘kay?”

Y/N let out a snort after holding her breath a beat too long, shoving her partner’s shoulder before gluing her eyes to the road.

—

“... So then I’m running as fast as I possibly can to get outta there before this fat guy could catch me, he even threatened me with a goddamn gun. Surprisingly he was really fast, too, alright. Like — like The Flash fast. ‘Coulda almost beat ‘em too, but right after I’m rushing to hop this fence, I jump too high and lose my grip. The ground really knows how to whoop my ass,” Billy snorted as he incessantly raved about the shit pot he’d stirred. After trespassing private property not only on a school night, but also at four in the morning. “Oh, also landed right on the money maker,” he smirked, gesturing towards his face with a French fry covered in ketchup between his fingers. “I think I lost a tooth while I was at it, too.”

“Fucking A, Billy! Dude, to be fair, from the sound of it you really got what you deserved,” Y/N pointed out while marveling at his male idiocracy, a goofy scowl plastered on her face as she shook her head back and fourth. She dropped the napkin she’d crumbled up in her palms to her half-empty plate of a classic diner burger and the French fries that Billy had no shame in picking at. He nodded while looking like he was proud of the chaos he’d created, taking his partner’s Cherry-Vanilla Coke and slurping the remaining sip through the straw. He hadn’t had an appropriate moment to give telling her their situation another try, but he’s content with the comfortable familiarity of exchanging both horrific and grotesque stories in each other’s absence. It felt like slipping on an old pair of boots that still fit somehow, still felt good to wear and walk around in, and he wasn’t willing to unlace them or take them off quite yet.

“Yeah yeah, what goes around comes around. I know. Speaking of which, you uh, you got any news to tell me?” the boy asked suspiciously, recalling how their only topic of conversation all night had been solely regarding his whereabouts and only vague answers coming from her. “I know you weren’t up to any good either, Smalls. Pretty hard to deny, what with our reputations and all.” he grinned, pulling a nearly empty pack of Menthols and sticking one on his lip, signaling their waitress for the check with a hand gesture. Y/N’s face twists into something worrisome, brows knitted, lip bit, arms crossed like she wanted to disappear. She was hiding something.

The uneasiness doesn’t rest lightly on the boy’s shoulders at her expression, and thankfully their waitress has great timing and clears their table of their finished goods.

“Can we talk outside, maybe? Or, or just go— just go somewhere where we can —“

Billy scrambled to assure her that her wish was his command, breaking whatever unwelcome tension with a helpful hand on her shoulder. “Of course, Smalls. You don’t know where you’re staying tonight, right?”

A watery smile spreads on her small face, a slight shake of the head that says no, I’ve had no idea where the fuck to stay every night for months, dipshit.

“Look, I have a plan for you, okay? Got you money for a room at this motel not very far, I’ll take care of you.” he swore, unzipping his jacket and covering her back with it as the frosty air nipped their cheeks on the way outside. The moon glowed in the sky, acting like a night light for them as they approached Old Martha, cranking the heat in as soon as they were both safe inside.

The pair sit in silence, the boy unaware of what’s changed or made her stiffen up; the girl unaware of how she’ll confess something that only a select few know and have already judged.

“Now what— no, who the hell is it that made you this upset, huh?” he threatens to the unknown source of his best friend’s pain, already getting revved up to fly back home and settle this out with his fists. Their destinated motel only a mile away and seatbelts not even fastened.

“I’ve — I’ve been keeping something from you.”

Billy blinks stupidly and throws his hands off the steering wheel and in the air. Could this be it? Could it mean the same thing as him keeping something from her? Nothing is getting answered fast enough, and he’s so sick of waiting. “Okay? And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/N chews her bottom lip and rests her elbow on the door, her palm now gathering the dramatic beads of sweat from her forehead. “It means I’ve got a reputation; you know, I know, the whole fucking population of Santa Monica knows, Billy! You don’t need to act dumb, okay, it isn’t cute anymore.”

The driver squints in utter bewilderment, finally pushing the brake with impatience, making them bounce forward at the sudden stop. The Camaro sits outside the motel as droplets of rain grow heavier and louder as it pecks on the windows. It could almost drown out the feeling of intensity in the small space.

The blonde pinched the bridge of his nose like an irritated diva, pairing that with a seemingly apathetic eye roll. “I was only kidding back there about that shit. You know I don’t believe that nonsense about you... sleepin’ around or whatever, okay. I only believe you. I trust your word over those assholes and their tendency of spreading fucked up lies about any girl in school, ‘kay?”

Y/N felt on the brink of a drastic explosion, going as far as to open the window and sticking her head outside to feel the raindrops pool around her face, tickling her with its’ gentleness.

“Hey, get your head back in here. You’re gonna catch a cold, and then you’ll have to fly back home sick tomorrow, alright, so could we just cut the charade and talk like adults—” Billy’s reprimand was interrupted by Y/N’s surprising outburst.

“I don’t have a home anymore!” she screeched, yanking her head back inside and flipping her wet hair out of her face before crossing her arms stubbornly. “It was taken away from me. Got kicked out ‘cause of my reputation,” she trailed off as he turned his head to the side in concern mixed with confusion, his jaw wide enough to catch flies. Before spitting another useless question at her, he swallowed with unstoppable nerve and cautiously reached over to her door and roll the window back up.

“Smalls, I’m — I’m fucking sorry. So sorry. But right now all’s I wanna do is get you nice and dry. Cozy too, and in our own space with no one to bother us or... or even kick us out. I’m gonna get your bags, we’ll go fetch a room, and then continue this by then, okay?” he whispered, finding his fingers had gotten wet while delicately petting her damp locks. Her lips wiggled like she was gonna blow into tears any second, and he really hated the sight, but whoever was responsible in making her homeless was gonna be sorry they ever caused someone as close to Billy as she was so much pain.

The rain came down and soaked the blonde’s hair, color fading to a chestnut brown under the weather as he fumbled with his keys to get into the trunk as fast as possible. Her bags weren’t the lightest, but it must’ve been nearly all her belongings if she didn’t have a home anymore. They rested like rocks on his back and in his grasp as he gave Y/N the signal to hurry out as to not get any more drenched than her face had already become. Billy spits on the pavement before counting down from three on his fingers, and as soon as he got to one she was out and flailing in the rain with him, both eager to get warmth and shelter. Some giggles were even shared as they cringed feeling their clothes sticking to their bodies before finally making it inside.

The guy behind the counter wasn’t amused by their boisterous entrance, but they couldn’t find it in them to feel bad. After getting themselves a room key, they forced themselves to put a hault on their dispute for now, just like pressing the pause button on a TV remote; Billy rubbing her lower back in the elevator once he’d set her luggage down and Y/N leaning further into him as tears threatened to wilt out of her. Finding room 1408 thankfully wasn’t like a game of Where’s Waldo, and they’d both gotten comfortable quickly in the tidy space. The boy had set her things down as she fled to the restroom. He’d taken to counting all the shapes he could make out on the tacky wallpaper and got stopped at number fifty-eight. Y/N emerged from the bathroom much drier yet back in a similar state as before; frightened and uncomfortable. Taking action, he threw himself off the King sized bed and took her into his embrace.

“You’re safe with me, you do realize that, right?” he muttered, trying his hardest to keep it together like the broken girl in his arms. She trembled in a way that said she didn’t know she was safe, like she still felt wrong. In one swift movement, she shoved him backward and left him stumbling in ignorance and hurt, barely giving him a warning before she finally snapped.

“It’s true what those boys said about me, what I did with them. You would’ve known that by now if you had a goddamn brain instead of this... this giant heart of a puppy,” she cradled her head in guilt and shame for everything coming from her mouth, stepping back and avoiding his eyes all together. “I slept with the basketball team, the football team, even the fucking tennis club! You name it, I’ve fucked it. You know what’s crazy about this, other than the amount?” she asked rhetorically, her voice winding down to a broken whisper.

Billy feels his eyes well up and he doesn’t put energy into stopping it. There are veins bulging, flaming up in places he hadn’t even known he had. He recalls all the side eyed looks from the boys while he walked down the halls with her, when he’d ditch to smoke her aunt’s dope with her, or in class laughing with her. They weren’t ogling him because they thought they’d be a cute couple. They were laughing at him in silence because he was whipped for Santa Monica’s school skank.

“I don’t regret all of it; well, all but one. You, you remember Chris Hooker, he was your runner up? Chris fucking idolized you, Billy. He wanted to be like you so bad that... he thought one way of being like you was to get with me. And I let him after you left, I was so lonely that I’d do just about anything to cover up the shitstorm of losing you; and if that meant fucking this guy that always dressed like you and acted like you all the time— then so be it.” Y/N shrugged, trying to wipe the endless waterfall of tears as she watched Billy break too.

“You... you didn’t—“ he tried to deny, shaking his head and mimicking her by cradling his head in his hands as he walked in circles back and fourth, not believing anything he’s hearing. She sniffled and rubbed her nose with her sleeve before coming closer to him, looking him in the eye the first time since her confession begun.

“It happened, and I’ve never been this sorry about anything in my life, Billy. In fact, I even said sorry to him, ‘cause I couldn’t take care of it or even myself after he knocked me up and turned my life into this, this total hellhole—“

“You got kicked out because they found out,” Billy mumbles when he came to the realization, staring as if he were hypnotized by the painting of an angel hung up on the wall behind her. “They found out that you got pregnant, then you got rid of it... so they ended up punishing you.”

Y/N clung to him tighter before confirming with an uneasy nod, a sob escaping and tearing through her as she got red.

“I never named it, so I guess it didn’t bring good luck, remember?” she reminded him of their previous conversation when she first landed, stroking his arms up and down with tenderness. “You um, you missed a part of the story actually, a really important one.”

The blonde recoiled from his partner and scrubbed his arms in hysteria, feeling hopeless and weak and like all his doubt had fed to his brain was right. He wasn’t an exception. He wasn’t the good guy, he was just another guy going nuts for the same girl everybody else in their entire class ever did.

“Stop it! Stop hurting yourself, Billy, this is my fault. I should’ve told you sooner that—“

“What? What’s left to say now?”

“That I—“

”WHAT?” his fists were clenched and thick at his sides, the jealousy and the disgust overtaking him and fueling a fire that hadn’t started over night.

“That I love you!” she had shouted, both of them spiraling out of the devastating tornado of abandonment and lies, now joining together in the middle; mirroring their warm welcome at the airport just hours before. Billy’s fingers shoved her by her hips so that they were skin-to-skin as he finally went in for the kiss all the guys back home already knew but he himself had never gotten to experience. They were both gone, desperate for their touches and their actions to say everything they’d wanted to say. The apologies, the love, the hurt. She tasted lovely on his tongue, and he waited for the need to breathe to become nearly unbearable before even thinking of pulling away. Their mouths made a smacking sound as their lips left eachothers, making Billy let out a helpless, weak in the knees sounding moan.

“And to finish the missing part, um... I can’t keep kissing random strangers pretending that they’re you,” she whispers in his ear, bashfully coming back down from her tippy-toes right after giving a playful nibble to his ear and a warm kiss on the cheek. Billy thinks back to his alone time talking in the mirror, all the things he said and wrote down, practiced for this very moment. Like clockwork, he spouts the rehearsed lines out that felt like daggers holding inside.

“Smalls... since I’ve been gone, ah... all’s I’ve done is nearly nothing worth my time except, only except thinking of you when I feel like everything is a lot. And also like everything was never really enough. It’s like one of the only things I feel like has meaning to it for once. ‘Cause you get me, I get you. No one ever surprises me unless you do. And I fucking love you even more, Y/N, and I’d like to make you forget. Forget about those dicks, forget about your parents. You’re with me from here on out, you understand? Smalls?” he opens his eyes to see her doing that thing again, where she scrapes into his soul and nests inside, makes it a home for herself. It makes him melt in all the right and wrong ways imaginable.

“I understand.”

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #billy hargrove x you

[gingerbreton]

11. A kiss on the inside of the wrist

Thank you @dickeybbqpit and @reverienne for both asking for this one.  Apparently I have a weakness for this, but have kind of ended up on the bittersweet side of things.  It’s given me a chance to think about new canon too, so thank you x 

Nostalgia

It’s an unfair move, against all the rules that she thinks they’ve been dancing around, an old affectionate habit he has no right to use anymore, yet Freya justs watches as Thom’s lips brush her knuckles.  He turns her hand palm up in his, just like he used to, and for all her good intentions of leaving, she lets him draw her closer.  

There’s a treacherous kind of nostalgia in that moment, the kind that tricks the mind into thinking the chill mountain air isn’t so bitingly cold, that the shuffling of hooves from the stalls might actually be the synchronised steps of dancers, and that the whispering breeze carries strains of long forgotten music.  It’s practically been ten years and she still remembers it all like it was yesterday; it’s a curse and a blessing all at once.  

Thom’s grey-blue eyes never leave hers, posing an unspoken question - permission that never used to be asked for when they could read each other so very well, back when it was all a game to them.  

Oh but now his expression is so much softer than all those years ago.  

The whole world has changed between then and now, and still Freya’s breath hitches in the back of her throat as he draws her hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist.  

She can’t help the amused smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth when soft bristles tickle against the sensitive skin.  The beard is new, different, but not unpleasantly so - she has to scold herself for thinking it’s something she could get used to.  She wonders if Thom can feel how fast her heart is racing, because to her it feels embarrassingly fast, ready to rid her of any last hope of dignity by breaking free from her chest.  

It’s all too easy in the moment to let the loneliness force aside her doubts, to push away the bitterness and only remember the sweet memories.  He always was intoxicating; even now when the cockiness has been replaced with a soul-aching sadness that he tries in vain to hide, she can’t deny the need to have him close.  

Just a moment longer, she promises herself, I really have to go.  She’s told herself these lies before, when she knew that smirk was trouble, and she broke the promises then too.  But every time it was worth it.  Almost every time.  

Freya presses her palm to Thom’s cheek, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone, and for just a little while she smiles at him, and he smiles back at her, and they really could be all those years ago.  

But life isn’t that kind, especially not to her, and all too soon the bubble bursts, the moment collapsing around them like a house of cards caught by a sudden gust of frigid mountain air.  And he’s sad.  And she’s hurt.  And they aren’t in Val Royeaux, they’re in a rickety barn in a mountain fortress, with the whole world falling apart around them.

#popping my head up from my semi-hiatus with mini ficlet #i blame my migraine for the angst #freya trevelyan #blackwall x trevelyan #freywall #freya x thom #dragon age fic #dai

[scholarly-minuet]

Little post-Naadam ficlet of Heliox reuniting with his mom

She approached him, after the Naadam, gait confident despite her tribe's loss. To some extent, Heliox had know she would be there - the Kha tribe had missed Naadams before and would again, but little flashes of red, different than the Mol's, broke through his blue-and-gold tunnel vision during the fight. Short though she was, she was still able to clap a gloved hand on his shoulder. Years of distance had done nothing to dull the nostalgia of the the familiar gesture, and he found himself grinning even as Hien, Lyse, and Gosetsu braced themselves trepidatiously and not a little confused.

"Khagan! Think you're going somewhere?"

The Xaela woman asked, flicking Heliox on the horn. Heliox smiled, a flood of the homesickness that had plagued him since returning to the Steppe returning full force. Gleefully recognising the voice, he spun around to the smaller woman, bending over to scoop her up in a hug. His companions, to their credit, relaxed their grip on their weapons, but still looked on, confused.

The woman hugged him back just as tightly, rustling his coiffed white hair as she did so. "Did you think you could come home and leave without so much as saying hi? Foolish child, mother will always find out when you are near," she crooned. Heliox, embarassed, released her from his grasp, setting the woman gently on the ground and standing up beside her, tail swishing happily through the air. The woman brushed back her fiery orange hair and patted Heliox's shoulder.

"Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but did she say mother?" Lyse stage-whispered to Hien, who, after a beat of thought, merely furrowed his brow slightly and nodded in response. Gosetsu, however, relaxed the grip on his sword, smiling knowingly.

Heliox cleared his throat, not a little embarassed, but still glowing happily. "You can sheathe those, friends - this is my mother, Nomalun." The woman bowed, deeply, and Heliox turned to her. "Mama, this is Lyse, of the Eorzean Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Lord Hien of Doma, and his retainer, Gosetsu," he explained, gesturing to each person in turn, who similarily bowed to Nomalun, much less puzzled now.

Nomalun's amber eyes sparked as she glanced at Hien. "Ah, you are the friend of the Mol, are you not?" she asked, with the tone of someone who was already sure of the answer to the question she had posed. Hien nodded.

"I owed them a great debt, for saving my life. Though at last, they have been repaid, through victory of the Naadam," he replied. Nomalun nodded knowingly.

"The Kha will participate again. Truth be told, I am glad it's not the Oronir or Dotharl again. Unpleasant is not strong enough a word for them," she said, wrinkling her nose scales. "But enough about boring tribal matters! Where has your journey taken you, my child? Besides skywards, of course - you have shot up not unlike a bamboo pole." Nomalun inquired, once again clapping a hand on Heliox's shoulder. Heliox flushed, looking to Hien and Lyse, who looked more amused than sympathetic.

"I, ah, have been busy - it is a long song, and I believe Lord Hien requires us to be attending to matters..?" Heliox looked inquisitively to Hien. Before the vaguely surprised lord could reply however, his retainer chimed in.

"Go talk with your mother! Lord Hien and I will take care of everything here - cherish your time with her," the large man practically shouted, wheeling a vaguely shocked and very exhausted Hien away, back towards the Mol encampment. Trotting along behind them was Lyse, who offered a thumbs up to Heliox before following Gosetsu's heavy stride.

("We really do need to be returning to Doma, you know," Lyse said as they walked back to the Mol camp.

"We can afford one more night before returning, I think." Hien replied. "I would not stop him from reuniting with family." Gosetsu nodded in agreement.)

Heliox watched as his only method of escape was carted away and for just the briefest of seconds contemplated running, before shaking his head and turning back to the grey-skinned woman.

"A poor attempt to escape, my child," she said, looking up at him with a smirk. Heliox sighed - the years spent apart did not dull her knowledge in the slightest.

"Perhaps we should not talk in the middle of the Steppe fields?" Heliox asked, the embarassment beginning to creep up on him like the moon over the horizon. "Where is the tribe living this year?"

"We are returned to the mountains, as of late. Come, my sweet, give me your hand, and we shall go home," she said, offering her own for him to place his in. Heliox looked trepidatious, brain warring with his homesick heart.

"I... I cannot stay for long. There are others relying on me, and duties I have yet to see through. A day at most, I can spare."

Nomalun snorted, grabbing her son's hand after none was proferred. "Still taking others' problems onto your back, I see. Come," she said, ignoring the other's half-hearted protestations and proceeding to drag him north.

The journey was mostly peaceful, full of idle chatter, catching each other up on what life had wrought the past four years. Nomalun looked just as Heliox remembered - a bit shorter than memory had served, but that had more to do with his own growth spurt than memory problems. She was still very tall for an Auri woman at 5 and a half yalms, amber and red-streaked hair sitting in the same short, spiky haircut, the familiar horns at her temples as undecorated as ever. As he reminisced, however he missed the topic change, and a preminitory pit began to settle in his stomach at his mother's words. "So," she asked, tone carefully neutral, and Heliox knew that this was the moment he had been dreading. (He noted to himself, quietly, that it would not be too late to run away. Teleport, perhaps, back to Eorzea.)

Nomalun slowed their walk, turning to face him. The fields were quiet around them, mercifully, and the moon was rising high in the sky. "When were you going to tell me I had a son?" She didn't sound angry - instead, her expression was gentle, and Heliox felt his knees buckle under him, sinking to the grass below to clutch at her, the way he would as a small child. Tears of relief welled up, and he found himself helpless to stop them. She sank to the grass as well, kneeling and holding him close, stroking his hair reassuringly.

"How long have you known?" Heliox asked, slightly out of breath, voice as wet as his face. Nomalun quirked her eyebrow as if to tease him.

"Did you think a sudden 2 and a half fulm growth spurt would be undetected? Not to mention that you look exactly like your father did at your age." She leaned her forehead against his reassuringly, before gently kissing the imprint her scales made on it. "I just wish you would have told us sooner. Your father would been so proud of you."

"I wanted to, I wanted to so badly. But I was scared, Mama so I...so I went overseas." Heliox closed his eyes, a fresh wave of tears welling up. "I never told him," he choked out, breaths coming out short and wet in spite of the sharp pang of loss blossoming in his chest.

The older woman tugged off her glove, cradling his face in her palm and running the pad of her thumb under his white, dripping eyelashes. "He is with Nhaama now, my child, watching over you. He knows, and he sings a song of love this night."

She held him there, in the grasslands at the base of Onsal Hakir, the moonlight shining down on the two of them, and the wind danced through their hair, gentle on the clear night. They stayed there, holding each other for a time, Heliox allowing himself to be weak, just this once. After a while, they stood again, Heliox holding his mother's hand the way he did as a child, and allowing Nomalun to lead him through the mountains, towards the Kha camp, towards a home he had longed after for the four long years he was away.

-----

Morning crested across the Steppe, sunbeams dancing across the morning dew, sitting heavily in the air around Hien as he woke to the gentle sound of a morin khuur. Hien dressed quickly, eager to get back to Doma now that they had secured aid, but upon stepping outside of his tent, was surprised to see Heliox back from the Kha encampment, sitting cross legged and facing away. The man was dressed in a red robe reminiscent of the Mol's - barring the short sleeves, and sat on the cliff's edge, expertly manipulating the music under his fingertips. Beside him sat the woman Hien recognised from the night prior - Nomalun, mother of the Warrior of Light. Hien wondered if she truly knew the extent of her son's influence.

"Azim greets us another day, does he not, Lord Hien?" Nomalun asked without turning around. The gently morning melody swirling out into the Steppe stopped as Heliox halted his playing, gently setting the fiddle down and turning to Hien.

*Not even Yugiri can escape the extraordinary senses of a mother,* Hien thought to himself, before clearing his throat. "Good morning to you as well, Nomalun, Heliox." He turned to the latter. "Have you already spoken with Temulun? I believe she wanted to speak with us - well, you - before we depart for Doma."

Heliox sighed lightly, before standing up and ramming a fist into his hand, his trademark expression of determination. "A warrior's job is never complete, I suppose. Should we wake the others?" Hien idly noted that the slight accent Heliox had when they had met seemed stronger now.

Before Hien could reply, Nomalun cut in. "No need to worry about that, my son. I am sure Lord Hien does not require your assistance for this - go on ahead to the main tent. We shall wait outside, right here where we stand." Heliox quirked an eyebrow for a second, looking at Hien, who responded with an equally confused expression, nonetheless nodding.

