#also thinking about 'fine' art gives me a goddamn headache

[reineyday]

ye this is a hot take lol. (sorry op if im kinda hijacking what might have just been a vent post as opposed to an actual discussion/debate prompt. 😅) im not personally one to really enjoy modern art, and i used to think about it like op (it's just a giant blue canvas! i can paint this at home!) but after my own art school experience, i think there's something to be said about how modern art changed the way people think about ("fine") art and what constitutes as art in the first place.

i hope you dont mind me offering this other (lukewarm?) take on your hot art take, op! this isnt a modern art defense post in the sense that i think it's amazing, but it does fall under my own definition art and here's why.

(this is a wholeass essay btw. idk if it's 1000-1200 words cuz im on mobile but that's what it feels like. 😅 it's got a thesis and point-proof analysis and everything.)

for example, your "ten foot canvas of Blue 01"--sounds like color field painting. artists like rothko did stuff like this, and yes, it is technically just canvases of pretty colours up on a wall. but the thing about color field painting is that youre not just supposed to think about the canvas and the canvas alone. actually, if youre an artist staging work in an actual physical place, you should never just think about your piece in isolation (the electrical outlet an inch away from your hanging painting does make a difference to your work lol).

color field painters drew attention to the physical space by making their canvases wall-sized, by noting and changing the colour of the wallpaper, by positioning the viewer's bench a specific amount away from the canvas so that the viewer can be overwhelmed by the colour(s) the way the artist intends. (honestly i feel like colour field painting as a style really lends some validity both to the practice of interior design and to colour theory in general.) the art isnt just the blue canvas itself, it's the experience of the viewer.

and i think that's the thesis of a lot of modern ("fine") art, once we start to step away from the traditional paint-on-canvas and start getting into things like performance art and art installations: it's not just about the content, it's about the experience, whether that be of the viewer or the artists themselves.

one of my favourite installation pieces is called the running fence (christo & jean-claude, 1972-76) and it's this long-ass fence 5.5 meters (18 feet) high, 39.4 kilometers (24.5 miles) of billowing white nylon running through some farmland in cali. it's pretty to look at, but one of my favourite things about it is that they start the piece's creation period at 1972 bc that's when they got the idea and started working on it. it's just that working on it included getting permission from all the counties they wanted to run the fence through, and that meant justifying to the county--to their law and policy makers--that this was a valuable project bc it was art. and that meant they had to (re)define what art was and then argue their case. the art isnt just the piece, it's the political processes they went through to get permission to make it.

a very contentious musical piece is 4'33" (john cage, 1952), a "song" that is four minutes and thirty three seconds of silence. when it's performed, a professional pianist literally goes up to a piano and does all the preppy stuff involved in playing and performing, and then he just. doesnt play. (or does it count as playing just because the song is all rests?) for 4 mins and 33 seconds, it's just the audience. from what i understand, it's silent so that listeners/viewers become more aware of the environment and the people in the room with them, but also like. it's just silence. is it even a song? but it has sheet music so it must count, right?

the piece might be anger-inducing (it's literally just silence! you're not listening to anything!) but it also makes you ask some interesting questions about what music is, about the experience of listening together with other people, of being a group in a room watching some guy do a thing, about the sounds you and the people around you make subconsciously, especially when you're bored or impatient. and therein lies the art of it all with this piece--you become aware of the experience. also it makes you a little philosophical about music and community.

and that's the other thing about ("fine") art, is that i think you can call it art if it makes you philosophical, makes you think about the world and how you experience it. surrealism as a movement does this with its depicted content (all those paintings of wavy dreaming things making you question reality as we experience it), but i mean, black square (malevich, 1915) does it too. just by existing, it posits the question: is this art? i honestly, personally, think the piece and the movement it's a part of (suprematism, which argues that art should be about representing pure artistic feeling as opposed to depicting objects) is wholly and completely full of shit. they were really like "abstract art should be the most base form of artistic feelings" and then said "you can only use geometric shapes and this range of colours" like... that's not even slightly expressive. that's so constricting. how could that be artistic feeling in its purest form? that's not what *i* think is art--but that's why black square works, and why we still study it when we cover art history movements: it makes you ask the questions.