"Ah, if you are sure," Heliox replied after a beat, eyes cautiously flicking between Hien's bewildered expression and Nomalun's stern but serene one. He cocked his head once, flicked his tail, and walked towards the tent. Nomalun turned to Hien the second he was out of eyeshot, and suddenly Hien's confusion turned to clarity, as he understood the need for Heliox to be absent.

"I do feel for your people's strife, and my tribe and I will bring all of our strength to bear in aiding you - but if my son should fall in battle under your command, no khagan in the universe could stop me from unleashing the depths of the hells unto you. Do I make myself understood?" Nomalun said, in an even tone that contrasted her heavily furrowed brows and honestly quite terrifying expression. Hien smiled in reply, placating in a practiced manner.

"I can promise you that should your son fall, you will be welcome to unleash hell's fury onto my corpse. He is the last hope for my people, for Doma- if he falls, so do we all," Hien replied, honest and open. Nomalun squinted at him, then nodded once, satisfied with his response. Her stern expression smoothed out into one of approval, forehead scales de-wrinkling and amber eyes glinting.

A muffled rustling of cloth in the tents behind them broke the moment, signalling the waking of Lyse and Gosetsu. Taking a step back, Nomalun took that as her cue to leave. "I will be seeing you, Lord Hien. Till the day battle comes," she said, nodding once and striding off to the main tent. Hien watched her go briefly, internally remarking on her similarities to his friend, before turning back to his waking compatriots and beginning formal preparations to leave.

Heliox emerged from the tent to find Nomalun petting her yol, arranging it's feathers in preparation for takeoff. A sharp pang went through him - he did not want to see her go, but conviction chased out the pain, filling in all his broken cracks and pieces. Doma had to be set free - and Ala Mhigo, he reminded himself. There would be time for indulging his homesickness when the war was over. Striding over to her, he leaned over, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. Nomalun smiled fondly, patting her great bird to signal it to stay.

"Always have you worn your conviction on your sleeve, my son. I am glad you have not lost it in the years you have been overseas," Nomalun said, gently patting her son's cheek after he released her. "We are so, so proud of you, Heliox. Never lose sight of your path, or the light at the end of it."

Tears again welled up in the warrior's eyes, and he leaned his forehead against her, their own motion of love, trust, and comfort. "I will return, Mama, this I promise." Nomalun smiled at that, climbing onto her bird and facing back towards the mountains.

"I have no doubt, my son. I love you," she finished, climbing into the sky with a great gust of wind from the yol's wings. The gust blasted Heliox, throwing the red and black cap off of his head, but he stood his ground, waving goodbye until she was out of sight. The morning sun crested the horizon, and Heliox punched his hand, confident and determined. He spared one last glance at the mountains' welcoming arms before turning around, making his way into the tent of his waking companions. Preparations had to be made, and they needed to get back to Doma as soon as possible. There was no time to lose.

#note to self: put readmore when not mobile #bc yikes #ffxiv #heliox kha #heliox is a lil mama's boy. and i love him lmao #also wheeeee i think too much about fantasy hrt so yea... #he's transed gender #characterisation might b off bc its been many many months since stormblood msq

[ohblackdiamond]

the end of the world tour (kiss/endgame crossover, r) (part 2/5)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

In this chapter: KISS begins its training regimen. Unfortunately, there's no Rocky montage.

Or,  four washed-up former rockstar superheroes don the spandex of old in a last-ditch effort to save an already half-gone world. They just need a little support from a billionaire who’s not too keen on KISS interrupting his private life. Somewhat Endgame compliant. 

The old wooden box looked just the same as it always had. Just as ordinary as ever. Not the barest smear of dust. Gene cracked it open almost casually, setting it down on the living room table, the talismans of Khyscz glowing too brightly in the dim room. Better preserved than any of the four of them. Of course they were. Peter took a deep breath, just staring at the talismans, hand hovering over the box.

“They’re not gonna eat you,” Ace said dryly.

“I know that,” Peter snapped. “Just give me a second.”

Aside from the glow, the talismans never had looked too special, anyway. Crude little carvings of a cat head, a star, a dragon, and a lightning bolt. Like an elementary school kid’s art project. They didn’t look as though they’d give any more powers than the Superman curtain they’d obsessively hung by their dressing room for decades. But they had. But they did.

Peter could swear he felt electricity start to course through his fingers. Should’ve been exhilarating. Instead, it was frankly terrifying. He could feel three sets of eyes right on him, expectant. And why shouldn’t they be? He’d been the one to push it, insist that they put their powers to decent use. If he got cold feet now—if he couldn’t even take hold of his own talisman, well—

“Okay, we’ll do it on three,” Paul said from behind him. He was breathing hard right up against Peter’s ear. Nerves as shot as always. Peter had never been quite so grateful for someone else’s terminal case of anxiety. Paul stuck his hand out to the box, Gene and Ace following suit. “One, two, three—”

Peter’s fingers closed around the cat talisman and the world went white around him.

Briefly. Just briefly.

Then he opened his eyes.

He was back in his Destroyer outfit. Every last rhinestone on the jumpsuit intact. The layered, crystal-studded choker, the huge cross necklace, the six-inch platforms. The dry, cloying feel of greasepaint and talcum powder spread across his face, a face that barely had any crevices or wrinkles for the makeup to sink into.

He dropped the talisman back into the box, where it managed a few more pulsating twinkles before the light faded. Then he yanked off his gloves, surprised at his own shock at what he saw. Not the knobby, swollen fingers he was used to. No arthritis or carpal tunnel or tendonitis. Nothing. He felt like he could play a twenty-song setlist the next five nights in a row. He felt like he could do anything, any fucking thing he wanted, bounce back without even the remote fear of injury. Each movement felt crisp and painless. That underlying ache that’d plagued him so much longer than he’d ever confessed to any of the guys was gone.

Peter’s palms were starting to sweat. He shoved the gloves back on, insanely, trying to force an evenness to his breaths that he couldn’t manage.

“Holy shit,” he said, shaking his head. Nothing else really encompassed it. Shit, he could almost, almost understand why the other three had misused the talismans now. So much pent-up energy, he felt like he was high off his own breathing. The urge to laugh, to cry, something, was digging a furrow within him.

Behind him, he could hear Ace cracking up. Peter turned around, slowly, almost as if he was afraid of what was behind him. Which was ridiculous. He’d seen the guys before. He’d seen Gene and Paul the way they used to be just yesterday. He knew all three of their costumes and faces and makeup nearly as well as he knew his own. There was just this weird feeling somewhere in his gut that as soon as he took a glance, the deal was on. Like when they’d signed their first contract. Like when they’d first closed their hands around the talismans in ’73. No turning back.

He faced Paul and Gene first. Unsurprisingly, they both looked remarkably better when they weren’t in the middle of fucking random girls. He stared from Paul’s asymmetrically-painted face, the black star over his right eye, to the nearly-batwing swoops of black paint that spread from Gene’s forehead down almost to the tip of his nose. Then there was Ace, behind both of them, the silver starbursts making his face practically gleam.

He didn’t know how to describe it. Seeing the guys like that. It took him back—it took them all back, decades upon decades. The nostalgia trip of the Reunion Tour hadn’t been like this. Nothing could compare to this.

“You look great, Cat,” Ace said, offering his standard thumbs-up. But there was a warmth, a sincerity to his expression. Those brown eyes held some fondness, maybe. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look cross Ace’s face for longer than a few seconds. “You ready?”

Peter nodded. Ace kept his hand extended, fist out, hovering in the air. It took a moment or two for Peter to catch on and reach out his fist to meet Ace’s, then Gene and Paul immediately following suit. It took a few tries before all four of them managed to connect for the fistbump simultaneously, but they managed, amid a few headshakes and snorts. Then the room just went dead silent, the four of them just staring deflatedly at each other. The same stupid hesitation that had kept Peter from grabbing the talisman straight off was paralyzing them all again. No, it wasn’t just that. Sure, the talismans could dredge up the true selves of the holders, something Peter was slowly starting to realize was insulting to each of them, but they couldn’t make it ’73 again. They couldn’t put KISS in that old team mindset. That wasn’t part of their magic.

“Is anybody going to say anything? C’mon, somebody pump us up,” Peter said finally.

“I forgot all our catchphrases,” Paul confessed.

--

KISS’ last intense experiences with personal trainers had been over twenty years prior, getting in shape for the Reunion Tour. They’d been expensive, and the overall effect had left a lot to be desired—probably because the routines had been more about avoiding fat Elvis comparisons than strength training. But this time was different. A haphazard blend of Tae-Bo workout videos and P90X DVDs, protein shakes and energy bars, Nordic Tracks and barbells soon littered the entirety of the basement, crowding out the KISS memorabilia that had crept into the corners. Paul and Gene had cancelled out indefinitely on FER, despite being hounded on a near-daily basis by both the girls and the program.

The workouts were the easy part, really. The superpowers were hazardous.

As it turned out, after forty years of disuse, Gene’s firebreathing abilities weren’t much more than enough to light a menorah. Ace’s teleportation had fared a little better—but he wasn’t getting any farther than the city limits of New Haven without an extreme amount of effort. Paul’s eye beam still had great accuracy… and a range of about three feet.

“Can you still do that other eye thing?”

“What other eye thing?”

“Seeing the future.”

Paul just rolled both eyes.

“Ace, I hate to tell you, but most of those premonitions were vague to begin with.”

“I’m pretty sure you used them to bet on Secretariat in ’73. I only remember ’cause you made us all put in for it.”

“Yeah, but that was so we could afford to rent out that ballroom. And the odds were 3 to 2, so we had to put up a lot to get the benefits.” A pause. “See, Peter, we’ve definitely abused the talismans way before the FER thing…”

Peter grimaced but let it go. His powers weren’t in good shape, either. Catlike reflexes, sure, if the cat had been dosed up on morphine prior. The claws were… just okay. Ace had joked about getting a scratching post for him at some point, when a lot of practice was probably the only thing that could improve them. Any of them.

“It doesn’t make sense. We never had to work on them before. The powers were just there.” Peter was staring dismally at his target—a pink rubber head and torso, mounted on a heavy stand—and absently slashing its face up as he spoke. “One day we were at band practice and the next day we were—what was that Superman shit, Gene…”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

“No, we did better than that, we could fucking fly.” Peter glanced at the other three. “Has anyone even tried that one yet?”

“I’m too depressed with what we have tried,” Paul said dryly. “And I really don’t want to break a leg.”

Ace shrugged.

“I think we just gotta be patient with it, y’know? Maybe it’s a mental block. Maybe we’re putting limits on ourselves.”

“Since when have any of us ever done that? Look, man, we want this. All of us want this.”

“Could be the problem. We’re too anxious, I dunno.”

Not the most satisfying explanation. Gene started digging through his VHS collection for news clips of their crimefighting activities, and they added reviewing the tapes onto their training activities. They were even slowing the tapes down to get the hand movements and gestures exactly right—it was weird; all of it was weird. Copying poses they’d done forty years prior. Even, occasionally, copying catchphrases in an effort to get the proper intensity. It felt kind of stupid. Paul seemed like the only one who’d really get into the catchphrase bit—then again, he’d done the same stage raps for decades without losing an ounce of enthusiasm. Maybe to him it felt like he was pumping up an invisible crowd. Gene, unsurprisingly, seemed to enjoy imitating the poses.

But the only things that always felt entirely right to Peter were the outfits and makeup. Sure, it wasn’t bad, staring at a mostly-lineless face in the mirror before starting the day’s training, just like it wasn’t bad, diving into a punching bag without worrying about arthritis, but honestly, a couple stolen hours of youth were secondary to actually feeling like part of KISS again.

It just hadn’t felt the same over the last five years. Living together, being together—without performing together or crimefighting together. It had been like playing house in a morgue. Not always. Not every day. But the difference was palpable. The occasional jam sessions they’d do in the basement couldn’t compare to how it felt to really be working together again.

Peter was doing a few more chinups out back when he heard the familiar, giddy sounds of Ace’s laughter from further out in the backyard. Gene and Paul had already gone back inside, Gene exhausted after managing to spit about a two-foot column of fire, his best effort yet, and Paul taking the opportunity to volunteer to make dinner. Just as well.

“Pete, Pete!” Ace was bounding over, looking as apt to trip in his boots as ever. Peter immediately let go of the bar. “I got it, I got it.”

“You’ve got what?”

“I’ve got it unlocked.” And a big, goofy grin. “I had to let you know first. You’ll never believe this.”

“You’ve got your teleporting under control?”

Ace laughed.

“Even better. Trust me.”

“You got the shooting lightning with your hands thing back.”

“Better.”

“Jesus, Ace, just tell me, would you?”

“You know how we keep ending up in the Destroyer outfits, right?”

“Yeah?”

They weren’t bad outfits, exactly. They’d been famous enough to be reprised for the Reunion tour. Peter hadn’t ever minded his any, at least, even if the jumpsuit did feature a gigantic bedazzled arrow pointing straight to his crotch.

“I figured out how to change costumes.”

Peter couldn’t bite back a groan.

“That’s what you’ve got unlocked?”

“Hey, it’s great! You haven’t even seen yet! Look, look, which one do you want? C’mon, I’ll let you pick. Love Gun? Dynasty?”

“KISS’ first tour.”

“You’re no fun, man,” Ace retorted, but he nodded, idly cracking his knuckles. For a second, nothing happened. Then there was a flash of blue smoke, and Ace was standing there in the comparatively plainer black leotard, v-shaped chestpiece, corseted belt, and lightning-bolt boots from their first tour, looking intensely pleased with himself. “What do you think? Pretty good, right?”

Peter managed a few mildly begrudging claps, eyes locked on Ace’s waist. Fuck, he’d forgotten how skinny the guy used to be. The corset belt just accentuated it. If Ace noticed where he was looking, though, he didn’t acknowledge it, breathing out a low sigh.

“You’re not excited.”

“Look, Ace, changing outfits is not gonna help us fight—”

“I think it is gonna help us fight.” Ace’s face was scrunched up slightly. “See, I thought about it. Why Destroyer? We didn’t completely quit the crimefighting gig until, well.”

“Until I left.”

“Yeah. And that was in ’80. Destroyer was ’76.” Rocking back and forth on his heels like a Sunday School kid, clearly unused to this costume’s boots, Ace grabbed his arm. “Think about it. What happened in ’76?”

“You got married.”

“Well, yeah, but—nah, c’mon, Peter, I thought you’d get it right off. ’76 was when we came out with ‘Beth.’ When we started getting really huge.”

Peter nodded, still baffled.

“It was the last hurrah before things fell apart, y’know? It was the last time we were really all cool with each other, all four of us. That’s why Destroyer’s what we got stuck with. And I’ll bet that’s at least part of why all our powers aren’t doing so hot.” Ace squeezed Peter’s arm. “We’re in stasis.”

“You think that’s really it?”

“I think we gotta… okay, lemme put it this way. I think we all gotta trust each other more.”

“Ace, we trust each other plenty. You and me, we—”

“Yeah, see, that’s the problem. ’S not just you and me. It’s Gene and Paul, too.” Ace paused briefly, letting go of Peter’s arm. “We always kinda acted like we were on one side of the fence and they were on the other, and—”

“Aren’t we?”

“Uh-uh. Can’t work like that anymore. Four who are one, Pete.”

“What, do you want us all to have some stupid heart-to-heart bullshit sessions?”

Another puff of blue smoke. Another costume change. This one to the loose silver dress he’d worn during the Hotter than Hell photoshoot. Peter stared, shaking his head, but Ace shrugged amicably. “Nah. We’re just gonna swap room assignments. Lemme go tell Gene.”

--

Peter hadn’t shared a bed with Paul since 1974, and every moment spent lying two feet from him now only reminded him of why.

It wasn’t that Paul drooled or snored or anything like that. He even kept his hands and his hard-ons to himself. Peter couldn’t recall ever waking up to Paul sleepily attempting to spoon him. No, Paul just…

Given too much proximity, Paul just got on his nerves. And the feeling was mutual. And the feeling had been mutual, off and on, since about 1980.

It hadn’t always been that way. They used to go on vacations together back in the seventies. Hawaii, France, all sorts of shit like that. Used to spend hours talking on the phone when they weren’t on tour, like high school girls. Paul had almost been some kind of needy but semi-sweet little brother to him, until Peter’s cocaine habit had turned into an obsession, Peter’s song had turned into their biggest hit, and Paul’s fragile ego couldn’t take any of it. That was Peter’s opinion, at least.

KISS’ downward spiral turning into an outright crash landing after Peter’s firing probably had a lot to do with it, too, at least on Paul’s part. Gave him someone concrete to point to as the beginning of the end. Peter hadn’t exactly watched with relish as KISS sunk under the weight of its own leather heels without him, at least not for those first few years—he’d been too busy watching his own would-be solo career implode. At least KISS was still able to release albums, even if their sales were depressing as hell. Half of Peter’s records couldn’t even get a U.S. release.

He and Paul didn’t really talk to each other much the whole rest of that decade. Instead, they’d sniped at each other through the press over everything from drug use to (lack of) musical talent starting in the late eighties, made vague amends just in time for the Reunion Tour, and then… well, then, they’d unleashed their autobiographies on each other and the world like a plague of mosquitos. Committed to print every single instance either of them could think of that made the other one look like a hack, a degenerate (not overly difficult), or worse. Peter liked to think Paul had given him plenty of material with each pre-concert pants-stuffing and his tendency to doodle disembodied, veiny dicks while on tour. Unfortunately, Paul had shot right back with more tales of Peter threatening to quit the band and sabotaging concerts than Peter could count.

The too-accurate-to-be character assassinations didn’t make things tense in the house anymore, but to say they weren’t something they were both still sore about would’ve been a lie.

Of course, it didn’t help that Paul currently had a large, framed poster of himself mounted on his bedroom ceiling. It also didn’t help that the whole room smelled faintly of cologne. Or that there was a clear dent in the wall from those stupid FER extracurriculars of his.

Peter had turned in early, or tried to. Paul had actually seemed amicable, at first, moving a bunch of sketches out of the bedroom and dusting off the nightstand. Confirmation of what Peter already long since knew. Paul still didn’t actually sleep in his own room.

He wondered how Ace and Gene were doing. Ace had always really hated sharing hotel rooms with Gene because of how much of a slob he was, but most of Ace’s animosity towards the guy had been a front at best. Honestly, Ace had always kind of dug Gene, though why, Peter didn’t know. Probably because Gene wasn’t neurotic like Paul or hotheaded like Peter himself was. Probably because Gene was as close to well-adjusted as a rockstar could manage. Gene saving Ace from drowning twice on tour probably hadn’t hurt.

Now here Peter was, lying in bed with just the lamplight on, not sure whether to be looking at Paul-on-the-ceiling or the actual Paul next to him. Ceiling Paul was in full Starchild makeup, of course—with his cheek resting against a blood-streaked guitar, looking doe-eyed and winsome for the camera. Actual Paul was decidedly worse for wear and tear and smelled like toothpaste.

“Why is that even here?” Peter had to point. Unnecessarily.

“Pretty beautiful guy, right?” Paul grinned. “I used to have a mirror on the ceiling back in California.”

“Used to? What, did you start scaring yourself?”

Paul bristled.

“Erin said it was a little embarrassing.”

“A little?” Peter shook his head. “I think the poster’s worse. I got two pairs of eyes staring at me from different directions.”

“Just pretend it’s a threesome. I’ll even do the vocals.”

“Fuck, no. Take that thing down.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I put it there myself—”

“I don’t care. I’m not sleeping with both of you.”

Paul started laughing, and got up, digging around under the bed and yanking out a sketchbook. He tore part of a page out, then wandered off, returning a minute or two later with a roll of tape.

“Cheer up, I’m about to fix it.” Peter watched as Paul stood up on the bed and started taping the piece of paper to his own face on the wall. Peter exhaled, vaguely relieved, until Paul climbed back into bed properly and he realized—

“You left the eyes!”

“Well, yeah, I always thought they were the best part—”

“Paul, you fucking egomaniac! Cover up the whole thing!”

“If you don’t wanna see it, then turn off the lamp.”

Peter had been about to do it, but Paul’s stare on him was so amused that he kept the lamp on out of spite. Paul kind of shrugged and stretched, eyes moving back to the poster on the ceiling before long.

“We’re getting a lot done, I think. I’m proud of us.”

“You’re proud of Gene.”

“I’m proud of you, too, Peter.” He paused. “I am. I’m proud of all of us.”

“Forget it. Every time you force out a compliment, it still sounds as canned as Fancy Feast.”

“Pete, I’m trying here.” Paul shifted. God, he was directing every single comment up at the ceiling. Frustrating as all hell. It just made Peter stare at him all the harder as Paul continued. “I think Ace is right. I think we won’t be able to do any real superhero shit until we fix our relationships.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They’ve been better. You remember when we first talked about moving to Connecticut during that one board meeting?”

“Yeah, ’cause we’d save so much a year on taxes if we were living there instead of in New York.” Despite himself, Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“We were gonna go all in and buy one house together. But the board shot us down. They said that was too obvious an abuse of a loophole and we’d just pop in like it was a vacation home. Said it wouldn’t fly for state taxes. Thing is, we probably would’ve done it, back then. We would’ve actually lived together, at least sometimes.”

“We’re living together now, Paul, I dunno if you noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Paul was still looking away. At the bookcase now, instead of the ceiling. His voice was softer. “I’m real grateful.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah.” Paul shifted. “Look, I… I was a mess. After. Shit, I’m still not doing great. If Gene hadn’t come over that night five years ago, I…”

“You wouldn’t have.” Peter swallowed. “Hell, no. You’d never deprive the world of your own face like that. Much less yourself.”

Paul laughed softly.

“Whole lot of good a face does without a family. I was thinking about it. I was thinking, I finally had my life together and now I don’t. Now it’s gone. Now it’s all gone.” An exhale. “Thank God I couldn’t shut my mind off long enough to get out of bed. Much less do anything serious. I just—lay there. Then there’s Gene pulling up to my place and pretty soon I hear him running up the stairs, yelling because I haven’t answered the phone. Says he knows I haven’t disappeared. He throws the bedroom door open, right, and tells me to get my ass out of bed and—”

“And?”

“And get in the car, because we were going to your place.” Paul took another breath. “I ask him, how do you even know Peter’s alive, and he says Ace just updated his twitter and he’s over there with you now. Then he throws me his phone and tells me to text both of you right now and say we’re coming.”

“I barely remember when you showed up.” Paul flinched, and Peter added, quickly, “It’s like you said. I was pretty fucked-up, too.”

“You sure were. When I walked in, you were wrapped up in a blanket next to the fridge.”

“Paul, you wandered around in that stupid blue bathrobe for two weeks. Ace was trying to attach car fresheners to your neck.”

Without turning to look at him, Paul flipped him off. Peter returned the gesture.