it makes you form your own opinions and articulate why you think malevich was wrong (or right, i guess, but im not in that camp). it is literally just a black square. there is actually evidence he painted over a more colourful piece just to display this goddamn black square, and he displayed it where people usually display a crucifix in a room, which is like a whole added layer of implications l o l. maybe i wouldnt call it art, and it definitely makes me angry, but the fact remains that because of this piece, i have a firmer definition of what art is to me, and i understand that my feelings of anger towards that is part of the whole package. looking at black square is on the whole supposed to be a very meta experience, and that's the art. the content itself doesnt take any skill at all, and it evokes the feelings of anger (and confusion and skepticism), but none of that is the point anyways.

these modern artists weren't trying to be different and quirky and anger-inducing per se, they were questioning the status quo of art and what counts as art. some of it ends up being vapid and stupid (jeff koons comes to mind, no offense to anyone who likes his work but i definitely dont) and some it is anger-inducing but to all the right people (duchamp's fountain, 1917, made so many people angry bc a) it was a readymade urinal lol, and b) it was shaped like the silhouette of the virgin mary). even though i might hate it (not duchamp's urinal, i love duchamp's urinal), i cant help but big sigh and admit it's still art. i may hate everything koons puts out (seriously, you're gonna display some vacuums in a cabinet and call it art?) but at the end of the day, yeah, it is art. he's displaying those vacuums. theyre there. and now a bunch of people will find other artists who use readymade objects and products to say something (hopefully more scathing and critical) about capitalism just as valid as whatever jeff koons is doing.

(btw everything in koons's artist statement in that moma link on the vacuums makes me angry bc it feels not only stupid and reachy but also sexist! 🙃 yet... it still counts as art. *big sigh*)

ive been periodically referring to it as ("fine") art and that's because i personally think there's a difference between fine art and art in general. ive been typing ("fine") bc i wanted to talk about art in general (art that is for and by the public, is accessible and surrounds us) but in a way that indicates it's being largely influenced by fine art. ive put "fine" in quotations bc what constitutes as fine art is usually (unfortunately) dependent galleries and art collectors as much as it is subjective.

in this post, ive mostly been referring to modern fine art, but in a way that trickles down to art in general. fine art is unfortunately expensive and exclusive, even if these days galleries are cheap/free to visit. fine art, in this post, means the stuff in galleries, the stuff people laud, the stuff that costs hundreds and hundreds of dollars. art in general, though? art is something that should be a part of every day life, something expressive and accessible. i'm not gonna argue that galleries are predatory, but it's an unfortunate fact that for most people, the things we see in galleries are the things people consider the standard definition of art--the same way we tend to think of the things we see on tv and blockbuster movies as the media standard.

this is why modern art--the art that makes you angry because it challenges your definition of what art is--ends up being important and still counts as art (to me). if modern galleries accept and display all these new ways of thinking about art, it trickles down to the masses, and affects the definition of art in general. if modern galleries start drawing more attention to poc/indigenous artists and (re)framing exhibitions to be not only respectful but impactful, if they highlight local artists, then regular people who go in on dates and family days will leave thinking about these things, because they see it represented in front of them. art should be more than the eurocentric stuff they teach us and show us, and it should encompass more than painting on canvases, but people dont realize that until they visit a gallery that shows them that on a personal level.

so many established forms of art had to fight to be defined as art. photography wasnt initially considered an art, and videography is arguably still fighting to be counted as art. impressionism, the movement to which monet belongs, might be what people imagine when they think of traditional art, but the movement had to fight to be counted as art as well since high society at the time didnt think that impressism as a style was worth shit and ousted them from their galleries. i think modern art falls under this umbrella of having to fight to be defined as art, but i think it works out well enough as long as people start talking about it (like we are!).

anyways, i hope this (long, loooong) post doesnt come off as bashing people bc they "just dont get it". i dont mean to be obnoxious and/or condescending about it, or come off as trying to be intellectually superior or anything (and if i did then yikes, i am so sorry), i just truly and genuinely enjoy engaging with art on all levels, including the meta level outside of the content itself. modern art seems to sit on this really fascinating line that always gets people incensed and talking--and i think that's a good thing, and why i personally count it in my own definition of art, even though i might hate the content itself. i hope instead of bashing on people who hate modern art, this post is offering an alternative way of thinking about (modern) art and why it should count as art, even if you do hate it. its purpose isnt necessarily to induce anger, and i'd personally be hard-pressed to call most modern art awe-inspiring or even likable, but i find that modern art the likes of which we're discussing is usually less about emotions evoked and more about art as a practice and/or as an instituiton anyways.

god knows i look at most of pollock's work and think "why 🙄", but then i remind myself that him becoming popular probably also changed the way the general public thought about the process of painting (goodbye, paintbrushes!) and that probably influenced other artists later on to do way more interesting things than drip paint, even if they were less popular and/or enduring in popular culture. pollock's popularity also got us all discussing why dripped paint should count as art, which is a win, even if most people who look at his work end up thinking "no, it shouldnt count as art because my five year old can do that". (to which i usually reply: "but your five year old didnt, did they?" that conversation, however, is a whole different one that isnt about art in general, but about fine art and exclusivity and capitalism and a whole lotta horse shit so we're not gonna touch on it lol.)

at the end of the day tho, and like yall said, art is totally subjective and based on personal opinion. this is just my side of it! i dont generally like the modern art that does stuff like that, but this long post kinda goes over why id still call it art (even if im doing it through clenched teeth haha).

ahh tl;dr - yes art is about skill and talent and time and dedication. art is about being awed and "damn i wish i could do that." but art (to me) is also about pushing you to think about the definition of art and what it means. art is also about the social experience of looking at a thing (alone or together), and the things the artist has to do to create even before they pick up the materials to start making. if it makes you think, then it should count as art, just as much as anything that makes you feel, or is simply nice to look at. but like i said, that's just me. art is supposed to be flexible in definition, and i wouldnt have it any other way.

Hot Art Take

I don't care what the meanings behind modern abstract paintings are, I'll still never like them. 3 years of art school didn't change my mind, and neither will people telling me that 'oh its to make people angry!' never will either.

The literal ONLY exception to this is brush stroke skills & Color skills. Otherwise I will not look at a ten foot canvas of Blue 01 and call it art.

Everyone is allowed their own opinions though so that's as far as my hot take goes. I also just don't like galleries bc their predatory and always have been. Mostly just money laundering systems as a way to make money off the backs of artists they pick and choose to gain popularity and in the olden days were used to make money off the backs of impoverished artists who got next to nothing in return for sales.

[floralseokjin]

⤑ made-up love song iii.

Your first encounter with Kim Seokjin doesn’t go so well, nor your second, or your third… and maybe that’s because it shouldn’t work on paper. You’re an elementary school teacher, never left the country despite hitting the third decade of your life not so long ago, and you’re unable to remember the last time you dated. He’s the dad of one of your students, nearly a decade older than you and divorced. Oh yes, and just another minor detail – he’s a multimillionaire. 