“Shit, forget me trying to tell you something important, then.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being fucked-up after—”

“Okay, okay, fine. You got me. Anyway, that whole drive over… it was… God, it was horrible. Gene’s not that great at driving and… all those cars everywhere, just crashed alongside. I don’t know how we made it. At first, I kept trying to grab the wheel, can you believe that? I was so sick of seeing everything because every empty car made me think of—”

“I know. I know, Paul.” Peter swallowed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do have to tell you. I haven’t told you anything in nearly forty years.” Paul shook his head. His dark eyes were watering up. “Gene had to pull over at one point. He looked like he wanted to smack me. He told me my parents hadn’t fled Nazi Germany and his mother hadn’t survived the Holocaust just for me to try and kill us both. I told him he was a fucking asshole. But after that, I stopped trying to take the wheel.”

Peter didn’t know how to answer, or even if he should try. Part of him wanted Paul to just shut up, not bring any memories of five years ago back. Not to dare. Every time he thought about it for too long, every time he thought about Gigi, watching her fade out in front of him, calling Jennilee, calling Lydia, getting nothing—nothing—he wanted to vomit, even now. He wanted to smash up everything, everything, in a desperate, stupid bid to bring them back, or bring him to them.

He probably would’ve by now. Would’ve been another of those cracked-up hellraisers that’d committed suicide by cop or by mob by the millions, if it wasn’t for Ace coming up to his door, and Paul and Gene following suit only a day later. He could still conjure up Ace rapping at the door, yelling his name. Deep down, he’d known all along that Ace hadn’t disappeared, the same as Gene had known Paul hadn’t. A connection that went past living together on the road for over a decade. A connection that went past friendship and supernatural talismans and into something else. Peter’s throat felt heavy and hot, each swallow harder to manage.

“He saved you.”

Peter heard a sharp inhale of breath from Paul, and then, finally, quietly—

“Gene’s been saving me for fifty years. He still doesn’t realize it.”

“You saved him, too.” Peter shook his head. “You never really give yourself credit for anything that isn’t KISS.”

“I dunno about that.” Paul pointed dryly to the poster on the ceiling.

“Still KISS. Have you ever taken a picture of yourself out of the makeup that you actually liked?”

“Don’t change the subject, Pete—”

“I’m just curious—”

“Don’t be. Look, what I’m trying to say is, I owe Gene a lot. I… I owe you and Ace a lot, too.” He shifted. “I want you to know that.”

“Just the last couple years. I know we’re not in Gene’s category.”

“Now you’re the one not giving himself enough credit.” Paul closed his eyes. “You know, after you guys were gone, I got the same question every damn interview for years. ‘Do you miss Ace and Peter in the band? Do you miss KISS being on top? Do you miss crimefighting?’ And every time, I’d have to say no. And every time, I’d be lying through my teeth.”

“That was always a stupid question. We all missed KISS being on top.”

“That wasn’t all I missed.” Paul hesitated. “I had a better time when it was the four of us than I did with anybody else. Here or onstage.”

“I did, too."

Paul was back to looking at him again, tongue just slightly past his lips for a brief moment, a nervous gesture Peter hadn’t seen out of him in years.

“I’m sorry about calling you a miserable asshole in my book,” Paul said quietly.

“I’m sorry I called you a bisexual pants-stuffer in mine.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Neither were you.”

---

They talked a long time after that. Long enough that Peter forgot to turn off the lamp before falling asleep, and by the time they both woke up and slogged down the stairs, it was past ten and Ace had—actually made breakfast. Gene was at the table scarfing down a stack of omelets three deep. He’d added maple syrup like a heathen, turning the omelets into islands soaking in the sticky gunk.

“Curly,” Ace drawled out, waving with his spatula. “Didja have fun last night?”

Peter had come down in nothing but pajama bottoms. Paul had just tied his bathrobe around his waist. Neither of them had shaven. Both of them looked like they were ten seconds from passing out in their chairs. Peter managed a noncommittal noise that wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy Ace.

“C’mon, I gotta have details, man. Paulie, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Don’t call me Paulie before noon,” Paul mumbled, reaching for his glass of orange juice. “Just give me an omelet.”

“Was it that bad?” Gene, through a mouthful of food. “Ace and I had a good time.”

“I haven’t stayed up past four in probably twenty-five years, unless I was on tour,” Peter managed.

“That’s only because you were smart enough to stop having kids in the eighties,” Paul said with a grimace. “Ace, you’re about to burn—”

“I got it, I got it,” Ace said, flipping the two omelets over, smushing them both briefly with the spatula before dropping one each on Peter and Paul’s plates with a wink. “We’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”

Peter nodded, then dug into his omelet. Not too bad, surprisingly. Fluffy enough, and mixed in with enough bacon and cheese that the near-burnt exterior was forgivable.

“Costumes and powers and press releases. That’s where we’re headed,” Gene intoned dreamily, gulping down a glass of apple juice.

“We’re going to do a press release?” Peter asked. Immediately, he glanced accusingly at Paul, except Paul looked as bewildered as Peter felt.

“Gene, seriously? That’s a terrible idea. Let’s just approach Stark directly like we’ve been saying all along.”

“Since when does KISS do anything without fanfare?” Gene reached over the table, grabbing the maple syrup, thoroughly drowning what little was left of his omelets. “I’ve been in contact with a couple of journalists. We might get that second Rolling Stone cover.”

“I don’t care about the cover—”

“C’mon, Gene’s right.” Ace was flipping another few omelets as he spoke. One was dribbling and burning onto the stovetop. “We could use the attention here. Make us seem legit.”

“You want to do a tell-all? Demonstrations?” Paul shook his head. “Nobody would believe that stuff out of us anymore. They’d say it was just theatrics.”

“Exactly. They’ll think we’re being tasteless. Or trying to figure out if anyone wants to see us tour,” Peter said, eating another bite of his omelet. Beside him, Paul winced.

“We’re always tasteless,” Gene retorted. “It’s our trademark.”

“No, our trademark is being shills. Well, yours and Paul’s, anyway—”

“Pete—” Gene started again, then shook his head. “Listen. I’m not saying we have to do it now. And I’m not saying it has to be a big deal. But we need to let the public know we’re back, and we better do it soon.”

Soon turned out to be two weeks later. Not even the Rolling Stone cover they’d coveted years ago, either. Instead, all they’d ended up with was a short blurb of an online article. Up top was a vintage photo of them in full costume, posing around New York. Beneath the text was a picture taken just for the article—out of costume, standing with their arms around each other. The peace sign Ace was flashing with his free hand didn’t make the disparity any less depressing.

KISS Makes Up (Once More, With Feeling)

The acrimonious quartet of sometimes-superheroes, mostly-rockstars has been out of the public eye for the bulk of the decade. Best known for their outlandish costumes, Kabuki-style makeup and bombastic shows, KISS’ latest exposure leaves much to be desired. The glam-rocker baby boomers met with Associated Press—customary platform heels of yesteryear swapped for crocs and loafers—right in their backyard.

“Oh, we’re prepping for a final tour right now,” bassist and proverbial face of the band, Gene Simmons, 70, insists with a smile. “KISS is here. No stage needed.”

KISS’ most successful tenure, from ’73-’80, saw an unheralded intermingling of crimefighting and commercialism. “We’d put ourselves on anything,” frontman Paul Stanley, 67, admits. “Lunchboxes, thermoses… I can’t tell you I’m ashamed of it, because the demand was there. And in many cases, it continues to be.” While Stanley’s coy on the numbers, KISS remains profitable enough that the four original members enjoy a luxurious New Haven estate spanning eight acres. Much of their backyard space, however, is reserved for esoteric training. The lawn is covered in holes and debris, and the band refuses to offer a proper explanation.

“Let’s just say we’re getting our game faces on,” is almost all Ace Frehley, lead guitarist, 68, will admit to. “This isn’t just for the fans anymore. It’s for everybody.” Drummer Peter Criss, 73, barely elaborates, “We spent the last five years the same way everyone else did. Then we woke up.”

He isn’t clear on what waking up entails. KISS’ stint as superheroes has long been overshadowed by their rockstar antics and market oversaturation. Poor ticket sales and IRS run-ins forced a return to the makeup and spandex in the late ’90’s and the readmittance of Frehley and Criss to the group, only for the original KISS to fracture again a few years later amid infighting and contract negotiations. But if the destroyed state of their backyard is any indication, KISS is planning something—even if they’re only manufacturing their own smoke bombs.

“What the hell kind of article is this?”

“Luxurious New Haven estate, my ass, Gene. We’re here because of the taxes.”

“I know you didn’t want a big reveal, but shit, now we just look like a bunch of lunatics! Blowing up our own yard… throwing in our ages like we’ve gone senile…”

“They didn’t even mention my spaceship,” Ace muttered.

“They did, that’s the ‘debris.’” Paul closed his eyes. “We spent a whole hour with the guy and he yanks one quote from each of us. This isn’t going to make anyone take us seriously.”

“It’s not supposed to,” said Gene. “It’s just supposed to make them talk.”

“They’re not going to talk! This isn’t like the seventies, Gene! We’re not getting a follow-up interview to explain ourselves! Not unless this really blows up—”

“It doesn’t have to blow up. All we need is the right people reading it.”

Over the next few weeks, there was talk. There were snickers, at least. Peter got the groceries on his assigned day, as usual, with Ace in tow, cheerfully piling twelve-packs of soda into the cart amid the protein powders and energy bars. Ordinary enough, until the teenage girl at the check-out counter a few feet away looked at both of them smugly.

It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t used to being recognized. Despite how defeated the world had become, he’d still occasionally get asked for a selfie, even while doing the shopping. Especially when one of the others was with him. He’d oblige. They’d always oblige. Gene, Paul, and Ace hadn’t toured in five years, and for Peter, it had been even longer. Funny how being as thoroughly away from the spotlight as they’d been made them all way more receptive to what fan reaction they received.

But this wasn’t a typical fan reaction. Those, he could deal with. A guy coming up to him, telling him he’d been sober for five years now, or saying he’d gotten checked for breast cancer because of him, or a girl telling him she was named after “Beth”… all that was fine, even good. Stuff he was grateful to hear. But this girl was different. It was the sneer that threw him, the way she suddenly pointed a finger at them and waved her coworker from the other counter over. She hurried to her, they mumbled something Peter couldn’t quite get at, and then, walking up to them, said—

“We wanna see the holes in your yard.”

“The holes—”

“Yeah.”

Peter looked the girls up and down. He hadn’t been heckled since he’d done his club tours. He never had quite figured out how to take it on the chin.

“Sure. We’ll bring you up there, right, Petey?” There was Ace, abandoning the cart to get a little closer, smiling. Peter shot him an aggrieved look.

“You will? What, in your spaceship?” The first girl snorted.

“Nah, nah, it’s still out of commission. You wanna take my hand, though? Yeah, there you go, you hold hers—”

“Ace, the hell?”

“You too, Pete. Yeah, right, okay—”

Peter realized what Ace was about to do about a second before he saw an abbreviated flash of Ace’s old Destroyer costume and felt his guts try to lurch past his skin. Then all he saw was their backyard—Paul and Gene nowhere in sight, thank God. Peter let go of Ace’s hand as soon as the lingering, nauseous feeling from the teleport passed, indignation spreading like butter across his face.

“What the fuck? Ace, you can’t teleport a couple of kids just because they made fun of us!”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” one of the girls screamed, grabbing the other one, who looked as if she was seconds from puking. “Where are we? We’re not on break! We’ve gotta get back to the store!”

“Didn’t you wanna see the holes in the yard first?” Ace sounded as lazily amiable as ever, already pointing at the nearest lawn damage. “I think that one was Gene’s, I dunno how, but—”

“Where’d the other fat, old guy go?”

Ace started cackling and waved his fingers as the girls stared.

“Holy shit,” one of them whispered, stumbling backwards. “Holy shit!”

“Ace, put them back!” Peter yelled.

“Okay, okay…” Ace reached over, offering his hand back to the girls. “I’ll getcha back, just—"

Two cut-off yelps and the three of them vanished. A few minutes later, Ace popped back into the yard alone, bags in hand.

“I got the groceries, Petey.”

“What about the car, idiot?”

 Ace winced.

“I can’t teleport a car, man. That’s a couple thousand pounds, y’know? It was kinda hard just lugging you and the girls, if I’m gonna be honest…”

“Then drive it.” Irritably, Peter dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Ace, who barely managed to catch them. So much for all the training. Ace sighed.

“Pete, sometimes you’re really no fun.” Fifteen minutes later, Peter watched from the window as Ace pulled back into the driveway. He was back in the house before long, out of costume, stepping right into the kitchen where Peter was waiting, plastic bags full of groceries still on the table.

“Why did you do that, Ace?”

“They were pissing you off.” Ace shrugged, then noticed the table. “Hey, you didn’t put up the groceries.”

“I brought them in. Figured you could handle them after that stunt.”

Ace looked as if he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head.

“All right, Cat, I’ll get ’em.” He stretched absently, yanking out a pack of Pepsi. “That shit takes a lot out of you, a couple times in a row like that… I needed the practice.”

“You could’ve practiced with us anytime! Hell, you have!” Granted, the last few times had gotten a bit more involved than Peter might have liked. About a week prior, Ace had teleported himself and Peter both to the dim destination of “as far as he could go.” That destination had turned out to be an apple orchard in Pennsylvania. Whatever else was going on, Ace’s powers were definitely getting stronger.

Peter’s were, too. He’d never had as much to show for them, nothing too flashy about most of what he’d been granted, but he had managed to slice the last several rubber dummies to shreds without much effort. Gene was about to cause infernos now. Paul’s eye beam had mostly gotten its old range back. Peter didn’t honestly know if all that was enough, if it could make them formidable enough for the likes of Stark and whatever was left of the Avengers to take notice, but he hoped it could be.

“I know. Guess it was kinda mean, but… I wanted to try it on someone who wasn’t expecting it, y’know? In case we had to fight somebody and I had to take them out of the area or whatever.”

“Is that why you made us all hold hands?” He’d never needed to before. Proximity was enough for Ace to catch someone else in a teleport.

“Nah. I just wanted them to feel like they had something to do with it.” Ace grinned. “And maybe I wanted to cop a feel off of you.”

“All you did was hold my hand, asshole.”

“Aw, Petey. I had to keep it classy.” And a wink. “… There’s another reason, too.”

“For the hand-holding?”

“Nah, for borrowing the girls.” Ace stuffed a box of protein powders into a cabinet with a wince. “Gene was right about the article bit. But it never was the press that got us started in the first place. ’S always been word of mouth. ’S always been us doing stupid shit like wander around Manhattan in full fucking costume before people even knew who we were. You really think those chicks are gonna stay quiet about what they just saw?”

“Ace, if we end up with a bunch of assholes stopping by the yard—”

“Hey, hey. We gotta play the game. We said KISS was back. Now we just have to prove it.”

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #peter criss #gene simmons #ace frehley #paul stanley

[kakaji]

The Death and Life of Punk, the Last Subculture, by Dylan Clark

Punk is dead. Long live punk. (graffito in use since 1970s)

Punk had to die so that it could live.

With the death of punk, classical subcultures died. What had, by the 1870s, emerged as ‘subcultures’ were understood to be groups of youths who practised a wide array of social dissent through shared behavioural, musical, and costume orientations. Such groups were remarkably capable vehicles for social change, and were involved in dramatically reshaping social norms in many parts of the world. These ‘classical’ subcultures obtained their potency partly through an ability to shock and dismay, to disobey prescribed confines of class, gender, and ethnicity. But things changed. People gradually became acclimatized to such subcultural transgressions to the point that, in many places, they have become an expected part of the social landscape. The image of rebellion has become one of the most dominant narratives of the corporate capitalist landscape: the ‘bad boy’ has been reconfigured as a prototypical consumer. And so it was a new culture in the 1970s, the punk subculture, which emerged to fight even the normalization of subculture itself, with brilliant new forms of social critique and style. But even punk was caught, caged, and placed in the subcultural zoo, on display for all to see. Torn from its societal jungle adn safely taunted by viewers behind barcodes, punk, the last subculture, was dead.

The classical subculture ‘died’ when it became the object of social inspection and nostalgia, and when it became so amenable to commodification. Marketers long ago awakened to the fact that subcultures are expedient vehicles for selling music, cars, clothing, cosmetics, and everything else under the sun. but this truism is not lost on many subcultural youth themselves, and they will be the first to grumble that there is nothing new under the subcultural sun.

In this climate, constrained by the discourse of subculture, deviation from the norm ain’t what it used to be. Deviation from the norm seems, well, normal. It is allegedly common for a young person to choose a prefab subculture off the rack, wear it for a few years, then rejoin with the ‘mainstream’ culture that they never really left at all. Perhaps the result of our autopsy will show that subculture (of the young, dissident, costumed kind) has become a useful part of the status quo, and less useful for harbouring discontent. For these reasons we can melodramatically pronounce that subculture is dead.

Yet still they come: goths, neo-hippies, and ‘77-ish mohawked punk rockers. And still people find solidarity, revolt, and individuality by inhabiting a shared costume marking their membership in a subculture. And still parents get upset, people gawk, peers shudder, and selves are recreated. Perhaps it is cruel or inaccurate to call these classical motifs dead, because they can be so very alive and real to the people who occupy them. Like squatters in abandoned buildings, practising subcultists give life to what seem to be deceased structures.

Or is the subculture dead? The death of subculture-- that is, the death of subcultural autonomy and meaningful rebellion-- did not escape the notice of many. For decades people have decried the commercialization of style, the paisley without the politics. But such laments have not failed to produce strategies. There is something else-- another kind of subculture, gestating and growing far below the classical subcultural terrain. For two decades thousands kept a secret: punk never died. Instead, punk had, even in its earliest days, begun to articulate a social form that anticipates and outmanoeuvres the dominance of corporate-capitalism. And as the Cold War finally disappears from decades of habit, and as the political and cultural hegemony of corporate-capitalism seems unrivalled, it suddenly becomes clear that the anarchist frameworks of punk have spread into all sorts of social groupings. The social forms punks began to play with in the early 1970s have penetrated subcultures across the spectrum. After the death of the classical subculture we witness the birth of new practices, ideologies, and ways of being-- a vast litter of anarchism.

For tribes of contemporary people who might be called punk (and who often refuse to label themselves), their subculture is partly in revolt from the popular discourse of subculture, from what has become, in punk eyes, a commercialized form of safe, affected discontent-- a series of consumed subjectivities, including pre-fabricated ‘Alternative’ looks. Punk is, ironically, a subculture operating within parts of that established discourse, and yet it is also a subculture partly dedicated to opposing what the discourse of subculture has become. As the century rolls over, punk is the invention of not just new subjectivities but, perhaps, a new kind of cultural formation. The death of subculture has in some ways helped to produce one of the most formidable subcultures yet: the death of subculture is the (re)birth of punk.

Part I. Classical Punk: The Last Subculture

Consumer voyeurism is much more offensive to punk sensibilities than song themes about addiction or slaughtering dolls onstage. (Van Dorston 1990)

At the heart of early punk was calculated anger. It was anger at the establishment and anger at the allegedly soft rebellion of the hippie counterculture; anger, too, at the commodification of rock and roll (Cullen 1996:249). Its politics were avowedly apolitical, yet it openly and explicitly confronted the traditions and norms of the powers that be. Describing the cultural milieu for young people in 19765, Greil Marcus notes the centrality of cultural production: ‘For the young everything flowed from rock ‘n’ roll (fashion, slang, sexual styles, drug habits, poses), or was organized by it, or was validated by it’ (Marcus 1989:53). But by the early 1970s, with commodification in full swing, with some artists said to have compromised their integrity by becoming rich stars,a dn with ‘rock’ having been integrated into the mainstream, some people felt that youth subcultures were increasingly a part of the intensifying consumer society, rather than opponents of the mainstream. Punk promised to build a scene that could not be taken. Its anger, pleasures, and ugliness were to go beyond what capitalism and bourgeois society could swallow. It would be untouchable, undesirable, unmanageable.

Early punk was a proclamation and an embrace of discord. In England it was begun by working-class youths decrying a declining economy and rising unemployment, chiding the hypocrisy of the rich, and refuting the notion of reform. In America, early punk was a middle-class youth movement, a reaction against the boredom of mainstream culture (Henry 1989:69). Early punk sought to tear apart consumer goods, royalty, and sociability; and it sought to destroy the idols of the bourgeoisie.

At first punk succeeded beyond its own lurid dreams. The Sex Pistols created a fresh moral panic fuelled by British tabloids, Members of Parliament, and plenty of everyday folk. Initially, at least, they threatened ‘everything England stands for’: patriotism, class hierarchy, ‘common decency’ and ‘good taste.’ When the Sex Pistols topped the charts in Britain, and climbed high in America, Canada, and elsewhere, punk savoured a moment in the sun: every public castigation only convinced more people that punk was real.

Damming God and the state, work and leisure, home and family, sex and play, the audience and itself, the music briefly made it possible to experience all those things as if they were not natural facts but ideological constructs: things than had been made and therefore could be altered, or done away with altogether. It became possible to see these things as bad jokes, and for the music to come forth as a better joke. (Marcus 1989:6)

Punk was to cross the rubicon of style from which there could be no retreat. Some punks went so far as to valorize anything mainstream society disliked, including rape and death camps; some punks slid into fascism. When the raw forces and ugliness of punk succumbed to corporate-capitalism within a few short years, the music/style nexus had lost its battle of Waterloo. Punk waged an all-out battle on this front, and it wielded new and shocking armaments, but in the end, even punk was proven profitable. Penny Rimbaud (1998:74) traces its cooption:

Within six months the movement had been bought out. The capitalist counter-revolutionaries had killed with cash. Punk degenerated from being a force for change, to becoming just another element in the grand media circus. Sold out, sanitised and strangled, punk had become just another social commodity, a burnt-out memory of how it might have been.

Profits serve to bandage the wounds inflicted by subcultures, while time and nostalgia cover over the historical stars. Even punk, when reduced to a neat mohawk hairstyle and a studded leather jacket, could be made into a cleaned-up spokesman for potato chips. Suddenly, the language of punk was rendered meaningless. Or perhaps-- perhaps-- the meaningless language of punk was made meaningful. Greil Marcus (1989:438) records the collapse of punk transgression: ‘the times changed, the context in which all these things could communicate not pedantry but novelty vanished, and what once were metaphors became fugitive footnotes to a text no longer in print.’

Like their subcultural predecessors, early punks were too dependent on music and fashion as modes for expression; these proved to be easy targets for corporate cooptation. ‘The English punk rock rhetoric of revolution, destruction, and anarchy was articulated by means of specific pleasures of consumption requiring the full industrial operations that were ostensibly were the objects of critique’ (Shank 1994: 94). Tactically speaking, the decisive subcultural advantage in music and style-- their innovation, rebellion, and capacity to alarm--was preempted by the new culture industry, which mass-produced and sterilized punk’s verve. With the collapse of punk’s stylistic ultimatum, what had been the foundations for twentieth-century subcultural dissent were diminished--not lost, but never to completely recover the power they once had in music and style.