Your lives are lightyears apart, yet somehow, your paths having now crossed, things just seem to fall into place…

pairing; kim seokjin x reader  au/genre/warnings; strangers to lovers, romance, eventual smut, eventual angst, single dad! seokjin, ceo! seokjin, elementary school teacher! oc, age gap (oc is 30, seokjin is 37), seokjin is a dilf, lots of lasagne talk, flirting, kissing, fluff 🥰 words; 9,340

↪︎ chapter index

chapters; i • ii • iii • iv • v • vi • vii • viii • ix • x • epilogue (+ drabbles)

After you had time to calm down, of course you ended up telling Soojung about what happened on the date. You kept some things to yourself, mainly about how giddy you had felt throughout the whole thing, but you were sure she could see that for herself – she kept looking at you knowingly, and for once she kept the teasing down to a minimum. You ended up staying awake quite late, Soojung opening a bottle of wine. You were still excited from the date and the thought of what was to come next, but somewhere along the line, you and your best friend started getting into your feelings. (Was it really a Saturday night until you and Soojung ended it with slightly drunk sappy heart to hearts and hugs? Obviously not…) 

For the first time in a while you felt comfortable enough to open up about your love life (or lack of one) and felt it easy to talk about the past and to even bring up Donghae. He was a forbidden topic for the most part, no matter how much you were over him, but tonight had changed something. You didn’t know how to explain it, and no, it wasn’t because Seokjin was somehow the man of your dreams who had magically made things better with just one date. That was dumb and only happened in cliché Hallmark movies. 

No, it was because tonight had shown you that life goes on. No matter what rock bottom you hit, or how long it took you to get over it, no hurt was forever. You’d been single for a long time, and happy at that – after you’d gotten over the heartbreak of Donghae cheating on you – but tonight you’d had fun. You’d enjoyed yourself, enjoyed Seokjin’s company. You didn’t know what would come of your second date, or if there would be a third, but you were okay with that. You were just living in the moment, and right now you really liked that infuriating-not-so-infuriating bastard. 

You were taking a chance, just like he was, and it was actually pretty exciting…

.

.

You woke up late the next morning, something you didn’t reprimand yourself for because it was summer break after all, but also, you had a raging wine headache that had needed all the shut eye it could get. Your head was still throbbing slightly as you reached for your phone on the bedside table but seeing a text from Seokjin waiting for you made it miraculously disappear. 

Seokjin (10:28am) Hi Y/N, Thank you for such a great time last night. I can’t wait until Saturday. Would it be alright with you if I kept in touch throughout the week?  Seokjin

You giggled to yourself at his insane formalities. Why was that so adorable? But most importantly how could he be both cute and sexy at the same time? He was hellbent on making you lose your mind. You thought about teasing him, asking him when he’d grown comfortable enough to drop the Regards from yesterday, but despite how well last night had gone, and despite how much you loved joking around with him in person, over the phone seemed different. You were still a little nervous – giddy nervous, but nervous, nevertheless. Your conversation from last night with Soojung came back to you, reminding you that this was all too real. You were potentially catching feelings for this man, and it was new, and exciting, but equal parts terrifying now that you’d woken up with a hangover. 

Everything you typed out in reply seemed way too stiff, so growing frustrated, you settled on an emoji to cut through the formalities. 

You (10:49am) I had such a lovely time too, Seokjin. Of course it’s fine to keep in touch. I’m looking forward to Saturday night! 😊

What did he mean exactly about keeping in touch?, you wondered as you got out of bed, padding your way down the stairs and into the kitchen for a much needed glass of ice cold water. A good morning text? A how are you? You knew he was busy with work all week, so you weren’t expecting too much, but just knowing he wanted to stay in contact until next Saturday made you smile to yourself as you waited for his response. 

You didn’t have to wait long. 

Seokjin (10:55am) Great! I’m so excited to try your World famous Italian lasagne 😁

Cute. He’d followed your lead, ditching the last of the formalities and even signing off with an emoji instead. You instantly felt more at ease, but – 

Oh no. 

Why did he have to bring that up and remind you of your humiliating blunder? You knew what would be taking up all of your time for the few days – you needed to perfect this goddamn dish. 

Soojung on the other hand was unbothered by your predicament. Mind in the gutter as always. “Do you think that’s a euphemism for something else?” She asked straight away once you’d shown her your messages a few hours later. 

“Soojung!” You exclaimed, feeling yourself get a little hot in the face. You wish she’d stop bringing up sex, it was stressing you out. You told her as much. 