Part II. The Triumph of the Culture Industry

Gil Scott Heron is famous for the line, ‘The Revolution will not be televised’. But in a way the opposite has happened. Nothing’s given the change to brew and develop anymore, before the media takes hold of it and grinds it to death. Also, there’s an instant commodification of everything that might develop into something ‘revolutionary.’ (Dishwater Pete, quoted in Vale 1997:17)

Having ostensibly neutralized early punk, the culture indsutry proved itself capable of marketing any classical youth subculture. All styles, musics, and poses could be packaged: seemingly no subculture was immune to its gaze. So levelled, classical subcultures were deprived of some of their ability to generate meaning and voice critique.

‘Subculture,’ in the discourse handed down to the present, has come popularly to represent youths who adorn themselves in tribal makeup and listen to narrow genres of music. Subcultures are, in this hegemonic caricature, a temporary phase through which mostly juvenile, mostly ‘White,’ and mostly harmless people symbolically create identity and peer groups, only to later return, as adults, to their pre-ordained roles in mainstream society.

The aforementioned idea of subculture is not without merit: ti is often a temporary vehicle through which teens and young adults select a somewhat prefabricated identification, make friends, separate from their parents, and individuate themselves. As a social form, this classical breed of subculture is important, widespread, and diversely expressed. In this form ‘subculture’ is partly a response to prevailing political economies and partly a cultural pattern that has been shaped and reworked by subcultures themselves and by the mass media. As such it is an inherited social form, and one which is heavily interactive with capitalist enterprise. Thus, subculture is both a discourse that continues to be a meaningful tool for countless people and, at the same time, something of a pawn of the culture industry.

With its capacity to designate all subcultures, all youth, under a smooth frosting of sameness, the culture industry was capable of violating the dignity of subcultists and softening their critique. Implied in the culture industry’s appropriation of subcultural imagery was the accusation of sameness, of predictability, of a generic ‘kids will be kids.’ To paste on any group a label of synchronic oneness is, in some way, to echo colonial tactics. ‘Youths’ or ‘kids,’ when smothered with a pan-generational movement of discontent, are reduced to a mere footnote to the dominant narrative of corporate-capitalism. Trapped in nostalgia and commercial classifications, subcultures and youth are merged into the endless, amalgamated consumer culture.

No wonder, then, that subcultural styles no longer provoke panics, except in select small towns. Piercings and tattoos might cause their owner to be rejected from a job, but they generally fail to arouse astonishment or fear. Writes Frederic Jameson (1983:124): ‘there is very little in either the form of the content of contemporary art that contemporary society finds intolerable and scandalous. The most offensive forms of this art-punk rock, say...are all taken in stride by society’. So too, ideas of self gratification are no longer at odds with the status quo. In the ‘Just Do It’ culture of the late twentieth century, selfish hedonism dominates the airwaves. Says Simon Reynolds (1988:254): ‘“Youth” has been co-opted, in a sanitized, censored version...Desire is no longer antagonistic to materialism, as it was circa the Stones’ “Satisfaction”.’ Instead young people often relate to the alienation of The Smiths or REM, who seem to lament that ‘everyone is having fun except me’; the sense of failure at not having the ‘sex/fun/style’ of the young people in the mass media. Indeed, long before ‘satisfaction’ became hegemonic, the commodity promised to satisfy. But because it cannot satisfy it leaves a melancholy that is satisfiable only in further consumption. So notes Stacy Corngold (1996:33) who concludes that ‘Gramsci’s general point appears to have been confirmed: all complex industrial societies rule by non-coercive coercion, whereby political questions become disguised as cultural ones and as such become insoluble.’ Youth subcultures, after the triumph of the culture industry, may perpetually find themselves one commodity short of satisfaction, and trapped by words that were once liberatory.

Or, as Grant McCracken (1988:133) argues, commodities cannot be completely effective as a mode of dissent because they are made legible in a language written by corporate-capitalism. As he writes:

when “hippies,” “punks”, “gays”, “feminists”, “young republicans”, and other radical groups use consumer goods to declare their difference, the code they use renders them comprehensible to the rest of society and assimilable within a larger set of cultural categories...The act of protest is finally an act of participation in a set of shared symbols and meanings.

Though McCracken underestimates the efficacy of stylized dissent, he is able to locate a defining weakness in the emphasis that subcultures have historically placed in style. My contention is that style was far more potent as a mode of rebellion in the past, and that not until the demise of punk was subcultural style dealt a mortal wound. After the demise of punk’s uber-style, after a kind of terminal point for outrageousness, there is a banality to subcultural style. And it is for this reason that Dick Hebdige’s (1979:102) ‘communication of a significant difference’ can no longer serve as a cornerstone in the masonry of subcultural identity. Following this logic, George McKay (1998:20) comments on the ‘Ecstasy Industry’ of mass culture, which has seized control of style. Thus

The Ecstasy Industry, for its part, is doing only too well under contemporary capitalism and could easily absorb the techniques of lifestyle anarchists to enhance a marketably naughty image. The counterculture that once shocked the bourgeoisie with its long hair, beards, dress, sexual freedom, and art has long since been upstaged by bourgeois entrepreneurs.

We can say, too, that the economy for subcultural codes suffers from hyper-inflation. In other words, the value of subcultural signs and meanings has been depleted: an unusual hairstyle just can’t buy the outsider status it used to. Stylistic transgressions are sometimes piled on one another like so many pesos, but the value slips away almost instantly. Thus, by the 1990s, dissident youth subcultures were far less able to arouse moral panics (Boethius 1995:52) despite an accelerated pace of style innovation (Ferrell 1993:194). In the 2000s, subcultural style is worth less because a succession of subcultures has been commodified in past decades. ‘Subculture’ has become a billion-dollar industry. Bare skin, odd piercings, and bluejeans are not a source of moral panics these days: they often help to create new market opportunities. Even irony, indifference, and apathy toward styles and subculture have been incorporated into Sprite and OK Cola commercials: every subjectivity, or so it may seem, has been swallowed up by the gluttons of Madison Avenue (Frank 1996, 1997a, 1997b).

Part III. The Discourse of Subculture, Plain for All to See

We burrow and borrow and barrow (or dump) our trash and treasures in an endless ballet of making and unmaking and remaking. The speed of this process is now such that a child can see it. (McLuhan and Nevitt 1972:104-5)

The patterned quality of youth subculture (innovate style and music → obtain a following → become commodified and typecast) forms a discourse of subculture, one that is recognized by academics and youths alike. That such a discourse is identifiable over several decades, however, does not mean that it goes unchanged or unchallenged. As a social form it undergoes change in its own right, but also because it has become the discursive object of the mass media. In particular, ‘subculture’ has been in many ways incorporated as a set trope of the culture industries which retail entertainment, clothing, and other commodities. Many observers-- academics, journalists, and culture industrialists-- fail to recognize that hegemonic appropriation of the discourse of subculture has had impacts for the people in subcultures.

Observers may fall into a classic pitfall, wherein they typecast subcultures. Any number of scholars are guilty of detailing the patterned quality of the discourse of subculture, trapping subcultures in a kind of synchronic Othering. One example should suffice:

Nowhere is the rapidly cyclical nature of rock-and-roll history more evident than in the series of events surrounding punk rock. Punk broke all the rolls and declared war on all previously existing musical trends and rules of social behaviour. Rebelling against established musical trends and social mores, punk quickly became a tradition in itself-- a movement with highly predictable stylistic elements. By 1981, just six years after the formation of the Sex Pistols, a new generation of performers had already begun to assert an identity distinct from the established punk style...Here we come full circle in the evolution of rock-and-roll as seen through the lens of punk. Emerging as the antithesis of the conservative musical climate of the 1970s, punk was quickly absorbed and exploited by the very elements against which it rebelled. Undoubtedly a new generation of performers will soon find an aesthetic and philosophical means of rebelling against the now commercial state of rock, just as punks did in [the 1970s]. (Henry 1989:115,116)

Henry, like so many other commentators, repeats serious errors in subcultural studies: (1) she conflates well-known musicians with the subcultures that listen to them; (2) rather than engage punk on its own terms she reduces punk to a type of youth subculture and little more; (3) she assumes that the ‘cyclical nature of rock-and-roll’ will continue to cycle, without considering the cultural effects of its repeated rotations. Many witnesses fail to see the dialectical motion of the discourse of subculture.

Indeed, commodification and trivialization of subcultural style is becoming ever more rapid and, at the turn of the millenium, subcultures are losing certain powers of speech. Part of what has become the hegemonic discourse of subculture is a misrepresentative depolitization of subcultures; the notion that subcultures were and are little more than hairstyles, quaint slang, and pop songs. In the prism of nostalgia, the politics and ideologies of subcultures are often stripped from them.

For today’s subcultural practitioners what does it mean when subcultures of the previous decades are encapsulated in commercials and nostalgia? Punks, mods, hippies, break dancers, 1970s stoners: all seem relegated to cages in the zoo of history, viewed and laughed at from the smug security of a television monitor. (The sign says, ‘Please do not taunt the historical subcultures’, but who listens?) Today’s subcultural denizens are forced to recognize that yesterday’s subcultures can quite easily be repackaged, made spokeswomen for the new Volkswagen.

One danger industrial pop culture poses to subsequent generations of dissident youth subcultures is that these youths may mistake style as the totality of prior dissent. Commercial culture deprives subcultures of a voice when it succeeds in linking subcultural style to its own products, when it nostalgizes and trivializes historic subcultures, and when it reduces a subculture to just another consumer preference. People within subcultures, for their part, capitulate when they equate commodified style with cooptation, when they believe that grunge, or punk, or break-dancing, is just another way of choosing Pepsi over Coke, when they believe that the entirety of subculture is shallow or stolen.

Dissident youth subculture is normal and expected, even unwittingly hegemonic. Where long hair and denim once threatened the mainstream, it has become mainstream and so has the very idea of subculture. Not only are deviant styles normalized, but subcultural presence is now taken for granted: the fact of subcultures is accepted and anticipated. Subcultures may even serve a useful function for capitalism, by making stylistic innovations that can then become vehicles for new sales. Subcultures became, by the 1970s, if not earlier, a part of everyday life, another category of people in the goings-on of society-- part of the landscape, part of daily life, part of hegemonic normality.

But this fact did not go unnoticed by many in the subcultural world.

Part IV. Long Live Punk: New Ways of Being Subcultural

Looking back at the 1980s one has to ask whether punk really died at all. Perhaps the death of punk symbolically transpired with the elections of Margaret Thatcher in England (1979) and Ronald Reagan in American (1980). The Sex Pistols broke up (1978), Sid Vicious died (1979), and--most damningly--too many teeny-boppers were affecting a safe, suburban version of ‘punk’. For many people, spiked hair and dog collars had become a joke, the domain of soda pop ads and television dramas. But did punk disappear with the utter sell-out of its foremost corporate spokesband, the Sex Pistols? Did punk vanish when pink mohawks could be found only on pubescent heads at the shopping mall? If the spectacular collapse of punk was also the collapse of spectacular subcultures, what remained after the inferno? What crawled from the wreckage? In what ways can young people express their unease with the modern structure of feeling? A new kind of punk has been answering these questions.

After shedding its dog collars and Union Jacks, punk came to be: (1) an anti-modern articulation, and (2) a way of being subcultural while addressing the discursive problems of subcultures. In fact, these two courses prove to be one path. That is, the problems of contemporary punk subcultures, after the ‘death’ of classical subcultures, prove to be intimate with the characteristics of recent modernity. Punk, then, is a position from which to articulate an ideological position without accruing the film of mainstream attention.Contemporary punk subcultures, may therefore choose to avoid spectacle-based interaction with dominant culture. Gone too is the dream of toppling the status quo in subcultural revolution. The culture industry not only proved louder than any subcultural challenge, it was a skilled predator on the prowl for fresh young subcultures. The power to directly confront dominant society was lost also with the increasing speed with which the commodification of deviant styles is achieved. It may be only a matter of months between stylistic innovation and its autonomous language of outsiderness, and its re-presentation in commercials and shopping malls.

Even the un-style of 1990s grunge (an old pair of jeans and a flannel shirt) was converted to the religion of the consumer; baptized and born-again as celebrations of corporate-capitalism. With such history in mind, new social movements such as punk attempt to forego style, shared music, and even names for themselves, for fear of being coopted by the market democracy. Tom Frank, speaking at a convention of zinesters addressed precisely this aspect of the structure of feeling in the 1990s:

The real thing to do is get some content. If you don’t want to be coopted, if you don’t want to be ripped off, there’s only one thing that’s ever going to prevent it and that’s politics. National politics, politics of the workplace, but most importantly politics of culture. Which means getting a clue about what the Culture Trust does and why, and saying what needs to be said about it. As culture is becoming the central pillar of our national economy, the politics of culture are becoming ever more central to the way our lives are played out. Realize that what the Culture Trust is doing is the greatest obscenity, the most arrogant reworking of people’s lives to come down the pike in a hundred years. Be clear from the start: what we’re doing isn’t a subculture; it’s an adversarial culture. (Frank 1996)

To a certain extent, punk means post-punk-- a nameless, covert subculture reformed after punk. To recap: early punk was, in part, simulated ‘anarchy;’ the performance of an unruly mob. So long as it could convince or alarm straight people, it achieved the enactment. For its play to work, punk needed a perplexed and frightened ‘mainstream’ off which to bounce. But when the mainstream proved that it needed punk, punk’s equation was reversed: its negativity became positively commercial. As mainstream style diversified, and as deviant styles were normalized, punk had less to act against. Punk had gambled all its chips on public outcry, and when it could no longer captivate an audience, it was wiped clean. Post-punk, or contemporary punk, has foregone these performances of anarchy and is now almost synonymous with the practice of anarchism.

Long after the ‘death’ of classical punk, post-punk and/or punk subcultures coalesce around praxis. For contemporary punks subcultural memberships, authenticity, and prestige are transacted through action internal to the subculture.

Greil Marcus’ idea of punk’s greatness is that the Sex Pistols could tell Bill Grundy to ‘fuck off’ on television. The real greatness of punk is that it can develop an entire subculture that would tell Bill Grundy and safe, boring television culture as a whole to fuck off directly, establishing a parallel social reality to that of boring consumerism (Van Dorston 1990)

Stripped nude, ideologies developed in the early years of punk continue to provide frameworks for meaningful subculture. Against the threatening purview of mass media and its capacity to usurp and commodify style, punk subcultures steer away from symbolic encounters with the System and create a basis in experience.

Punks, in my work among the anarchist-punks of Seattle, don’t call themselves punks. Instead they obliquely refer to the scene in which they ‘hang out’. They deny that they have rules, and claim that they are socially and ideologically porous. After three decades, here is what has become of many of the CCCS’ spectacular subcultures. And yet, in their stead, vibrant, living subcultures remain, with sets of regulations, norms, and their own ideological turfs. Seattle’s anarchist punks, for example, disavow an orthodox name, costume, or music; yet in many ways they continue to leave, or perhaps squat, within the classical structure of subculture. Although today’s punks refuse to pay the spectacular rent, they find that a new breed of subculture offers them ideological shelter and warmth.

From whence did these latter-day punks come? In contemporary America, the relentless commodification of subcultures has brought about a crisis in the act of subcultural signification. Punk is today, in part, a careful articulation in response to the hyper-inflationary market for subcultural codes and meanings, an evasion of subcultural commodification, and a protest against prefabricated culture; and punk is a subculture that resists the hegemonic discourse of subculture. The public cooptation of punk has led some punks to disclaim early punk, while preserving its more political features. Having been forced, as it were, out of a costume and music-based clique, punk is evolving into one of the most powerful political forces in North America and Europe, making its presence felt in the Battle of Seattle (1999), Quebec City (2001), EarthFirst!, Reclaim the Streets, and in variety of anti-corporate movements.

Like the spectacular subcultures so aptly described by the CCCS in the 1970s, current punks are partly in pursuit of an authentic existence. However, now that stylistic authenticity has been problematized by the ‘conquest of cool’ (Frank 1997a), punks have found that the ultimate authenticity lies in political action. Where subcultures were once a steady source of freshly marketable styles for corporations, they now present corporations with a formidable opponent. Punk marks a terrain in which people steadfastly challenge urban sprawl, war, vivisection, deforestation racism, the exploitation of the Third World, and many other manifestations of corporate-capitalism. The threatening pose has been replaced with the actual threat.

Perhaps that is one of the great secrets of subcultural history: punk faked its own death. Gone was the hair, gone was the boutique clothing, gone was negative rebellion (whatever they do, we’ll do the opposite). Gone was the name. Maybe it had to die, so as to collect its own life insurance. When punk was pronounced dead it bequeathed to its successors--itself-- a new subcultural discourse. The do-it-yourself culture had spawned independent record labels, speciality record stores, and music venues: in these places culture could be produced with less capitalism, more autonomy, and more anonymity. Punk faked its own death so well that everyone believed it. Many people who were still, in essence, punk did not know that they were inhabiting kinds of punk subjectivity. Even today, many people engaged in what might be called punk think of punk only in terms of its classical archetype. Punk can be hidden even to itself.

Punk had to die so that it could live. By slipping free of its orthodoxies-- its costumes, musical regulations, behaviours, and thoughts-- punk embodied the anarchism it aspired to. Decentralized, anti-hierarchical, mobile, and invisible, punk has become a loose assemblage of guerilla militias. It cannot be owned; it cannot be sold. It upholds the principles of anarchism, yet has no ideology. It is called punk, yet it has no name.

#Punk #Subculture #Post-subculture #Dylan Clark #Punk is Dead #Long live punk #David Muggleton #Hebdige #Politics #Theory

[neatstuffcollection]

Pinkham, S., 2018. The Curious Nostalgia Of The Former Eastern Bloc. [online] The New Republic. Available at: https://newrepublic.com/article/147818/no-direction-home-post-soviet-countries-populism-nostalgia [Accessed 21 April 2020].

“Freedom is scary. Walker focuses on the political uses of memory: The positive memory of Soviet victory in World War II and the repressed memories of the Gulag, mass deportations and executions, and less glorious wars. While Szabłowski looks for one explanation, Walker charts the complex factors—including decades of violence, postsocialist inequality and deprivation, and a lack of a positive cultural identity—that have created the phenomenon, much discussed but often poorly understood, that we call nostalgia for socialism.” (Pinkham, S., 2018)

“As part of his campaign to restore Russia’s former status as a world power, Putin fostered an obsessive focus on Russia’s defeat of the Nazis in World War II. Walker shows how Putin has used this cult of victory to promote a unifying “national idea” of Russia’s enduring strength and glory and to make Russians feel proud rather than ashamed, a dramatic turn after the rudderless misery of the Yeltsin years. Today, the heavily redacted official memory of the war functions as a distorting lens for Russia’s more recent military engagements, turning any conflict into a story of Russia’s heroic battle against its enemies. Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014 and its intervention in Eastern Ukraine, for instance, became a struggle against “Ukrainian fascists,” a reenactment of Russia’s victory over the Nazis.” (Pinkham, S., 2018)

“Some of Walker’s most surprising case studies are of ethnic minorities whose historical narratives have been subsumed by Russia’s victory cult, and who have been recruited, seemingly against all odds, to fight on the side of their oppressor. The Chechens were colonized first by the Russian Empire and then by the Soviets; in 1944, they were one of several ethnic minorities accused of collaboration with the Nazis and deported en masse, often dying in the process. (This is one of the many dark sides of the Soviet experience of World War II, and one that has been energetically suppressed in Russian and even Chechen public memory.)” (Pinkham, S., 2018)

“One frustrated Crimean man named Vladimir explains, “Until the Soviet Union fell apart, I didn’t even think along the lines of different countries or nationalities, and suddenly, it was all gone. And I turned into a nobody overnight. I had no idea what the point of life was; there was no sense of why you were raising your children, what the point of anything was.” This nostalgia isn’t necessarily about the virtues of Communism as a socioeconomic system. It’s a search for lost time, a longing for a vanished homeland and a coherent identity. Above all, it is about the pain and unhappiness of what came after, including the blatant economic inequality that resulted from privatization.” (Pinkham, S., 2018)

“That pain can transform the Communist past, with all its darkness, into a sort of fairyland, an impossibly good place. It can be accompanied by other, more sinister forms of magical thinking. Vladimir, the frustrated Crimean, joins a pro-Russian brigade, stuffs his mind with outlandish conspiracy theories (one is that the Queen of England has a stone made by Jews under her throne, which is what makes her so powerful)” (Pinkham, S., 2018)

“Khodakovsky expresses regret over the end of Communism as an economic system, arguing, “Market relations just push people away from each other.” He condemns the corruption of post-Soviet Ukraine’s government, remembering the Soviet Union (inaccurately) as a place of greater honor. But he understands that Moscow is only manipulating nostalgia to serve its own capitalist ends and that a genuine resurgence of socialist ideas would pose a serious threat to the Russian political establishment. This means that separatist leaders like him must stamp out any threat of genuine socialism, even as they encourage symbolic Soviet nostalgia. Those who stray too far from Moscow’s line have a way of being blown up or shot under mysterious circumstances. Meanwhile, the Russian government has sponsored a mock-up Reichstag for a park outside Moscow, so that young people can practice storming it.” (Pinkham, S., 2018)

“With their wide-ranging reportage, Walker and Szabłowski depict a postsocialist reality that is almost mind-bogglingly complex, rife with contradictions, absurdities, and arguments without end. The two books are testaments to the importance of documenting a broad spectrum of experiences, of hearing people out even when their ideas and conduct might seem repugnant or incomprehensible at first glance. As both authors note, recent developments in European and American politics have made clear the dangers of ignoring the desires and resentments of a large swath of the population. When we leave Khodakovsky, he is at risk of Russian assassination, with a hollowed-out look, but he refuses to leave Eastern Ukraine or to admit to any regrets. “We’re tired of being an experiment,” he tells Walker. “Our people were used and ignored for years on end, and then they had a small taste of what it’s like to be part of something real.” (Pinkham, S., 2018)

S. Pinkham’s article is an important part of my research because of how openly it speaks about both modern Russia and the Soviet Union’s shortcomings, and notes that the nostalgic trend can be used conveniently to manipulate those who formerly lived in the Soviet Union. 

Keywords: nostalgia, Former Eastern bloc, Soviet Union, social issues

#NONVISUAL

[athyrabunlord]

Tuning

Prize for Manny, who found me in a SIF score match! Sorry this ended up more like Maru-centric + 3rd Years instead of Azalea as per your request (๑≧౪≦)てへぺろ oh and some subunit shenanigans A/N: This blip took place some time after Aqours finally had 9 members, and they just started their subunit activities. Characters: Hanamaru+ 3rd years (Azalea + Mari), and cameos of the rest Words: 1,826

Hanamaru couldn’t help but wear a huge smile as she hurried down the hallway. She used to go straight to the library after school, content to just immerse herself in the fantastical world of adventure, romance and even sci-fi.

But now, she had something even more amazing to look forward to! Every day, there was a new story waiting for her to unfold. How could she not be excited?

Certainly, it was hard at first to get into shape, but all those exercise and training were worth it. The fatigue and sense of accomplishment felt really good, especially since she never partook in such strenuous physical activities before, being the bookworm she was. The more stamina she built up, the longer she could enjoy singing and dancing with her wonderful friends at Aqours!

She felt proud to be able to support Ruby, reconnect with her old friend Yoshiko, and bond with the kind senpais.

Her steps faltered a little as she realized what the club activity was for today. In their previous group meeting, it was decided that they would start the subunit practice. No wonder Ruby was whisked away so suddenly after the bell chimed. Hanamaru only remembered hearing You and Chika’s excited voices, and Ruby’s confused squeak.

“Come on, Ruby-chan! Let’s go already~”

“Now now Chika-chan, you didn’t have to drag Ruby-chan. But yes, let’s full-speed ahead!”

“Um, it’s okay, I’m happy to-”

“Genki Zenkai~?”

“Day!” “Day!” “ Daaaaaaay!!!!”

“Pikiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!”

Right, CYaRon! even had their song title already.

Yoshiko had also excused herself when they met up with Riko at the stairway, stating that she shall go on a manhunt for their elusive shiny Director. Except the self-proclaimed fallen angel used the phrase ‘traverse through the hellfire of Phlegethon, where the shiny demon queen lurks within the depth of Tartarus’. Guilty Kiss was quite distinctive indeed!

Hanamaru giggled quietly. She was certain that her two best friends were having a great time with their respective subunits. Trepidation washed away her light mood as she reminded herself that she had yet to really connect with her Azalea team. She got along with the second years just fine, but she was rather nervous about being alone with Dia and Kanan. Without the moral support from her peers or even the enigmatic blonde who had similar wavelength as Yoshiko, Hanamaru felt intimidated.

She was distinctly aware of her shortcomings whenever she thought about Dia and Kanan. They were tall, beautiful and confident. Of course, she’s only heard good things about the two senpais, whether from Ruby or You and Chika. Their successful performance of Mijuku Dreamer and the subsequent lives certainly made her admire how dependable they were. The student council president organized Aqours’ activities, while the friendly diver designed their training regime.

Dia was the push they needed to get through a session, stern yet also gentle as she was, while Kanan was the vigilant brake that determined their rest intervals, even though she appeared laidback most of the time. They complemented each other well, and they certainly looked out for their kouhais. Although, they did slip into childish bickers sometimes with Mari, who knew just when to light up the atmosphere and help her two friends relax.

Hanamaru pursed her lips in resolution. Ruby would surely encourage her to do her Rubesty, and so she shall try her hardest to reach Dia and Kanan’s level.

When she arrived at the clubroom, where Azalea’s meeting was to be held, she was surprised to find another visitor. Mari was sitting beside the closed door with a small smile on her face, her back leaned against the wall and her eyes closed in relaxation.

Was she napping? Just as Hanamaru stepped closer, she heard a symphony of voices inside the clubroom. Her eyes widened at how harmonious the tune was, of how Dia’s husky and steady voice blended with Kanan’s rich and blithe tone. It was a song she had never heard before, and it must be an incomplete one too for the two girls slightly changed the pitch and lyrics intermittently.

Still, the brunette found herself entranced. “Zura…”

“Ara, Hanamaru-chan?” Mari was gazing at her amiably, and patting the spot beside her in invitation. Curious, the younger girl sat down and peered at her.

“Nice surprise, isn’t it? Kanan and Dia used to this back then, to hone our songs,” Mari’s features were soft in nostalgia. “I would give them the first draft of the melody, and they would brainstorm the lyrics. While I’m off refining the music, they would sing in trial segments like this. Sometimes they even come up with the choreography as they go. Once we’re somewhat happy with our respective parts, we would convene and finalize the song together.”

“That’s incredible zura. I had no idea that was how the… um, first generation Aqours was like.”

Nowadays, the tasks were more evenly distributed amongst the members, so Hanamaru couldn’t imagine just how the third-years managed when it was just the three of them. Whenever she worked on the lyrics with Chika, the sunny leader often expressed her relief at how much better it was now compared to how they had to complete Daisuki Dattara Daijoubu.

“Hmm? We never mentioned it? Well, don’t tell Rikocchi I used to be the composer~ I want to surprise her and Yoshiko-chan later~”

Hanamaru chuckled at Mari’s feline-like grin. “And the costumes?”

“Oh, we all work on the outfits together! Usually, Dia would come up with the designs, I would have input with the fabrics and accessories, and Kanan would put them all together. Ehehe, shiny, aren’t they?”

There was such fondness and pride in Mari’s voice, though the sparkle in her eyes already spoke volumes. Hanamaru was pleased to learn about her seniors, and the fact that they worked meticulously to finalize a song made them so much more relatable.

They fell silent for a moment, both enjoying the sonorous voices behind the closed door. “I love listening to them - they inspire me to improve the music, especially knowing how hard they try to refine the song.”

Hanamaru recalled what Chika once said to Dia and repeated the same words with a soft smile. “Mari-san really loves Dia-san and Kanan-san ne?”

“Of course! And I’m sure you understand what I mean~”

“Ah, there she is!”

Yoshiko was huffing as she approached them, irritation evident in her fearsome but cute scowl. Riko, looking exhausted, was close behind with the three confused members of CYaRon in tow. Mari sprang up the moment Yoshiko made a pose and lunged in a wild dash.

“Ha! Your chokehold technique isn’t going to work on me, Yoshiko-chan! Not to mention, you’ll have to catch me first, ciao~”

Like a shooting star, the shiny Director soon disappeared from eyesight, much to Riko’s frustration.

“Mou! Stop it you two! Can’t we just start the meeting already?” Unfortunately, her plea went unheard.

Chika suddenly grinned, her expression full of mischief. “Ah, Shiitake came to join us!”

“Yeeeek!!”

Riko jolted in reflex, knocking into Yoshiko who stumbled forward just as the door opened.

“What is the ruckus-” Dia poked her head out just in time for the younger girl to collide into her. As they sprawled on the ground in a painful heap, Ruby worriedly crouched beside them and tried to help. Kanan soon came to their rescue and easily untangled them. You was exasperatedly reprimanding the not-so-apologetic looking Chika, but also coaxing Riko not to strangle their leader.

As Hanamaru watched the chaotic scene before her, a revelation slowly dawned upon her. Mari was correct - she did understand what the older girl meant.

She loved everything about Aqours.

She cherished every moment with her friends, and wished to contribute to the group as much as she could to show just how dearly she adored them.

“Hnff! The great Yohane shall accept your challenge, O Golden Star. I will capture you! Come, my little demons! Lily and No.4, keep an eye out for possible ambushes!”

Dia deadpanned at seeing how accepting her little sister was with the ridiculous nickname. Yoshiko, Ruby, Chika and (a very irked) Riko soon left the area. You sent them a sheepish look before shouting “Yousorou~” and chasing after them.

“Goodness, this is why I was against how the subunits are divided. Someone needs to keep an eye on Mari-san,” Dia’s voice was severe, yet an imperceptible smile belied her true thoughts on the matter.

Kanan chuckled in agreement before turning to look at Hanamaru. ““I hope Mari didn’t trouble you too much.”

Hanamaru resisted the urge to shrink under the tall senpais’ gaze and replied a little defensively.. “S-She didn’t. We were just chatting zura.” She blinked in realization. “You knew we were here the whole time?”

“Well, Kanan-san and I did not know that you were here as well, Hanamaru-san,” Dia’s tone softened as if sensing her unease. “But yes, we knew Mari-san was here. That is why we want to work even harder so we do not disappoint her.”

At those words, Hanamaru found herself relaxing and smiling up at her fellow Azalea members. “Hehe, you didn’t disappoint her at all. She.. no, we both loved it zura~”

“That’s good to hear!” Kanan patted her on the head, a gesture that pleasantly surprised her. “Alright, we have a lot to do today, Maru.”

“Indeed, we would like you to revise the lyrics with us,” Dia also gently smiled at her then.

Hanamaru felt rather silly about her apprehension earlier. She would surely find her place with these two kind senpais, so she had better not let them down.

This was a whole new chapter in her story and she couldn’t wait for more!

=========================

“Ganbatta tte owaranai (I’ve never stopped trying my best)~ Son’na… hmm...”

Hanamaru paused and jotted down a few things in her notebook while humming the next segment. She tried again with a new set of lyrics but shook her head with a pout.

A hand teasingly prodded at her cheek. “Now now, Maru, don’t wear a frownie.”

“But Kanan-chan, you’ve already finished the first verse… I need to finish mine so we can fine-tune the chorus part.”

“There is no need to hurry. Patience is the key,” Dia also wrote down a few phrases, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps we could…”

The three of them shared a knowing glance and began to sing. They adjusted their pitch accordingly as they went, and after Kanan finished her part, Hanamaru followed with ease and instinctively picked the lyrics from the page full of ideas.

“Son’na koto mo aru Mission~ (In this Mission) Tasukete agetai, kono uta de~ (I want to help you with this song~”

Hanamaru beamed at her friends, who returned the gesture just as excitedly. Their third subunit song was coming along quite nicely, just as their first two songs had.

They were Azalea, and efficient teamwork was one of their best points.

Yes, this is where I belong zura~

#athyra writes #azalea #kunikida hanamaru #kanadiamari #3rdYears #Cyaron #Guilty Kiss #yes those were verses from Lonely Tuning #I'm too much of a 3rdYears garbage to keep this strictly Azalea ;;w;; #up to the reader to decide what the sub pairings are in this short blip xD #SM encounter prize

[firelord-jerkbender]

Reunion

Post 4x07 speculation fic featuring the bed of sex. "Her heart beats thunderously beneath her chest, and she begins to trace the length of his hair, his nose, the curvature of his lips, and the hollow spot on his chin with her curious eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs and Clarke wonders if he’s feeling this too, this strange, exhilarating sensation she’s feeling now. A mix of excitement, nervousness, and familiarity coils at the pit of her stomach, winding and unwinding with each breath she takes."

Bellarke's first kiss and first time together. Sometimes it really is about coming home.

Read on Ao3 or below

Her hands move in practiced motions, her right reaching over to grab the tape while the other holds the gauze in place. She zeroes in on the wound, quieting the part of her that won’t stop worrying over him. He needs to be more careful.

After putting tape on the edges, Clarke inspects her handiwork to make sure it’ll heal properly. She’s still worried but mainly annoyed – he genuinely can’t go a single day without hurting himself.

“It’s just a scratch.”

She knows he’s grinning lopsidedly without her even looking, and sure enough, the corner of his mouth is lifted in what can be seen as Bellamy’s first smile in weeks. It baffles her how he can take getting hurt so lightly, but there’s a part of Clarke that knows he’s just as exhausted and angry as she is. It hurts, having to carry the weight of the world. It will never get easier, but Clarke takes comfort in knowing Bellamy will be there, just as he always has.

“Yeah, well, it’s a scratch you could’ve avoided.”

He huffs under his breath but makes no move to leave. He sticks out like a sore thumb in this bedroom. Both of them do – all grimy, angry, and touched by evil. It’s too pristine for them. Even back on the Ark, she slept on a cot with basic bedding. This bed – the entire house, in fact – is too luxurious.

There’s a part of her that feels she doesn’t deserve to stay here, even if it’s to simply sleep. She’s already experienced a lifetime of luxury. She grew on the right side of the Ark, didn’t have to worry about food, or working when she was fourteen just to provide for her family. She doesn’t need it, not anymore.

Taking a deep breath, Clarke steps away from Bellamy and points to the bathroom. “You can shower in there. Murphy probably left food in the fridge, so I’ll warm it up for us.”

He nods solemnly. “Thanks.” Bellamy scans the entire room with a slight scowl on his lips. “I’m scared I’ll make this place dirty.”

Laughing, Clarke shakes her head before crossing her arms. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

An odd look crosses over Bellamy’s face, and his eyes flicker up to hers, searching for something. Her stomach flips and flops for a moment, and she doesn’t know what to make of the new sensation. She’s not terribly close to him, but she can spot the freckles on his face, sprinkled out in imperfect harmony. And if Clarke leaned in a little further, she could see the tiny mole on his left collarbone, peeking through his war torn shirt.

She’s spent a lot of time studying Bellamy – back at the dropship, she would study whether his facial expressions revealed his ulterior motives. Then after, she would look to see if his eyes flickered anywhere that might pose danger and follow his line of sight, trusting his instincts. And now, Clarke checks to see if he’s forgiven himself, if he no longer views himself as a monster.

Clarke hasn’t been able to determine if he has.

But she’s a grown woman, and she can admit he will always be her favorite subject. She is able to study herself through him. If Bellamy is worried, then so should she. And if he is happy, she realizes she should be as well, because life is too fickle to never smile for days on end.

Clarke sees herself in him, and it scares her how much wants him to know that.

“I would really hate to be inside your head right now.”

She thinks about replying with a sarcastic Pretty sure you couldn’t handle it on a good day but instead she says, “No, I don’t think you would.”

~/~

The cold marble floors soothe her aching feet, and as she pads towards the room Clarke berates herself for leaving her gun in there. She shouldn’t get too comfortable here because danger is ever present. The last time she was here a Grounder broke in and now he’s become a lab rat. Needless to say, there’s always a reason to keep her gun handy.

She barges into the room, forgetting to knock and realizing Bellamy was in the process of taking a shower. He’s out of it now, but he’s standing in the middle of the room completely shirtless, staring at his worn out shirt with disdain.

“Oh shi – sorry, I didn’t –”

Her cheeks redden and the color deepens when she realizes she’s actually blushing. She caught him in a private moment and she came in like this was a normal thing to do. It’s one thing to see him half naked when he’s working, another when he’s tucked away in the privacy of a bedroom.

Averting her gaze, Clarke starts to turn away before Bellamy gently says, “It’s okay.”

“No, I’ll –”

“It’s fine. I was just wondering if I wanted to put this shirt back on since it’s completely wrecked and filthy.”

Relaxing marginally, Clarke smiles softly and points to the shirt. “Do you want to keep it?”

Bellamy lifts the shirt. “This?” He inspects it for a second then scowls. “It smells like a dead animal and looks like one, too.”

Smiling once more, Clarke heads over to the wall with mirrors and pushes against it. The wall pushes forward and Clarke slides the closet door, revealing brand new clothes for men and women. Clarke’s already taken a few pieces for her, Raven and her mother, but the clothes are a little too tight due to her large chest. Still, it’s better than nothing and she suspects the men’s shirts and pants will fit Bellamy.

“Becca must’ve thought she was going to have some company.”

Bellamy snorts and she finds herself chuckling alongside him, though she knows her comment wasn’t as funny as they’re making it out to be.

“You’ve been hiding this for how long?”

She frowns and feels the need to defend herself. “I haven’t been hiding it . . .”

“I didn’t – It was a joke, Clarke.”

“Oh.”

She feels stupid for not realizing it and glances towards the floor, biting her lip as she does so. He must sense her awkwardness because he quietly asks, “Hey, why don’t you pick something out for me?”

Grateful for the distraction, Clarke immediately picks out the shirt nearest to her and takes it out of the closet. Removing the hanger, Clarke puts it back in the closet and hands him the shirt. It’s soft, gray, and smells like nothing, but she has no doubt in a day’s time it’ll smell like water, grass, and motor oil.

“Just the way you like it.”

Bellamy stares at it then grins, and her heart skips a beat. “I guess it’s better than the regular black I always wear.”

“I don’t mind the black,” she confesses, and is startled by how easily it came out.

They’ve gotten closer now, unaware of how they gravitated towards each other. They do it often – leaning into each other without realizing it, though Clarke suspects on a subconscious level they know they need this closeness. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It’s feels, strangely, normal – they’ve gone through so much together, seen each other at their worst and best, that this proximity doesn’t scare her. Clarke forgets how easy it is to feel at home with Bellamy, because no matter what happens he welcomes her like she never left.

Her heart beats thunderously beneath her chest, and she begins to trace the length of his hair, his nose, the curvature of his lips, and the hollow spot on his chin with her curious eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs and Clarke wonders if he’s feeling this too, this strange, exhilarating sensation she’s feeling now. A mix of excitement, nervousness, and familiarity coils at the pit of her stomach, winding and unwinding with each breath she takes.

She doesn’t want this moment to end because it feels too serious, too important. But she doesn’t know how to act because she’s unsure of what she wants. It’s too overwhelming to pick her feelings apart – her rational mind like to talks her out of things, and the emotional part of her still wants to be sad about Lexa. But she can’t. She won’t.

The ache Clarke would feel whenever she thought about Lexa would physically hurt her – her chest would tighten, her throat would close up, and she would have to breathe in and out for several seconds before she could see in front of her again. But now, the ache is replaced by bittersweet nostalgia, of what could’ve been. Clarke looks back on what they had – it was tumultuous and there was no right time for them – and she doesn’t regret it.

But things have to change and Clarke wants to move on. It’s tiring to think about the past so often, and all she wants is a partner she can trust. Someone who understands her more than she understands herself. Someone who is so selfless that they’ll do whatever it takes to swallow her pain, just so she doesn’t have to live another day with such sadness.

And, she thinks, perhaps Bellamy wants to move on, too.

The shirt drops to the floor and lands softly on the plush carpet. The silence is thick and palpable, and she finally gathers the courage to look at Bellamy. His eyes have widened but they’re softer now, watching her carefully. She can smell him – the real Bellamy – mixed in with a hint of fresh soap. From this distance she can spot every freckle, every pore, and a hint of a beard forming on his jawline.

This isn’t the first time Clarke’s viewed him this way, but she never allowed herself to get carried away due to fear of losing him, and assuming it wasn’t in her place to do so. But seeing that Bellamy hasn’t run away yet let’s her know she’s not the only one who’s thought of the other this way before.

She doesn’t know who moves first, but just as she reaches for his hand, Bellamy’s left hand gently grabs a hold of her arm, his calloused fingers creating goose bumps on her skin. Her breath catches in her throat and she nearly jumps at the sensation. They’ve touched plenty of times – from touches of safety, concern and to goodbye kisses. But this . . . this is different.

They move in sync like they always do, and their fingertips skim over each other’s skin with a slowness that can only be described as exploratory. It feels like she’s been doing this for a long time, and the excitement is still there several years later. Her hands continue to mark a path up his arms, then to his collarbone, neck, and settling on the sides of his face. Bellamy’s hands are hot and rough, almost claiming in the way they move around her waist and lower back.

He’s much taller than she is but she likes it. She likes being surrounded by Bellamy, covered in his shadow. For a moment Clarke doesn’t have to pretend to be Wanheda or anyone else – just Clarke. Just a woman wanting to kiss a man.

She can feel the heat emanating off of him, and she has an overwhelming desire to run her hand possessively down his chest, to feel the hard muscle she’s admired for a long time. In this moment, Clarke has Bellamy all to herself and she feels privileged to be here with him in this way. They’re so alike in many ways – always searching for redemption, scared to open up, haunted by their past and future. To see Bellamy so vulnerable lets her know he trusts her more than anyone else, and she promises to cherish that forever.

Finally looking up at him, Clarke takes the initiative and leans forward, her eyes closing and pressing her lips against his. She is nervous and there’s an influx of adrenaline coursing through her veins; she doesn’t doubt Bellamy can hear her heart pounding in her chest.

His lips are slightly chapped and he’s completely motionless for a solid three seconds, and Clarke’s skin begins to burn in rejection. She’s already plotting how to leave this situation are graceful as she can when Bellamy surges forward, kissing her with such ferocity she wonders if he’s thought about this, too. Kissing her.

She’s pressed up all against him, her soft curves molding into the hard lines of his body. The kisses are chaste but there’s a heat underneath it all that’s begging to be let out. Bellamy’s tongue flicks out, an invitation, and her mouth immediately opens up at the request. She makes a small noise when his tongue curls around hers, and has a ridiculous notion to cry out from all the emotions she’s feeling.

One minute they’re being respectful of one another, the next they become possessed and let themselves go. Clarke’s wrapped one hand on the nape of his neck while the other goes down to his chest, and Bellamy holds her tight, his own hands moving disjointedly all over her body. He stays away from touching her breasts and she doesn’t move further than his sternum, but God she wants to.

The kiss turns passionate and is slightly sloppy, as if they know there’s only so much time before reality sinks in. The air is filled with breathy little noises, a slight moan here and there, and a quick hum of approval from Bellamy. Clarke can barely breathe but in this moment she could care less. She is dizzy and all over him, and it’s the best she’s felt in ages.

There’s a moment where they realize this could quickly spiral out of control, and Clarke is thankful for Bellamy for not pushing it further. It doesn’t feel right as of now. Maybe one day. Instead, she wants to curl up on the bed with him, and touch him softly so she can memorize what he really looks like.

Bellamy slowly pulls back, first leaving her lips, letting go his hand that’s wrapped around the nape of her neck and jaw, before dragging his hands down her waist and stepping back. He’s breathing harshly and his lips are swollen. His eyes are pitch black and she swears she can see a hint of a flush creeping up on his chest. Clarke’s stomach clenches in desire and she’s scared of how a kiss can make her feel this way.

But this wasn’t any other kiss – it was something much more.

It feels a little awkward now, with both of the breathing loudly and standing there without having a clue what to do next. Clarke wonders if she should say something but it gets stuck in her throat, for once in her life speechless.

“I have to go back.”

His voice is husky and still laced with desire, and God, Clarke wants to kiss him all over again.

“Okay,” she croaks.

Bellamy bends to retrieve his shirt and quickly puts it on; Clarke is disappointed he has to wear a shirt now. A hint of panic hits Clarke, and she worries this may be the last time she’ll see him. She almost makes a move to grab his arm and lock him up in the bedroom, when Bellamy steps back and looks at her like it’s back to business as usual.

“You should come with me.”

“I can’t – my mom needs help in the lab.” Which is partly true. But mainly, Clarke doesn’t want to go back there knowing everyone hates her and think she’s always trying to play God. At least in the lab, Clarke isn’t entirely shamed for making tough decisions, because they need to find a cure and God abandoned them a long time ago.

It’s possible Bellamy can see through her lie, but if he does he doesn’t show it. Instead he nods solemnly, and gathers his gun belt left on the bed. There’s no sound except for the jingle of Bellamy’s belt, and when it clicks into place Clarke snaps out of her daze.

She doesn’t want him to leave. Sometimes she hates how reality tears apart all the good things in their life, but he is here, alive, and for that she is forever grateful.