“You’re the one who’s invited him to your house for a second date.” 

You stared at her, greatly unimpressed. “You know why I invited him here.” 

You’d told her last night. You’d been hit with a surge of confidence when you’d suggested it was your turn to decide on something. In truth though, you didn’t know the first thing about restaurants, you hardly ever ate out, and when you did it was either fast food or at the food court in the department store Soojung worked at. You knew he wouldn’t have minded any choice you’d made, but that didn’t stop the slight apprehension you felt. 

It was normal, given your difference in lifestyles, and whilst that seemed to be no issue thankfully, that difference was still there. However really, that’s why you’d chosen to cook for him. Seokjin had shown you something close to him last night – the restaurant he owned with his brother, and now you were to show him something close to your heart. Something that was you. You loved cooking and baking in your spare time and you wanted to share that with him however small. Granted it was things you were confident with, but lasagne couldn’t be that hard, right? A true perfectionist, you’d master it quickly enough…

Soojung rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you could suggest McDonald’s and Dilf would be insanely happy.” She nudged you, squealing like a kid. “He’s just so into you!”

You wouldn’t bite. She was making you nervous again. “Stop calling him Dilf, he has a name.”

“Geez, sorry.” She held up her hands in apology. “Didn’t mean to offend your man.” 

You pushed her shoulder, silently telling her to quit it.

For the next few days it became your life’s goal to master the art of lasagne. Sunday night was spent googling recipes, trying to find the most authentic one. There seemed to be a lot of fuss on the right type of pasta. Flat edged would be fine, but the wavy edge was best. You made note of that. Next was the sauce. Two types. The tomato based one and then the white one – which you learned was called Bechamel. That seemed pretty easy to cook up, but the former seemed a little daunting. Every time you’d had pasta sauce in the past it had been premade, starting from scratch was giving you anxiety. Seokjin thought this was your expertise so you had to make it believable. What if you made it too salty? Too bland?

…Possibly you were thinking way too hard about this. Soojung thought the same. 

“Just buy it in a jar, Y/N, for Christ’s sake. You’re taking this way too seriously. You don’t need to learn fluent Italian to make your little white lie believable. It’s a goddamn lasagne.” 

She had a point. 

“He’d be happy with a sandwich. He’s coming over for you, not the shitty lasagne.” 

“Don’t call my non-existent lasagne shitty, you’re setting me up for failure.” You grumbled, looking at the ten tabs you had up on your laptop screen, all claiming to be the best most authentic recipe around.  

On Monday you went shopping for ingredients. You knew a small world foods store that was just outside of town, you’d been there a couple of times when you’d been baking with the children for class. With help from signposted aisles, you found what you were looking for in no time at all, so that night, you and Soojung both tucked into your first (sort of) homemade lasagne. Only the Bechamel sauces was harder to master than you’d first thought. 

“I think you added too much flour.” Soojung’s nose wrinkled as she spoke. “It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but the white stuff… I don’t know, maybe it’s supposed to taste like that?” 

Nope, she was definitely correct, too much flour, which was odd because you were pretty positive you’d followed the right measurements… 

Tuesday you had a day off from the sight, and even the word lasagne. You met for coffee with your mom but kept the date with Seokjin a secret. Not that she pressed about your love life anymore, she’d long given up on that topic. It was nice to catch up and you made plans for a trip soon. It was hard to find time to visit her when you were in work so you were always thankful for the summer and Christmas breaks. You were her only child, so it made your time together even more precious. She’d only remarried ten years ago, and while Jonathon had kids from his first marriage, they lived abroad. They were older than you and had families of their own. You weren’t particularly close for no other reason than the distance. You’d only met them a few times but they were lovely people. Your father had remarried while you were still in high school, having two more children (a son and daughter) with his wife. You were very close to them despite the age gap and saw them as regularly as you could. Your extended family had long been the norm and you wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Wednesday you were back on the lasagne. You purchased more pasta sauce and decided on the pre-made Bechamel sauce too, just to be safe. This time around everything went smoothly, Soojung had no complaints and neither did you, but you still invited Taehyung around on Thursday for a third go. He was way more enthusiastic than your best friend, singing your praises all night. 

“Y/N, that was amazing!” He exclaimed, leaning back in his chair to pat his belly. “Dilf dick – Uh, I mean, Seokjin, is going to love it.” 

“Guys, is that what you really call him when you’re alone together?” You whined. 

“Blame Soo,” Taehyung shrugged. “She’s rubbed off on me. But, I’m right,” he smirked. “He’s going to want to give you his DD once he tastes this, if you know what I mean.” 

Wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, you looked on unimpressed. Maybe if you gave them no reaction they’d stop? 

“Oooo. I wonder what his dick even looks like. I bet it’s as handsome as his face.” Soojung squealed, sat beside her boyfriend. 

“SOOJUNG!” He cried, mouth open in disbelief. 

“Can we just stop talking about his… y’know…” You sighed, unable to say the word aloud. “Imagine if it was the other way around and he was wondering about what I looked like naked.” Soojung wouldn’t be impressed, that was for sure. 

“Fine, you’re right,” your best friend sighed. “I’m just way too excited because you finally like someone!!” She was getting loud now, she always did when she was excited. “And I want it to work out because you deserve it!” 

You chuckled. “Soo, calm down.” But you had to admit her words were sweet. You reached for her hand across the tiny table, giving it a gentle squeeze of thanks. 

“What about Barman dick?” Taehyung asked randomly, totally oblivious that you and she were having a moment. “Huh? Soo? You want my Barman dick tonight?” He wiggled his eyebrows again, a playfulness to his voice as he nudged her. 

She giggled but wasn’t having any of it. “It doesn’t really have the same ring to it, babe.” 

Highly offended he pulled away, pursing his lips. “Whatever.”

“Okay guys, let’s not have a domestic at the dining table.” You laughed. Which was a mistake because now Taehyung’s attention was back on you. 

“So, Y/N, when are you going to invite Mr. Dilf to my bar?”

You sniggered. “How about never?”

“Hey, you ladies are being very mean tonight. I complimented your lasagne.” Hm. That was true, you guessed. “What’s wrong with my bar? I think he’d love it. What does he drink? I see him as a dark rum type of guy.” 

You shrugged. “He was drinking red wine on our date last week.” It still made you feel funny to say the word date. You’d gone on a date. You were dating. A flurry of excitement found its way to your stomach, your excitement for Saturday growing. 

“Interesting,” Taehyung mused.

Soojung stood up, starting to collect your plates. “Okay, I’m washing, who’s drying?”

“Not me,” you sang. “I’ve cooked nearly every night this week.” 

Soojung eyes were wide when you met them, as if she was silently begging you. For what? “Just please promise me there won’t be any lasagne waiting for me after work tomorrow night? I’m going to turn into one at this rate.” 

Saturday arrived soon enough. You woke up the same time your phone went Bing and you knew exactly who it was. Seokjin had been texting you Good morning every day since Monday. He was no longer signing them off with his name, which was progress, and he was even adding more emojis, so you guessed you had rubbed off on him. 

Sometimes he’d drop a meme with the greeting. They were mostly to do with early mornings and workloads to which you’d tease him about because it was your summer vacation after all, you didn’t need to worry about work. But you always sent a Hope today runs smoothly his way too. You didn’t want to rub it in too much. 

Yesterday’s meme had been about dating, something about the guy trying to flirt but being garbage at it and asking if she liked cheese. You didn’t agree that was like Seokjin though – you were gradually learning that he was incredibly modest – but it had made you laugh. Only Seokjin could send you lame memes and you’d find it adorable… You were possibly whipped. 