“I – Will you come back?”

Her voice breaks and she hates how weak she sounds. But . . . Clarke needs Bellamy more than ever. He’s the only one who can fill up the hole of emptiness in her soul, and Clarke’s so sure of the fact that it throws her off.

Time stops – Bellamy eyes her carefully and something flickers in his eyes. It looks a bit like hesitation, but the look is easily wiped away when he slowly steps towards Clarke. His jaw clenches in concentration, and his hand slowly rises up to her cheek, his thumb softly touching her in a move so affectionate she can’t think.

“Yeah, I will.”

~/~

It’s been a couple of days since Clarke’s seen Bellamy, but she’s been unnaturally busy at the lab, though that hasn’t stopped her from thinking of the kiss. She hasn’t been able to talk to him, of course, but she keeps replaying the kiss on repeat whenever she has the chance. Her mother has caught her spacing out in more than one occasion, her inquisitive stare making Clarke blush.

Clarke has been kissed before, but this . . . She strangely feels at home with Bellamy. She doesn’t feel guilty like she does with Niylah, lustful with Finn, or cautious with Lexa. She feels excited, nervous, and hopeful. All words Clarke didn’t ever think she would use in her life anytime soon.

She’s back in the white house again, although Murphy and Emori are here too, doing God knows what. As of late Clarke’s been feeling more tired than normal, and she hates how often she retires to bed. Her mother and Raven have been working nonstop on finding a way to survive – they need more rest than she does.

Regardless, it’s nice to sleep in a comfy bed with feathered pillows, not hear constant drilling, and not wonder if the strange ticking sound is in her head or a countdown clock for a bomb left in her room. Clarke begins to doze off in the comfort of the room, but she’s not prepared to hear slow and heavy footsteps echo in the hallway.

Fear courses through her veins – she didn’t hear anyone come in, and as far as she knows Murphy isn’t in the kitchen to watch who comes and goes.

Jumping out of the bed, Clarke grabs her gun off the nightstand and holds it steady, waiting for the intruder to step in. She curses to herself, because of course another intruder would come in while she’s about to fall asleep. Clarke’s annoyed and royally pissed off – whoever decides to come through that door won’t know what hit them.

As the shadow looms closer Clarke can make out a faint outline of a messy head of hair, and she immediately knows it’s Bellamy. But past experience has taught her to be cautious, so she continues to hold the gun up until the person comes in view. Thankfully it is him.

“Jesus Christ, Bellamy.”

Relieved, Clarke puts the gun away and is prepared to chastise him for creeping up on her like that, but she can tell something is off. He’s grimy, sweaty and clearly exhausted. Half of his body is covered in darkness, but Clarke can see from a mile away his body is thrumming with energy. Yet, Bellamy is leaning against the doorframe as if he’s having a casual conversation with her, and the juxtaposition of his stance worries her.

“Is something wrong?”

It comes out in a whisper – Clarke doesn’t know why. Maybe it has to do with how Bellamy’s acting, because she knows one wrong word and he’ll shut down. Or maybe it’s because she can see he’s hurting, and she wants him to know she’s there for him.

He doesn’t say a word. Instead, Bellamy keeps a trained eye on Clarke as he takes off his boots and socks, shoving them away and slowly stepping into the bedroom. There’s almost a predatory quality to the way Bellamy’s staring at her, and she would be lying if she said it didn’t excite her. But Clarke is also worried because something is clearly bothering him and he won’t say why.

Bellamy’s steps are heavy and his shoulders are sagging from the weight of the world, but his face tells another story – lips are pursed in a thin line, eyes have hardened, and as usual his jaw clenches and unclenches with each step he takes. Clarke quickly surveys Bellamy and sees no blood on him, but she spots a large bruise forming on his left bicep. Something happened – perhaps with the Grounders or with one of their own, but whatever it is, it has affected Bellamy in more ways than one.

He continues to stare at her as he drops his jacket somewhere on the carpet and unbuckles his gun belt. It lands with a thud on the floor, and Clarke’s heart beats wildly as Bellamy steps closer to her. She doesn’t know what to make of this Bellamy, but she is certainly curious about the new development.

Her breath catches in her throat when he’s finally right in front of her, his head bent in concentration as his fingertips graze the hem of her shirt. He is hot and smells of sweat with a hint of metal, but his touch is as shy as a bird’s feather. Goosebumps erupt all over her skin and she shivers, though Bellamy doesn’t seem to notice. He continues to toy with her shirt before slowly bringing up his gaze to her.

Whatever was bothering Bellamy seems to have buried itself deep within him, because now he’s looking at her with pure longing. A shot of desire hits her – her stomach clenches in anticipation and nervousness, and she can feel herself wanting to let go, just this once.

“I need you.”

I need you.

From the way Bellamy struggled to say the words Clarke can tell this is . . . different. Bellamy doesn’t need her to cover for him, or stay by his side while they’re trying to save the world. He doesn’t need her to carry something, or to go on a supply run.

He needs her.

He needs her in the most carnal, intimate way, and she’s struck by the sincerity of his confession. Maybe Bellamy needs her to forget about what happened. Or maybe, to finally stop bullshitting and admit what this is between them.

And perhaps Clarke needs Bellamy in the same way, too.

“I’m right here.”

They gaze into one another, not at all shy about the sudden shift in their partnership. There’s no need for a basket of bread or declarations – they are uniquely them and nothing else can hold a candle to it.

Bellamy’s hands twist the fabric of Clarke’s shirt, yanking her towards him just as his lips crash into hers. Clarke lets out a gasp, unaware of how much energy and tension there is between them. There’s a hunger behind his kisses and Clarke does her best to soothe it. Bellamy’s hands leave her shirt and move underneath it, his hot palms tightly holding onto her hips like she’s the only thing left standing in the world.

Clarke wraps her arms around Bellamy’s shoulders, pressing her body against his and wanting to feel every inch of him. She’s already hot and adrenaline courses through her veins, and the anticipation of what’s going to happen next spurs her on.

Flicking out her tongue, she runs it over his lower lip and Bellamy immediately acquiesces, his tongue thrusting in and out of her, as if he’s mimicking what he intends to do with her. She moans and she pushes herself into him, feeling a hardness that hadn’t been there before. It makes her feel strangely powerful – Clarke did this to him.

Bellamy’s hands are under her shirt and he takes a step forward, no doubt leading her to the bed. Pulling away from her, he takes her shirt and lifts it up, and Clarke does her part by removing the fabric herself. She’s breathing harshly and despite her half-naked state, she can’t stop herself from unabashedly staring at Bellamy.

His eyes are dark, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen by their enthusiastic kissing. Clarke can’t recall anyone else looking at her the way he is right now; she wonders how she’s gone this long without being with Bellamy in this way.

Okay, she thinks. Okay.

Still keeping a trained eye on him, Clarke grabs fistfuls of his shirt – the same shirt she gave him a couple of days ago – and lifts it up, watching Bellamy’s muscles move as he removes the rest of it. Just as the shirt clears his body, Clarke runs her hands over his chest, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he takes each breath. The bruise she spotted before is larger than she anticipated, and she wants nothing more than to make it better. Without warning, Clarke presses a gentle kiss there, unsure of where she got the courage to do that.

It seems Bellamy can’t handle the intimacy of it because he grabs her face and kisses her deeply. He gives a low moan, the sound vibrating against her and Clarke can’t prevent herself from humming in approval. Her hands mark a path on his body, from his neck to his chest, and her fingers softly graze his nipples. Bellamy immediately moans and his hips snap forward, grinding into her stomach.

“God,” Clarke breathes out. Bellamy doesn’t say a word and instead moves straight to her neck, kissing any part of skin he can find. She gulps in large amounts of air and it embarrasses her how loud she is. But Bellamy doesn’t seem to mind, and he does a good job of making her forget basic things like breathing.

Her hands travel down to his belt as he takes another step forward, undoing it without any finesse whatsoever. He is the second man she’s been with – Clarke doesn’t have much practice and she hopes it doesn’t make things awkward. Bellamy lets her take her time as his hands grab onto her hair, slowly and gently massaging her scalp until they land on her neck. Once she unbuckles it and unzips his pants, Bellamy’s fingers deftly unhook her bra, but he doesn’t remove it.

There’s a pregnant pause and Clarke watches Bellamy with rapt attention. His eyes are glued to hers, hesitant, and she understands now that he wants her permission. Clarke wonders why Bellamy is hesitating when she’s spent this whole time opening up to him in a way she hasn’t done before, but she can see why he’s acting this way. They have a habit of getting so close before something – or someone – tears them apart. More often than not it’s Clarke herself, and she wants to make up for all the times she’s hurt him.

Still staring at him, Clarke slowly pulls the straps down, and she doesn’t fail to notice Bellamy looking right at her breasts like a man starved. Swallowing thickly, she takes off her bra and drops it to the side even though she wants to cover herself up. But the whole point of this is to show Bellamy she wants him, and she’s not going to back down now.

His eyes snap up to hers and they’re not longer haunted, but rather, soft and yearning. Clarke is starting to feel a little embarrassed but Bellamy bends and gently kisses her one, two times. She’s starting to relax when Bellamy quickly pulls back and his hands begin to knead her breasts. Clarke glances up to the ceiling as she attempts to breathe normally, but she’s not prepared to feel Bellamy’s mouth clamp over her nipple.

He’s not the first person to do so, but the ferocity of how he does it is certainly new to her. His tongue moves in angry swirls, sucking and licking the skin there, and Clarke can’t restrain a wanton moan escaping her lips. In response, Bellamy lightly nips her and she gasps at the sensation. He quickly moves onto the other breast while his left hand tweaks and rubs her nipple that was just ravaged by his mouth. The other hand moves down to her backside, kneading it the same way his hand is, and his mouth continues to attack her nipple with no hesitation.

She wants to tell him to stop the foreplay because it’s too much for her. She’s dizzy and doesn’t know what to do with herself, but God, this feels too good to stop.

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Clarke tugs his head up and kisses him hotly, her tongue swirling around his without restraint. Bellamy hums and begins to walk forward once more, Clarke following his lead. She feels the bed hit the back of her knees and she pulls back, bending to undo her pants. Bellamy does the same and once they finish, Clarke gazes into him, trying to communicate how much this moment means to her. That she’s not here to hurt him, she’s here because she wants to make him feel better – both of them.

Sitting on the bed, Clarke leans back just as Bellamy leans forward to kiss her, both of them slowly collapsing on the plush bed. Their legs dangle off the bed, so Clarke pulls away and begins to straighten herself, lying down softly on the pillows. Bellamy follows suit and immediately covers her with his body, and wraps himself around her so tight she can’t breathe.

They continue kissing before Bellamy pulls away and peppers kisses on her neck, sternum, stomach – she squirms, unaware of how ticklish she is, and Bellamy gives her a wolfish grin – before hooking his fingers around her underwear and slowly pulling them down. Clarke swallows, unsure if Bellamy is doing this because he thinks she wants it or because he wants to do this for her. She isn’t going to complain, though, but she’s nervous all over again. Her naked self is so very close to his that it sends her to a tailspin. They’re really doing this.

He has the gall to stare at her once her underwear clears her body, and Clarke resists the urge to primly shut her legs. She’s embarrassingly wet but she can tell it’s going to be different with Bellamy. When Lexa did this with her, it was slightly rushed and there wasn’t much time for exploring. With Nilyah, it’s usually a game of who can break first, but with Bellamy it’s like he’s worshipping her. Like he wants to conquer every inch of her body no matter how long it takes.

Taking one last look at Clarke – eyes pitch black, mouth hanging open in preparation of what’s to come next – Bellamy dips his head and runs his tongue along her slit.

“So fucking hot,” he rasps, and Clarke can’t stop herself from hissing. His voice sounds like pure sex and Clarke wants to hear it over and over again.

Bellamy gathers her legs before placing them over his broad shoulders. One hand is firmly placed on her thigh while the other teases her folds, and Clarke takes this time to fully relax and let Bellamy worship her the way he wants to.

His rough and calloused fingers create new sensations, and it is one of the loveliest feelings she can recall. Bellamy sucks and laves as he completely immerses himself with her. Sucking gently on her clit, Clarke can’t stop herself from bucking and moaning, her head twisting to the side at the onslaught of pleasure.

“Fuck,” she whispers, because he’s made her into a blubbering mess and it’s all she can say at the moment.

He does it once more before sliding one finger into her, and her breath catches in her throat. It feels different but in a good way – his finger is naturally longer than what she’s been exposed to, and it feels heavenly. Sensing her enjoyment, Bellamy immediately pumps another finger in her, curving his fingers to hit her in the right spot.

Clarke tugs on his hair in hopes of getting a chance to kiss him, but he won’t budge. Instead, she rubs and pinches her nipples and focuses on Bellamy doing absolutely sinful things to her. She’s practically fucking his hands now and doesn’t care about being loud or moaning wantonly. It feels to good for words, too good for anything.

She’s dangerously close when Bellamy pulls back and slows down, stilling for several seconds. Lifting her head, she sees him staring at her with a half-hooded gaze, his mouth shining and she gets wetter just by looking at him. Groaning lowly, Clarke lies back on the pillow when Bellamy starts the slow torture once more, though Clarke is at a point where she just wants him now.

A sheen of sweat is beginning to form on her chest, and she can feel a new layer on her forehead. Clamping her legs around Bellamy, Clarke senses an impending orgasm and she can tell it’ll be a powerful one – her womb begins to tighten, her legs tense up, and she can’t stop herself from bucking, especially when Bellamy sucks on her clit. But once again, he slows down to a maddening pace before removing his mouth and fingers from her altogether. She’s briefly annoyed he didn’t let her come, but she would rather break apart with him inside her – it seems he has the same idea, too.

Stepping back, Bellamy stands up remove his boxers and Clarke’s eyes immediately land on his cock. It looks positively painful right now – he’s so hard she wonders why he decided to wait so long. He’s a decent size and a shot of desire hits her once she realizes this is it.

She flushes once Bellamy catches staring at her, a tiny smirk forming on his lips. She flushes more when Bellamy wipes his mouth with his hand and puts his fingers in his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks every last drop of her. Clarke groans – this shouldn’t turn her on as much as it is, but it does, and she can add this to the list of things she enjoys watching Bellamy do.

He releases his fingers with a pop, then pumps himself a couple of times while Clarke watches with rapt attention. Bellamy’s mouth hangs open as he breathes harshly, intently looking at her without any reservation. Her heart does a strange pitter-patter and she unconsciously licks her lips before quickly running her fingers down her sex, unaware of how it would affect him – he groans lowly before leaning forward and climbing on top of her.

Excitement and nervousness begins to take a hold of her, but her heart feels heavy, too. This isn’t a quick hookup for her and she hopes it isn’t for Bellamy either. It means so much more to her – she wants a future with him. She wants to be by his side and him by hers. Clarke can’t imagine the end of the world without him and he needs to know that.

She wants to say something, but as Bellamy’s face comes into view all words are lost and she can only stare at him, hoping to convey how much he means to her. Bellamy’s skin is flushed and some pieces of his hair is stuck on his face, and the way he’s looking at her is the complete opposite of how he was acting when he first entered the bedroom.

Good, Clarke thinks, because I want you and tonight we’ll ease our pain away.

They kiss sweetly when Bellamy breaks it off, his eyes searching and carefully watching her. He’s giving her another moment to back out but there’s no way in hell she will. She wants him and he has to know that.

Giving him a quick nod, Bellamy positions himself as Clarke wraps her arms around him. He is slow to enter, letting her adjust to him, and she wonders if he was always this attentive to her or if it’s only this moment – in her heart Clarke knows it’s the former, and it’s another reason why she can’t live without Bellamy by her side.

They both moan once Bellamy is buried deep within her, and he fills her up in all the ways she never thought possible. He’s propped himself on his forearms but Clarke doesn’t like the distance – she slowly wraps her legs around his waist, wanting to feel every inch of him, and tugs his hair to kiss him again. Bellamy obliges, kissing her deeply before almost pulling out entirely, then slowly thrusting into her again.

He sets a leisurely pace, pressing up against her and touching her any way he can, kissing her neck and trying to memorize the spots that make her moan in pleasure. Clarke's already a bundle of energy after being so close twice now, but she wants to savor each minute with him. There’s always a possibility of them never seeing each other again, and she doesn’t want to regret any moment she’s spent with him.

She watches, fascinated, at how his muscles contract, the way his back moves, and the deep look of concentration on his face. Clarke enjoys this, being under Bellamy’s protection but in a different sort of way. Her hands move disjointedly around his body, from his hair to his neck, around his back and down to his arms. He increases his speed and they find a rhythm they both like, moaning in unison. When Bellamy brings his fingers down to her clit, Clarke isn’t prepared for the wave of pleasure that hits her.

Kissing the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, Clarke can only lean her head back on the pillows once Bellamy continues to rub her clit, building a low fire within her. She moans loudly as she’s completely overtaken by the stimulation – it’s too much for her to handle. She’s so close and she suspects Bellamy is too, considering how he increases his speed once more.

The room is filled with a symphony of moans, skin slapping against each other, and the bed squeaking under their weight. She’s only aware of Bellamy and how amazing she feels – there’s nothing in this world that could make her stop in this moment. The heat increases with each thrust and Clarke’s unable think coherently; all she wants is to let go with Bellamy.

“I wanna feel you come around me, Clarke,” Bellamy rasps. She manages to open her eyes and she’s not prepared for how he looks – hair all mussed up, his lips swollen, face flushed and sweaty. He is so beautiful.

“I . . . I just –”

God, she’s literally right there, and Bellamy seems to have read her mind because sets a fervent pace while continuing to tease her clit, doing all he can to give her the best orgasm she’s had. She feels it coming – her legs tense up once more, holding Bellamy so tight that he can’t move, and her breath catches in her throat while her womb clenches so hard Clarke’s afraid she won’t be able to walk after. Then she is gone, unaware of anything but the continuous waves of pleasure overtaking her.

Black and white dots dance around her vision and she’s briefly aware of Bellamy coming too, a loud groan emanating from his lips as his hips still, then shaking in the aftermath. He’s a dead weight against her, collapsing on top of her as they struggle to control their breathing.

They stay that way for a solid minute, wrapped up in each other as if there’s no one else in the world but them. And in this moment, there isn’t a single soul in the whole universe that can hurt them.

~/~

Clarke’s lying on her back while Bellamy’s propped on his side, gently touching her with the pads of his fingers. They haven’t talked much and instead study one another, trying to memorize each other and burning them to memory before the radiation does it for them.

She hasn’t felt this content in a long time, but there’s a sense of dread, too. Who knows if they’ll have a chance to do this again? Her heart begins to beat nervously and a dangerous thought comes to her mind, one she hasn’t dared to say out loud ever since she first landed on earth. But it feels like the right thing to say in this moment, and gathering whatever courage she has, Clarke keeps a steady gaze on Bellamy.

“Let’s stay here. Forever. You, me, and no one else.”

A beat, then “It’s not who we are.”

Clarke sighs because he’s right. “I know.”

She’s feeling disappointed even though she knew they wouldn’t – couldn’t – leave everyone like that. They care too much and sometimes they are their own worst enemy.

But she can imagine this – a simple future with Bellamy, quietly tucked away in the privacy of their bedroom. She wants it so bad her chest aches, but it hurts more knowing that will never be their fate. They’re destined to toil away in hopes of saving the universe, and perhaps saving themselves in the process.

Bellamy suddenly shift and lies on his side, staring at Clarke with intense concentration.

“Remember when we went to the depot together? And . . .” His breath catches in his throat while Clarke looks away – it was a difficult day for both of them.

When she glances back at Bellamy, his eyes are shining though he seems determined. “And in the end, you said you needed me.”

She remembers it like it was yesterday, and instead of Clarke begging to leave the world behind, it was Bellamy asking her. She promised him she would stay by his side, and although they have broken it in more ways than one, she vows to never do it again. Without Bellamy she can’t function, she can’t lead. She needs him.

“I need you. We can do this, Clarke. And if it doesn’t work, at least . . . at least we’ll know we did it together.”

Together. The word never used to bring her comfort – it annoyed her to share her thoughts, workload, or anything with anyone else. Together meant complications. Together meant things not happening the way she wanted them to, and folding under pressure every single time. Together meant shouldering everyone’s burden by herself, because it’s what she does best.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Together, she and Bellamy can save the human race. Together, they can make up for the countess deaths on their hands. Together, they can soak in what it truly means to be in love. Together, they can shelter everyone and themselves from the upcoming storm. Together, they can rebuild.

Taking one long look at Bellamy, she reaches forward to grab his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. She squeezes and he does it in return, reassuring her everything will be all right.

And together they will rise.

Hey everyone! This is my first Bellarke fic so be kind. :) Title comes from The xx's "Reunion." I would highly suggest listening to that, "Sunset" and "Lips." 

This is unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are naturally by me. Anyway hope you enjoyed it!

#bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #bellarke fic #clarke x bellamy #clarke griffin #the 100 #bellamy blake

[shitfics]

One of These Nights (3/?); jongyu; pg

Jinki knows that he’s gay. What he doesn’t know is how to handle a crush on someone as entwined in the music industry as he is.

part 1 - part 2

sorry again that this has been such a wait! ^^; this follows jinki through lucifer promotions and is more of the slow burn 8) and for the chat part...this is the day and outfit jong is referencing

thanks as always @yurilikesgirls and @jongyued for all their help!

slight warning for brief homophobia/relateable closeted gay feels

"Hyung, get off of your phone," Minho whines. "Don't you want to listen to the game?"

Jinki ignores him and lifts up his book. His phone is still tucked between the open pages of the trot history book, but hopefully pretending to read would keep Minho from bothering him. He didn’t know that Jinki had already finished the book last week, and only kept it on him for his discussions with Jonghyun. For every chapter, Jonghyun had been sending him commentary: stories of all the artists he remembers playing from his mother's cassettes at the record shop she had used to own, nostalgia for the genre’s simple two-beat rhythm, and requests for Jinki to sing him one song or another the next time they meet. When his phone lights up with another request -- and a promise to buy Jinki drinks if he sings it -- he smiles, unable to hide his excitement.

"You could at least respond to the people you’re around, you know," Minho huffs, apparently not giving up on getting his attention. “You look happier about your phone than your members, lately.”

In the seat behind him, Jinki can practically hear Kibum rolling his eyes when he sighs. "Just let him be, Minho -- he's probably texting Jonghyun again. The old man needs someone his age to talk with."

Jinki shoots a glare back at Kibum, then returns to his phone. It does help for him to have someone outside of the band to talk to, especially during promotions. When he’s forced to spend every waking with the members, untangling tensions and trying to smother any new problems before they blow up, he needs a lifeline to the outside world to keep from going insane.

The game cuts to commercials, and Gyeongshik switches his attention away from the radio to their conversation. “Is it that Kim Jonghyun? The one who wrote some songs for your last album?"

"Yeah, that one," Taemin answers. "Jinki's gotten real close to him lately."

"Huh." He blinks, letting the car roll a few feet ahead before stopping again. "You know, I used to listen to his radio show, but I haven't listened to his show ever since he started stirring up controversy online.”

Jinki leans towards the front seats with interest -- as much as Jonghyun had shared with him about his radio show, he had never mentioned anything going wrong. "He had scandal?"

"Yeah. He posted something about that movement -- I forgot what it was called already -- the one at that university, where some student left a letter on a board talking about all sorts of stuff.  Basically coming out in support of homosexuals," he explains, and Jinki freezes, skin immediately prickling at the subtle disdain his manager layers into the word. "I heard they had to filter the show's messages for a little bit after that, since he was getting harassment. He should have expected it, really, saying things like that online..."

The leather of the front seat creaks under Jinki's fingers when he clenches his hand before retreating. He fiddles with his phone as the other members speak, rereading Jonghyun's last message to distract himself from the nervous swirl of nausea in his stomach.

He hates hearing the words for people like him. Even when they’re euphemisms, and even when the person saying them doesn’t wear a disgusted curl on their lip as Gyeongshik does -- it makes him sweat. Jinki wipes his palms on his jeans and keeps his face carefully blank. He’s never been able to shake the fear that some small expression or gesture will somehow pull everyone's attention towards him when the topic arises.

Thankfully, an announcement of an upcoming soccer game on the radio saves him -- Minho knocks his elbows into Jinki and Kibum in his rush to turn up the volume on the stereo, and the conversation ends there, drowned out under the flood of stats and predictions that Minho throws out as easily as the paid commentators.

With a sigh, Jinki reopens his phone and taps out a half-hearted response to Jonghyun's last text and sets down his phone. Though he's certain the topic is over for now, his heart is still racing, and he can’t bring himself to add the jokes and faces he usually adds to his messages. The knowledge that Jonghyun would risk public blowback to support him is a small comfort. He won't risk coming out to him -- he'd already decided not to air that secret to anyone -- but it's nice to know that Jonghyun might not be disgusted by him if he did.

He lays his head back against the carseat. It’s hard to imagine a life where he would feel up to the risk. Maybe if he weren't an idol, he could tell Jonghyun, or a few close friends -- maybe he'd even have the courage to ask Jonghyun out, if it wouldn’t ruin their friendship completely. But he has four other careers resting on him keeping that part of himself hidden, on top of his own, and he could never bring himself to risk that. Not for a miniscule shot at a crush.

***

As always, Jinki’s stomach was full of butterflies when the time came for their new song to be thrown in the competition of music shows. And like always, he’d had his doubts of their success -- their new title track was radically different from the last, and the pants they’d had to squeeze him in for the performance only raised his doubts -- but somehow, it had all come together. They’d won their first award, danced through their encore, and finally filed back into the dressing room to pick confetti out of their hair before changing into their own clothes to head home.

When Jinki returns to the dressing room, his phone is buzzing in his bag, and he already knows who it is. He rushes to give the staff a final bow and thanks, then passes their trophy over to Minho, letting him pose with it as he digs up his phone. He smiles at the string of missed messages from Jonghyun.

realjonghyun85: Jinki-yah!!!! Congratulations!!

realjonghyun85: I watched your performance tonight!!!

realjonghyun85: You got your first win!!! I'm so happy for you, Jinki-yah

realjonghyun85: Your live was so good he he ... did you eat the extra CDs I bought? Is that where they went?

majingki: Ahhh I’m embarrassed

majingki: Thank you hyung ^^

majingki: You're too nice TT I still need to improve more

realjonghyun85: And you’re so humble ... but that's why you keep getting better isn't it ^^

realjonghyun85: You have to let me buy you a meal when you're done promoting, alright?

realjonghyun85: Or I can buy you drinks for each win you get ... your pick

majingki: Well, I'm going to need the drink he he

majingki: But food sounds good too TT

majingki: Do I really have to pick between them?

majingki: And if I pick food, you'll buy meat right...?

realjonghyun85: Ah!! Stop being cute

realjonghyun85: You don't have to pick

realjonghyun85: Of course I'll buy you both~

majingki: You don't have to ^^;

realjonghyun85: Well, you can't stop me now!!

realjonghyun85: So really ^^ Let me treat my winning dongsaeng

majingki: Ok~

majingki: Thank you hyung ^^

majingki: I didn't realize you would be watching our performance

realjonghyun85; Of course!

realjonghyun85: I never miss any music show he he

realjonghyun85: Me and my sister usually watch them together

realjonghyun85: I wanted to watch it for you anyway

reajonghyun85: That fishnet open back shirt...

realjonghyun85: Interesting styles idols are wearing these days ... he he

majingki: Please, don't tease me about it... TT

majingki: It's not like I pick the clothes out

majingki: We just have to dress flashy for our concept

realjonghyun85: That shirt was different from your usual image

realjonghyun85: You looked good

majingki: Hyung TT You're embarrassing me

realjonghyun85: Am I?

majingki: Yeah ... I'm not used to wearing things like that ... but it was a bit fun ^^

majingki: Made it easier to not get as sweaty since it was open

realjonghyun85: Yeah, I bet...

realjonghyun85: You seemed to enjoy it as much as the crowd

realjonghyun85: They liked seeing that much of you he he

majingki: Hyung!!!

majingki: Why are you like this ... I'm blushing

realjonghyun85: Ah, I'm teasing you too much, aren't I?

realjonghyun85: Sorry Jinki-yah

realjonghyun85: It’s hard not to...

realjonghyun85: I'm a little drunk

majingki: Oh?

realjonghyun85: Yeah, noona bought us drinks to watch the show...

realjonghyun85: I’ve had a few he he

realjonghyun85: And she's already sick of me talking so much, so I messaged you

realjonghuyn85: Hopefully you don’t mind? ^^

majingki: I don't mind it hyung ^^

majingki: I like how talkative you are

realjonghyun85: Well, you're probably the first person to ever say that

realjonghyun85: Too kind ... my angel-hearted Jinki-yah

majingki: I’m just being honest hyung ^^

realjonghyun85: I'll believe you this time

realjonghyun85: But I should leave you alone ... I'm sure you want to celebrate the win with your members

majingki: Aw, you don't have to TTT

majingki: We'll probably just rest and eat...

majingki: Too tired for much else now

realjonghyun85: Well, I'll let you rest well then ^^

realjonghyun85: Noona is bugging me now anyway

realjonghyun85: She says I'm too drunk to be texting

majingki: You don't seem that drunk...

realljonghyun85: I know!! I told her you couldn't even tell!!

realjonghyun85: But I really am drunk ...

realjonghyun85: You just can't see my face he he

realjonghyun85: I'm actually all flushed

majingki: I wish I could see

majingki: It's been a while since you've been that drunk

realjonghyun85: Don't tempt me to send you a photo

realjonghyun85: That'll be embarrassing later

majingki: Why? ^^

majingki: You think I'll tease you about it?

realjonghyun85: Maybe he he

realjonghyun85: You're always a little unpredictable

majingki: Yeah? ^^

majingki: It's fun though, right?

realjonghyun85: Of course~

realjonghyun85: I always have fun with you

majingki: I have fun with you too, hyung ^^

realjonghyun85: Ahhh... you’re making me miss you more TT

realjonghyun85: I have to go now...

realjonghyun85: I can tell I'm getting ridiculous...

realjonghyun85: Better to inflict that on my noona than a busy idol like you

majingki: Okay hyung TT

majingki: I'll have to go back to the dorm with the members now anyway

majingki: But don't forget you can message me~ I'll respond between schedules

majingki: And come to my musical next week! Please?

majingki: I can probably meet you back stage ^^

realjonghyun85: Of course I'll be there! I know how hard you've been working

realjonghyun85: Later Jinki-yah!!

***

Jinki’s knee bounces double-time as he checks his phone for the third time in five minutes as he waits in the dressing room. He'd told Jonghyun to meet him backstage after his afternoon performance, in the short gap before preparations for the evening one. The last message from he’d gotten from Jonghyun had mentioned that he was bringing his sister along, so he hadn't even bothered to change out of his final costume from their afternoon performance, too afraid of being caught off guard.

With most of the other cast members out to grab food, the dressing room is quiet, and he hears Jonghyun's voice echoing down the hall even before a staff members knocks on the door.

"Jinki-ssi -- someone's here to see you."

Jinki jumps out of his chair and bounds to the door, swinging it open to grin widely at Jonghyun. "Youre here!"

"Shit, Jinki-yah!”  Jonghyun exhales, one hand thrown over his chest. “You don't need to startle me like that! And of course I'm here -- I'm only late when there's no schedule to stick to."

"Sorry, hyung." Jinki smile broadens when he sees that one of Jonghyun's arms has stayed stubbornly hidden behind his back. He leans to the side to try and steal a glance, heart fluttering at the possibility that Jonghyun had bought him a gift.

Catching Jinki's intent, Jonghyun steps back from the doorway before Jinki can tell what he's brought. "You look really different dressed like this." Jonghyun says, deflecting Jinki's attention from whatever he's hiding when he looks him up and down.

Jinki's nerves itch at the intensity of his stare. He fidgets with his belt, suddenly conscious of the extra attention it brings to the tightness of his jeans. "A good different, I hope?"

"Yeah, for sure -- I mean, I'm used to seeing you in makeup for shows on TV, but with these clothes, and your hair like this...you really look like a rock star."

"Thanks," Jinki straightens his back, confidence quickly soaring from the compliment. "I was a little worried I'm too soft to suit this kind of image."

"No, it really suits you, especially with the long hair--"

The sound of a woman clearing her throat interrupts him. "Are you ever going to move, Jjong? I can't get through the door to introduce myself with you standing there..."

"Right, sorry." Jonghyun shuffles quickly into the room, letting the woman follow behind in him. Jonghyun gestures to her, introducing her with a proud smile. "Jinki, this is my sister Sodam."

Jinki fixes the grin he had been wearing into a polite smile before he bows, making sure to bend to the full ninety degrees. He knows how much Jonghyun's sister means to him, and he wants to make a good impression. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's good to finally meet you too, Jinki." She smiles after returning the bow. "Jonghyun talks so much about you."

"She's just reciting cliches," Jonghyun mumbles, embarrassed. Sodam shakes her head from behind Jonghyun's shoulder, making Jinki grin. There's no reason for it, but having Sodam's approval of their friendship makes his crush seem a little less pathetic.

"We've gotten close these past few months, right? You don't need to be embarrassed about it, I'm flattered that you talk about me," Jinki says, feeling bold. When Jonghyun only shrugs shyly, Jinki points to the flowers in Jonghyun's hands. "...Are those for me?"

"Oh, right!" Jonghyun snaps out of his flustered state to hold the bouquet out for him. "We picked these up on the way for you."

Jinki takes them from Jonghyun hands, hiding his smile behind the thick bundle of flowers when he pulls them close. He doesn't want to look too delighted, but it’s the first time he’s ever been given flowers from anyone other than his parents.

"Jjong picked out the roses," Sodam says with a nudge at Jonghyun's shoulder.

Jonghyun jostles her back roughly. "I wanted to get something nice, and I don't know anything about flowers. I just grabbed whatever I could find."

"Well, they're really nice," Jinki says. He leans the bouquet back towards him, sighing at the fresh scent. "Thank you, hyung. I like them a lot."

Jonghyun scratches at the back of his neck, a pleased smile on his lips. "You're welcome."

Both of them rock back on their heels as the conversation stilts. When the silence begins to drag on, Sodam clears her throat. "So, how long can we stay back here before we get kicked out? I don't want to get you in trouble if we linger."

Jinki pokes his head out of the door. He'd found that he could judge how long they had before things got frantic by the pace of the stage crews' steps; that only half of them were only power-walking meant they still had some time left. "Maybe a few more minutes, since I still have to change...I think they want to go over some things before the evening performance."

"Well, we don't want to keep you, since you're the star of the show." Jonghyun grins at him. "But can we take a picture before we leave? I know you're going to wear this later in the show, but my phone doesn't have the best camera. I doubt I'm going to see you in an outfit like this again."

"Sounds great! I'll take the picture for you both." Sodam snatches Jonghyun's phone out of his hand. Gesturing for them to step back, she waves her hands, frowning as she tries to direct them. "Can't you get closer than that? This phone can't make a very wide shot."

Stepping closer, Jonghyun slings an arm over his shoulder and grumbles. "Lean down a little, could you? Your boots are too damn big."

Jinki snickers when Jonghyun stumbles on his toes as he tries to stand taller. "Having trouble reaching, hyung?"

"You're lucky I'm not allowed to mess up your hair tonight, Jinki-yah." Jonghyun's fingers snake under his curls to give a quick pinch at the back of his neck. "You're being extra cheeky."

When Jinki yelps, Sodam sighs, brows furrowed in exaggerated annoyance. "Can I take a picture of you two, or are you going to just play around?"

"Yes, yes, picture time, got it." Jonghyun points to the camera. "Smile, Jinki-yah."

Jinki faces the camera as instructed and beams, unable to help smiling brighter when he feels Jonghyun squeeze his shoulder and lean more of his weight on him for balance.

Sodam snaps a few more pictures, then claps her hands. "Alright, that's good." 

She passes the phone back to Jonghyun, who pulls up the pictures and holds it out so they can all see. Sodam rests her head on Jonghyun's shoulder and coos. "This picture came out so cute. You two look happy."

Sidling up on Jonghyun’s other side, Jinki stares at the picture, caught off guard by the brightness of his own smile. Did he always look that happy around Jonghyun?

Jonghyun hums. "It came out well, yeah -- should we use this one?"

"But your eyes are closed, hyung. Was that on purpose?"

"I do that a lot, haven't you noticed? My eyes get red when I fall asleep with my contacts in...it's the best way to cover that up." Jonghyun looks down at his phone again, this time tapping his way through the screen to twitter. "Do you mind if I upload it? You still have a few shows left to go, and your musical deserves some extra promoting. I know you've worked hard."

"Sure, go ahead," Jinki agrees. He's too pleased with Jonghyun's compliment to care that he usually avoids sharing things online. "It'll be nice to have it up there."

"Alright then, I'm uploading it..." Jonghyun taps and squints at his screen before he pulls away from it with a smile. "And it’s all done. Too late to delete it now."

Sodam only manages squeeze off a single question about Jinki’s career before before Jonghyun's phone buzzes violently in his hand, screen flickering every half-second with a new notification.

Jonghyun blinks at it. “Um...”

"You better turn that off completely during the show," Sodam says.

"I guess so," Jonghyun says, eyes wide as he opens up his phone. "That picture really took off fast -- is this why you never make your account public?"

Jinki shrugs. "Kind of. Too much attention can be a little overwhelming."

"Yeah, I guess...I didn't expect so many people to notice I posted something this quickly." Jonghyun taps rapidly at the screen, expression desperate as he tries to turn off the flood of notifications. "And now a lot of your fans are following me for whatever reason...how many can you possibly have?"

Jinki sticks out his lips in a fake pout. "Are you saying you expected me to be unpopular?"

"No." Jonghyun huffs. "I'm just saying I didn't expect people to follow me because of one picture with you."

"You should have expected it, Jjong -- Jinki's a celebrity after all." Sodam shrugs. "They're probably hoping you'll post more pictures with him later."

"Damn. I hope they aren't disappointed if I don't."

"We can take more pictures sometime," Jinki offers. "As long as you don't take any when we're out drinking. I don't want anyone to find where we're at, or see me drunk...I'd definitely get in trouble for that."

"I'm more likely to look drunk than you, so don't worry." Jonghyun laughs. "I'm not sure I want to do it anyway, it feels weird...like I'm using you for your fame."

"I know you're not like that, hyu--"

"You're telling me every costume designer went to get coffee?!" A booming voice from across the theater cuts Jinki off and makes Jonghyun jump. As Sodam snickers at Jonghyun’s reaction, Jinki cringes, able recognize the voice from across the theater.  

Jinki sighs and pushes back his bangs. "That was the director...he's a good guy, but I'm not sure you want to stick around. There'll be more of the yelling as we get closer to starting.”

"Alright. We should go and grab our seats, anyway," Sodam says. She nudges Jonghyun until he nods in agreement. "Good luck with your show, Jinki."

"I'll work hard." Jinki smiles, tucking the flowers under his other arm. "You two have good seats, right?"

"Very good seats," Jonghyun affirms. "I made sure to get the best. So you have to wave to us, okay?"

"I'll try, but I'm not sure I'll be able to see you with the stage lights."

Jonghyun laughs. "Don't worry about it then, just focus on your performance. If you make it a good one, I'll write up a review to please my new followers."

"You'll say good things about me no matter what," Jinki teases.

"You know I will." Jonghyun grins. Reaching in for a hug, he stops himself mid-way, pulling back before he crushes the bouquet of flowers against Jinki's side. Sodam's lips quirk in amusement at Jonghyun's awkward retreat when she turns her attention back to Jinki.

"Thanks for letting us backstage again. I'm going to take my brother away before he finds something else to talk about -- he can talk forever if you let him."

"Yeah...and I ought to get to work." Jinki swings his arms by his side, enjoying the playful glare Jonghyun sends him before he remembers to bow to Sodam. "It was nice to meet you. Thank you for coming to the musical."

"You too." She bows back.

Jinki watches them leave, waving to Jonghyun as he’s dragged away. The moment they step out of earshot, Sodam leans in towards Jonghyun's ear, chattering at him excitedly and glancing back at Jinki one last time.

Jinki catches her gaze with a knot in his stomach.

He should have concerned himself less with earning her approval, and more on keeping the butterflies that always fill his stomach around Jonghyun from affecting his behavior -- he can't shake the feeling that a part of her noticed he’s more fond of her brother than a friend should be.

 ***

 Jinki opens up his twitter the moment he gets back to the dorm, curious about what fans might have to say about his last performance of the musical. Though it was something he planned on doing anyway, Jonghyun's presence in the audience had emboldened him to give a little extra fanservice before the curtains had closed. Their fans didn't know it yet, but the only appearance they would have in Korea for the next year would be for their concert, and Jinki felt like he had to do something special to make up for it.

A picture of himself with his hands in the air and a broad smile on his lips makes him grin at the memory of that moment -- though he’d been worried about balancing the musical and its rehearsals in the middle of promotions, he’s glad he didn’t pass up the role. It had been nice to play a role outside of the polite and sweet side of him he always emphasized to fans.

Backing out from his search, Jinki moves on to his mentions, heart fluttering when he sees that a good number of them include the picture he took with Jonghyun. As silly as it is, a part of him can't help but be happy to see their names are being used side-by-side. Jinki scrolls down further, fully expecting the comments to be about the picture he had let Jonghyun take or the songs Jonghyun had written for their last album, but finds little mention of that -- instead, his screen is flooded with screenshots, taken on different phones at different resolutions but all evidence of the same thing: Jonghyun following one of his biggest fansites.

Jinki stares at his phone in disbelief, half wondering if it was a joke -- why would Jonghyun follow one his fansites? Closing it, he goes to Jonghyun's following list, seeing no mention of it -- he could write it off as an image edit that got spread around, but knowing Jonghyun, he has reason to be suspicious. He moves through a few random discussions amongst the fans, and the same ones that noticed him following the fansite were posting jokes about the unfollow that shortly followed it.

Jinki sets his phone aside and rolls onto his back, needing to stare at the ceiling to try and think. That’s enough evidence for him that it really happened. But it still seemed...odd. Jonghyun always talked about keeping up with the industry, so it could be about that -- but a fansite wouldn't tell him anything about musical trends. And updates on SHINee are easy enough to find on the official accounts he was already following.

The only reason for someone to follow a fansite of his would be to look at pictures or video of him, right? His mind hones in on that thought, building his hopes higher and higher until his heart is beating stupidly fast. Did he just follow the site on accident, after looking up pictures of Jinki? And if he did look up pictures -- how often did he do that? Was it because he wanted pictures of the musical, or was it a regular thing?

It had to mean something.

Reaching back for his phone, Jinki pulls up the image again to look at the timestamp one fan had given, squinting at the screen as he zooms until he can read the small 3:03 am printed in the corner. Jonghyun had followed his site only an hour after ending his radio show.

So Jonghyun gets home around 3am, and the first thing he does look at pictures of me?

Jinki swallows, cheeks growing warm when his mind jumps to other things Jonghyun might do late at night after work. There’s no way Jonghyun would look them up with that purpose in mind -- it's not like fansite pictures were revealing. But the idea is still enticing, enough for him to want to find out why Jonghyun decided to sign himself up for easy access to pictures of him.

It’d be easier to get information out of him in person, but he can’t stand to wait, so he opens up his last conversation with Jonghyun and starts with a teasing text.

majingki: Why did you follow my fansite hyung? ^^

Though his message is read immediately, Jonghyun’s response comes a few minutes later.

realjonghyun85: Eh? Your fansite?

majingki: Yeah ^^

realjonghyun85: I clicked it on accident!!

realjonghyun85: The screen on my new phone is so big, see TT I keep pushing the wrong buttons

majingki: But why were you on there hyung ^^ Are you a fan hehe

realjonghyun85: Well, you know I'm your fan

majingki: Yeah, I know ^^

realjonghyun85: How did you know I followed it, anyway?

majingki: I saw fans posting about it ... they put up screenshots ^^

realjonghyun85: Seriously? Wow... I have to be careful

realjonghyun85: They're like detectives

majingki: Careful?

majingki: You think you might follow one again? ^^

realjonghyun85: My hands are clumsy!

majingki: Do you look often? ^^

realjonghyun85: They take good pictures!

majingki: You should make one your phone background then hyung~

realjonghyun85: You really want me to?

majingki: I'm joking he he

realjonghyun85: Too bad, I'm going to do it now

realjonghyun85: This is what you get for teasing me Jinki-yah

majingki: Free promotion? Sounds like a good thing ^^

realjonghyun85: I guess so ... hehe

majingki: Pick something good ^^

realjonghyun85: No such thing as a bad picture from these sites, don't worry

majingki: Mm...

majingki: So you have looked at them a lot?

realjonghyun85: You know, you're always extra cheeky when it's late

majingki: ^^

realjonghyun85: Shouldn't you sleep?

majingki: I had to tease you first

majingki: But I guess you're right...

majingki: We can’t all stay up till 3am looking up idol pictures... ^^

realjonghyun85: Go to bed, Jinki-yah

realjonghyun85: You need your rest

majingki: Alright, alright ... I won’t tease you anymore

majingki: Thanks again for coming to the musical, hyung ^^

realjonghyun85: Of course!

realjonghyun85: You were great ^^

realjonghyun85: Sodam enjoyed it too, and she's not a musical person at all

majingki: ^^ Thanks

majingki: I'm glad she liked it ... I was nervous

majingki: But I’ll sleep now! Since hyung said I should!

realjonghyun85: Glad you finally listen to me  he he

majingki: You rest too ^^ Don't stay up too late hunting pictures~

realjonghyun85: I won’t!

realjonghyun85: Good night Jinki

***

"Hey, Jinki," Jonghyun greets him at the door and invites him in with a familiar hurried movement of his hands. "Sorry I'm not ready to leave yet. My friend is still here, we got caught up working on a new song together."

"That's fine." Jinki shrugs, toeing off his shoes before heading to wait on the couch. He's gotten used to catching Jonghyun in the middle an inspiration burst, and has learned to expect a small wait when he arrives. "You'll be done soon, you think?"

"Yeah, we're pretty much done." He walks past Jinki to the small music room. "Just let me help her pack her music and things, then we can--"

"Oh, I got it, Jonghyun." A woman steps out from the small studio, sheets of music shoved haphazardly into a set of folders under her arms.

Jinki stares at her, a sudden lump forming in his throat. He had always known that he couldn't be the only person Jonghyun worked with in his small apartment studio, but seeing first-hand that the person he’s working with is a pretty girl stirs a jealousy in him that he hadn't expected to feel. He wanted those moments all to himself.

The woman smiles at him broadly, then looks at Jonghyun as she comes to join them in the living room. "I didn't realize you were having a guest. I would have cut you off a while ago if I had known. I hate it when you're late to things."

"Yeah, well..." Jonghyun rubs the back of his neck. "I lost track of time, so I didn't think to say anything. But it's good we didn't lose the flow we had going, right?"

The woman rolls her eyes, obviously as familiar as Jinki is with Jonghyun's excuses. “You always lose track of time.”

"I know, I know." Jonghyun claps his hands together, eager to move the subject on from his habitual lateness, and gestures to Jinki. "This is the idol friend I was telling you about, Lee Jinki -- I guess you probably know him as SHINee's Onew.”

Before Jonghyun can introduce her in turn, she bows to Jinki. "I'm Sojin, Jonghyun's friend from high school. I usually play keyboard for him and help him write." There's a small spark in her eye as she pauses to fix her hair before continuing. "I'm sorry that we ran late, but I am glad I got to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," Jinki says, trying to ignore her smile even as he returns it. She's pretty, in a heart-wrenching way -- the image of her and Jonghyun sharing the piano bench is enough to make his chest burn. He locks his hands together in front of him and bows to her, hoping his politeness will hide the jealousy still clawing at his gut.

"Ah, you're even more handsome in real life..." she muses, eyes bouncing over his face when he straightens. "Jonghyun always keeps such good-looking friends."

Jonghyun's eyes widen. He looks quickly between Jinki and Sojin, clearly as caught off guard by the blatant flirting as Jinki had been.

"Well, of course he's good-looking, Sojin -- he's an idol," Jonghyun huffs. "And a popular one, too. I'm lucky I ever get to see him at all with how busy he is."

Sojin shakes her head and sighs before heading to the door. "You don't need to hint at me like that, Jonghyun. I understand that you two had plans. I'll leave."

"Sorry, I don’t mean to rush you out." Jonghyun apologizes, but follows her to the door and opens it without hesitation. "We just don’t get to see each other much, and he just finished promoting."

"That's a shame." Sojin stops outside the door. "I hope to see you again when you're not so rushed."

Jinki smiles, hoping it comes across as sincere. "Yeah, you too."

"Later, Sojin -- send me those recordings when you get the chance." Jonghyun closes the door after her, then slumps back against it with a heavy sigh. He fixes Jinki with an apologetic look as he straightens. "I'm really sorry about that, Jinki. I could tell you were kind of uncomfortable with her flirting."

"It's fine," Jinki says. "Stuff like that happens."

"Still, though." Jonghyun pouts. "Let me know if you want me to tell her to back off, alright? I doubt you two will meet again, but I don't want you to feel put on the spot like that if you do."

Jinki shrugs. He already feels better now that they're alone, and the tinge of protectiveness in Jonghyun's voice is nearly enough to make him forget his earlier jealousy. "I can handle it, hyung. I have plenty of experience turning people down."

Jonghyun shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips, and reaches out to ruffle Jinki’s hair before he can protest. "C'mon, now you're just bragging."

"I'm not, really!" Jinki squirms away from Jonghyun, fixing his bangs back into place as he backs up into the other room to escape. "It's just true!"

"I'm sure it is..." Jonghyun mumbles, suddenly pulling his hands back. The corners of his mouth etching deeper in annoyance as steps over to the coat rack to retrieve his jacket. "You're really good-looking. Probably get tons of offers."

"It doesn't matter -- I'm not really interested in dating," Jinki says, hoping to placate Jonghyun, though his own mood has already soured.

His mind has already made connections he never wanted to make, and he can only imagine one reason Jonghyun would be upset about Sojin's interest in him. Since before they met, Jonghyun had penned dozens of lyrics about one-sided love, but never given a name to his muse -- and if it were going to be anyone, wouldn't it be the girl he'd worked on music with since he was young?

He pushes the thought away, afraid of sharpening the tension between them. No point in thinking about it, anyway, when he'd never have a chance.

When Jonghyun returns, Jinki forces out a smile, slipping back into his shoes and watching patiently as Jonghyun shrugs on his jacket.

"Let's go grab something to eat." Jonghyun steps past him and swings open the door, uncharacteristically rushed. "I've been cooped up in here all day."

"Sounds good to me," Jinki agrees. He follows Jonghyun to the elevator in long strides to keep up with his pace. When the door closes behind them, the blurry reflection of Jonghyun with his arms crossed is enough to keep him from trying to start a conversation, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and waits, counting the seconds between the ding for each floor to distract himself.

Once outside, Jonghyun waves for them to cross the street, still wordless even as he directs them towards their usual restaurant. It's not as if Jinki needs verbal directions, when they've been to this place a few times before and they're walking together, but they've never made the short walk in total silence -- even if they have nothing to say, Jonghyun usually fills the space in with his absent humming. Tonight, he steps alongside Jinki quietly, looking deep in thought as they navigate their way through the bustle of pedestrians to reach the restaurant on the corner.

Just after they settle into their seats and make their orders, Jonghyun's phone buzzes against the table. He glares at it accusingly.

"Sojin wants your number," he grumbles, fingers beginning staccato taps of irritation across the screen when he opens his phone to begin a response.

“Sorry.” Jinki slumps back in his seat, feeling guilty. "It's not a big deal. Just tell her you won’t give it out or ignore it."

Jonghyun's mouth twists when he receives another message. "You sure you don't want her number or anything?"

"I already said I'm not interested," Jinki insists. He kicks at the leg of his own chair, irritated that Jonghyun seemed to be taking out whatever jealousy he felt on him. "Why are you so upset about it, anyway? Is Sojin some one-sided love of yours or something?"

The silence that follows is enough to make Jinki regret the question the minute it leaves his mouth. He'd rather not know if that’s true, and the intense stare Jonghyun is giving him makes him think it is.

"...Are you asking me that as a serious question, Jinki?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jinki snaps. "You've worked with her since high school, right? And you spend so much time alone together...it makes sense that you would like her."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm interested in her at all," Jonghyun protests. He pinches the bridge of his nose, hiding his mouth with his hand as he gives a soft laugh. "Really, I'm not interested -- I've never even thought about it. We just work well together on music, and share a lot of early memories...we’re old friends. It's never been anything more than that."

Jinki's scrunches his nose and eyes Jonghyun, still skeptical. "You're acting like you're jealous, though."

"I'm not jealous." Jonghyun scowls. When their food is set down a moment later, he reaches across the table to swipe a piece of Jinki's food before beginning his explanation.  "I'm just irritated with how she’s acting, you know? I feel like she only hit on you so blatantly because you're an idol -- I've never seen her be so pushy before about a guy -- and I don't like that she'd treat you differently. I don't want you to have to worry about that part of your life around me."

"I told you I’m used to it, hyung." Jinki says. "It’s not a big deal unless there's a crazy crowd, or it’s one of our sasaeng fans. The only reason I'm tense right now is because you seem tense."

"Yeah, and I'm sorry for that." Jonghyun sighs and relaxes back into his chair. He wipes his hand on a napkin, then wring it in his hands, staring past Jinki as he thinks over his words before continuing. "Plus, I just ... am a bit jealous, I guess. I don't have a lot of friends I can meet up like this, one-on-one. And now I keep thinking you'll meet some other girl I work with and want me to invite her along--"

"I wouldn't do that."

"I wouldn't blame you, if you did," Jonghyun says, smiling reluctantly. "And it's selfish of me to not help you meet people, isn't it? It’s probably hard for you to date, as an idol. But I just don't like the idea of sharing the little time I get with you ... I've really grown to like it."

"I like it it just being us too,” Jinki says, not realizing how it sounds until Jonghyun averts his gaze to avoid meeting his eyes as a shy smile pulls at his lips.

A flush crawls up Jinki’s neck. He rushes to add on his statement, not wanting to say anything suspicious. "I mean, I'm used to being stuck around four other guys and fans, and since they're both really noisy--" he cuts himself off, already feeling like he's making things worse. "I meant that the quiet's a nice change. And you’re a great friend."

At his words, Jonghyun's expression warms, and Jinki has only a half-second to try and calm the flutter in his heart before Jonghyun reaches across the table to squeeze his shoulder.

"You’re a good friend to me too, Jinki-yah. I’m glad we’ve gotten so close.”

 ***

Jonghyun’s coffee table is covered in a dozen dishes and drinks for each of them. All of the bowls are open and steaming, ready to eat, and Jinki can’t remember the last time he’s seen so much food.

Jinki stretches his legs out under the table with a satisfied sigh and reaches for the second dish Jonghyun had ordered for them to share. He hasn't eaten properly in ages, it feels like. The latest blowup between Jino and Kibum at the dorm had given him plenty of reason to avoid any common areas, and between that and schedules he'd missed more meals than he'd eaten. The chance to relax with Jonghyun and a movie (the first Lord of the Rings, predictably -- because Jinki always lets Jonghyun pick and they had just finished the books) had brought back his hunger with a force that had his mouth watering from the moment their food came to the door.

His appetite doesn't go unnoticed by Jonghyun -- probably because they're bumping elbows every time Jinki reaches across the table to grab another piece of meat from Jonghyun's side -- and he imitates Jinki’s reach by knocking back into him with deliberate force.

"Are you hungry or something, Jinki-yah?" Jonghyun teases. "You seem to be eating off every corner of the table."

"A bit," Jinki answers, covering his mouth with his hand as he gives a sheepish smile and finishes chewing. "I haven't had a full meal like this since promotions started."

"Idols, really." Jonghyun tuts and shakes his head. He puts a hand on Jinki's shoulder for balance and stands, then settles onto the couch. "I’m full already, so the rest of the food is yours. Eat anything left that you like."

"Thanks, hyung." Jinki grins back at Jonghyun before reaching for what was left of his soup, He looks up at the movie as he sips the broth, trying to figure out what he had missed so far. Though they had read all the books together, Jinki hadn't enjoyed them enough to remember all the details, and he still got lost in all the nonsense about elves and dwarves and magic.

He squints at the white-robed wizard on screen. "Why is Gandalf asking that guy for help? I thought he was a bad guy?"

"He is -- Gandalf will learn that in a bit. He ends up blocking the fellowship's preferred path to Mordor, and is the reason the fellowship has to go through the Mines of Moria, which is where Gandalf falls."

Jinki hums with feigned interest and slumps back against the couch. Though the movie isn't his kind of story, it at least gets Jonghyun talking, and Jinki is fully content to listen to his commentary and glance over his shoulder to watch his reactions for the next few hours.

When the credits begin to roll, Jonghyun sighs and flips on the lamp next to him.

"I'm not going to force you through the next movie tonight," Jonghyun says. "It's getting pretty late for you."

"Oh, yeah..." Jinki trails off, already dreading returning the dorm. "I guess I should be heading back, huh?"

Jonghyun raises a brow at him. "You don't sound like you want to go back.”

“Not really.” Jinki sighs. He unfolds his hands on the table to stare at them, trying to think what to say. He shouldn't be sharing, not when it's an issue among the members -- but he trusts Jonghyun.

Jinki takes a deep breath and explains. "Kibum and Jino are fighting lately. I don't really know what started it -- I was gone for that, and they won't tell me -- but Jino's been making little jabs and Kibum's been an ass at every chance he can be." Jinki bites his lip in guilt: it's his job to keep things running smoothly, and he'd been failing at it. "And when they aren't doing that, they're completely silent, and the whole dorm is tense. I've tried to get them to talk about it a few times, but they won't listen. Jino refuses to admit he did anything to offend Kibum, and Kibum won't talk to him unless he does."

"It's not your fault if they won't talk," Jonghyun says gently. "Can you stay with your parents for bit and wait for Kibum and Jino to smooth things out on their own? They'll have to, eventually, since you’re all stuck together."

Jinki shakes his head. "My parents still live in Gwangmyeong...it's not that far, but I would feel like I'm running away if I went there. I have practice for our repackage to worry about, too."

Jonghyun fiddles with the rim of his glasses, brow wrinkling thoughtfully. "You could stay here for the night, then, if you wanted. The couch isn't that comfortable, but you're welcome to it."

Jinki blinks, caught off guard by the offer -- he hadn't realized Jonghyun considered them close enough for that to be on the table. "Are you sure? I really don't want to impose..."

"It's not imposing, Jinki-yah." Jonghyun laughs and pokes his shoulder with a socked foot. "I offered. And it’ll mean I get extra time with you, too -- that's definitely something I've been lacking lately."

"Yeah." Jinki smiles back at him gratefully. "Let me tell the members I’ll be staying, just in case they wonder why I’m not at the dorm."

He pulls out his phone and fires off a quick message into the members' group chat to tell them he'll be staying at Jonghyun's. His message is been read immediately by all four of them, but only Minho bothers to give him a quick response.

Sighing, he tosses the phone aside. "Looks like I can stay. No one said anything against it."

"Hey, I'm sure they miss you." Jonghyun pats his back reassuringly. "If you’re going to stay, we can watch the next movie.” He tugs on Jinki’s shirt to try and get him to stand. “But you should get up here if we're for it -- staying on the floor like that isn't good for your back."

"Sorry, hyung." Jinki grins and climbs up onto the couch, holding out his empty bottle to Jonghyun. "Do you have anymore to drink? If I'm staying, a little more couldn't hurt."

***

A little more turns out to be a whole bottle of soju Jonghyun had found in the back of his fridge. And just like with the food, Jonghyun cuts himself off early and leaves the rest to Jinki, who’s all too eager to finish off the rest. The fact that he’s staying at Jonghyun's house for the night has nestled as a bundle of nerves in his stomach, and he’s counting on the alcohol to take the edge off. After he finishes the last drop, Jinki tucks himself back against the cushion of the couch. The room is already swirling around him, and he needs something to lean against when the last few swallows hit.

Even with the lights off for the second movie, he see Jonghyun looking at him out of the corner of his eye, clearly concerned about the amount of alcohol Jinki had managed to drink. For some reason, the worry is amusing -- maybe because it's so painfully in character for Jonghyun, or maybe because he's really just that drunk. But the more he thinks about it, the harder it is not to laugh, and soon Jinki is snickering, shoulders rising up to his ears as he tries to keep himself from laughing fully.

Jonghyun turns to him, frowning with worry when Jinki immediately straightens his face to try and hide his amusement. "You're really drunk, Jinki-yah -- you sure you're up for watching the rest of this?"

"I'm fine, hyung," Jinki says, enunciating carefully to fight against the heavy feeling on his tongue. "I'm having fun! I want to finish the movie."

Jonghyun narrows his eyes. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure." Jinki nods. He tries to bump his shoulder against Jonghyun's when he opens his mouth to argue, but the shift in weight is difficult to calculate, and he ends up nearly falling over Jonghyun's lap.

“Whoa, careful.” Jonghyun catches him quickly and helps him up with a gentle push. He eyes Jinki with caution. “...Maybe movement is a bad idea for you right now.”

"Mm, maybe." Jinki nestles back into the crease between the back cushions of the couch. Jonghyun hadn't bothered to push him all the way upright, so he has good reason to stay put -- especially when that means leaving only a few inches of distance between them.

He looks through his lashes up at Jonghyun. He can’t not look, now that he’s realized how close they are.

A sudden heaviness pulls on his chest. He shouldn't be thinking about doing anything -- shouldn't even entertain the thought -- but the alcohol is a good excuse to let himself indulge. And Jonghyun never seems to mind closeness, so leaning against him wouldn’t be that different than helping him with billiards, except he's touching with no goal in mind but the pleasant fizzle in his stomach he can never admit to having. Jinki bites his lip and shifts closer a few inches at a time, still unsure if he wants his approach to be noticed or not.

Jonghyun makes no attempt to move away -- if anything, he seems to be leaning back towards him -- and Jinki gets bolder. He nuzzles his cheek against Jonghyun's shoulder, then moves lower, adjusting his weight until he's resting his head fully on Jonghyun's arm and his right hand is up against his leg.

At that, Jonghyun stiffens, and Jinki stops, suddenly afraid he had gone too far. "This okay, hyung?"

"It's fine," Jonghyun says, keeping his eyes locked on the screen. The shadows along his neck from the dim light of the television shift as he swallows, bending into new shapes when he adjusts his arm to rest behind Jinki's shoulders. "You still comfortable?"

"Yeah," Jinki breathes. The movie blurs as he adjusts to the new angle, a half-mixture of faces and movement that seems much less important than the soft and steady sound of Jonghyun breathing deeply above him. Jinki's heart pounds in his throat as what he’s done sinks in.

Jonghyun's arm is around him, and his cheek is pressed right against Jonghyun’s chest, and Jonghyun’s chest is warm and firm and everything he’d imagined it to be, the few times he’d dared to think about it.

He's had this kind of contact with his members before, but it had never felt this thrilling.

He tries to force his attention back to the movie with little luck. At every tense scene, Jonghyun's fingers tighten slightly around his arm, sending a buzz flitting across his skin that reminds him how close they are.

All he would have to do to kiss Jonghyun is lift himself a few inches and turn his head.

As the image in his mind gets more detailed, Jinki flushes, trying to ignore the voice in his head that tells him alcohol would be a perfect excuse for anything he might do. Shaking his head, he throws his attention back to the movie, needing something to comment on to end the silence that has his mind racing.

"The movies are way better than the books," Jinki says, flapping his hand at the screen. The camera pans out to fields and forests, and Jinki continues, mumbling under his breath. "I don't have to read all those boring descriptions of trees and nature or whatever...I can just look at them."

Jonghyun laughs softly. "You didn't like the books, huh?"

"They were a little boring, yeah..." Jinki trails off. He closes his eyes, enjoying the small shift of Jonghyun's chest against his cheek when he gives a mocking huff of offense. "But I wanted to read them since you liked them so much."

"Well, I'm honored you'd endure that for me," Jonghyun says. Despite his teasing tone, his voice sounds heavy, and his hand runs a small circle on Jinki’s shoulder. "Just tell me next time if you don't like what I pick, and we'll find something else."

"Okay." Jinki yawns and stretches out fully on the couch. "Will you be mad if I fall asleep, hyung? The movie's really dragging on..."

"I won't be mad. You don't like them either, do you?"

"Mm." Jinki closes his eyes to dodge the question. When the movie picks up into an action scene that takes Jonghyun's attention away from him, Jinki uses the chance to settle fully onto his chest.

Jonghyun's fingers whisper through his hair and push back his bangs. "...Jinki-yah? Are you falling asleep?"

Jinki gives a tired grunt. He's not sure if he will, but he's already slipped peacefully into the warm and content stage of drunkenness where he doesn't want to move. Maybe if Jonghyun thinks he's asleep they can stay like this all night.

 ***

 Jinki wakes up in a sweat. He doesn't remember going to sleep with a blanket on him, or the pillow under his head. Kicking off the blanket, Jinki stands, immediately reaching for the button of his pants. As always, he’d worn his best-fitting jeans when he saw Jonghyun, and though they aren’t uncomfortably tight, they're still too warm to sleep in, especially when he's still a little buzzed. Undoing the zipper, Jinki shoves them down around his knees and pries them off of his calves, nearly tripping over his feet as he tries to step out of them.

He swears under his breath until he kicks them off in triumph and collapses back on the couch. When he looks up, Jonghyun is standing outside of his room, looking frozen between heading back inside and moving on to the kitchen.

"Oh, hyung. Sorry, uh--" Jinki says, grateful that the dark hides the blush creeping up his neck. "I guess I fell asleep in my jeans and got too hot. I don’t really have pajamas or anything."

"Ah, yeah. I didn't think about that," Jonghyun says. His focus bounces between Jinki's face and the floor. Jinki doesn't need light to be able to tell that his cheeks are burning. "Do you want anything to wear?"

"I'll be fine, thanks." Jinki quickly lies down to cover himself back up with the blanket. The idea of getting to wear something Jonghyun owned sounds too enticing for him to feel right accepting, even if he would feel more comfortable with some kind of pajamas.

Jonghyun nods and shuffles off to the kitchen, still clearly embarrassed. The sound of him opening and closing cabinets is like gunshots in the tense silence, and Jinki stares unblinkingly at the ceiling, hyper aware of every movement Jonghyun makes. When he hears the pad of Jonghyun’s feet approaching him, he closes his eyes to seem asleep, reopening them only after he hears the clink of glass against the coffee table.

Jonghyun meets his eyes with a soft smile in the dark, and Jinki swallows, feeling a dozen hopes spark to life as the distance between them seems to shrink.

“Hyung?”

"I'm not sure you drank enough water to balance out all that alcohol," Jonghyun whispers. "I don't want you to end up with a hangover."

"Oh." Jinki smiles at his own stupidity, reaching out to take a drink from the glass. He must still be drunk, to be thinking there was a possibility of anything happening between them. "Thank you, hyung."

"Sure." Jonghyun ruffles his hair lightly. "Get some rest, Jinki."

"You too."  Jinki lays back down.

When he hears the door to Jonghyun's bedroom close again, he presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids, willing himself to forget the moment. The discomfort is distracting enough to pull him away from the rapid beat of his heart, but it's not enough to erase the image of Jonghyun in only a loose shirt and boxers from his mind. He hasn't seen Jonghyun without his glasses in ages, either, and that felt new too. It's not that Jonghyun looks better without them, but that it feels intimate now -- another part of Jonghyun dressing down at the end of the day, rather than dressing up to make a good first impression.

With a groan, Jinki rolls onto his side and forces himself to breathe slowly. He needs to calm himself down if he wants to get any sleep. The last thing he needs to think about is Jonghyun dressing down around him.

#jongyu #hyung au #long fic #the slowest slow burn #jong is a lotr nerd #i had to consult my wife on some shit cause i dun remember much about lotr