Seokjin (8:01am)  Good morning. [Image sent] 

Today the meme was about lasagne, which made you question whether he was googling these every morning because no way had a lasagne meme popped up on his social media – if he used any at all. The realisation that he was searching for memes every day was even more endearing and your heart got a little gooey. You read the text on top of the image of lasagne. Dude, is that your new white shirt? Lemme just hop off this fork for a closer look. You genuinely laughed at that one, still wrapped up in your bed sheets. So incredibly lame, but equal levels funny. 

Seokjin (8:01am)  I will not be wearing white… I can’t wait to see you later. Just a reminder that I hope you omitted the garlic for tonight’s meal. I don’t want to embarrass myself by itching all night 😅😂

Immediately the smile dropped from your face and you shot forward, horror washing over you. Oh no. He was allergic to garlic. With the stress of perfecting the world’s best lasagne you’d totally forgotten. What were you going to do? Find a plain tomato sauce? Where the hell were you going to find one? Was that even a thing? You needed to leave now. Jumping out of bed you almost forgot to message Seokjin back. Looking at your phone again the image of the lasagne mocked you… 

.

.

Two hours later you were back at home, in need of a sit down after you’d rushed around town looking for a pasta sauce that didn’t contain garlic (very hard, by the way.) The stress had aged you about ten years. Soojung of course found it highly hilarious. 

“You’d have been in ER before 9pm,” she chortled, still in her pyjamas on the couch. She’d been still asleep when you’d dashed off, a woman on a lasagne mission. 

You ignored her. It wouldn’t have been that bad, right? He said himself he’d only be itching… Clawing off his own skin was probably better than his throat closing up… maybe… 

“How did you manage to forget?” She was still laughing. “AND you said you’d make a lasagne. Italian food always uses garlic. He must think you’re trying to kill him.” At this point you could hardly understand her, words blurring into one as she lost her shit. 

“We went over this. I wasn’t in my right mind when I said I’d cook lasagne.”

She stopped her laugher immediately.  “No way, you’re not blaming me again.” 

“Ugh.” You sighed, suddenly remembering something. “I was going to make my homemade garlic bread.” Now that was a speciality of yours. This night was going to be a disaster.

“Skip the garlic,” Soojung suggested. 

“So, just bread then.” 

She tried her best not to laugh again, not wanting to make it worse. “Yum.” 

It didn’t help. 

What did help though, was making her clean the entirety of the downstairs of the house. As the day went on you started to get more and more nervous, which was silly, but you couldn’t help it. You realised that your place was a shoe box in comparison to his, what the hell were you thinking when you’d invited him here?! It needed to be spotless, to distract him from the fact you would be eating dinner in the same place you would be cooking it… 

You knew there was no need to worry, it was just like last week when you’d grown self-conscious only to be fine once you’d set eyes on Seokjin. No doubt tonight would be just the same, he didn’t give a crap about stuff like that, so why would you even think he would? He’d probably be hurt if he knew… You just couldn’t help those little bubbles of insecurities from floating around inside your brain. You were a law unto yourself, and the garlic-less lasagne wasn’t helping. You’d had no time to prep for it. What if it tasted like cardboard? 

“Lasagne is lasagne,” Soojung reassured you, in the kitchen as you got all the ingredients together. “It’s not going to taste gross just because there’s no garlic in it. Put it this way, at least you can kiss without needing to pop a mint.” 

You whined, shaking your head, you couldn’t even dare thinking about kissing him right now. You’d spontaneously combust from anxiety. 

“Should we clean your room too?” She asked, picking up the jar of pasta sauce absentmindedly. You’d already read the label approximately fifteen times, double checking it was indeed garlic-less. 

“What? No,” you told her, voice all high-pitched. There would be no going upstairs besides from bathroom usage. “But hey,” you exclaimed, rounding on her with the spoon you were holding in your hand. “My room is always clean, bitch.”

She was the messy one.

.

.

Soojung left for Taehyung’s place at half 6, ready for Seokjin’s arrival at 7pm, a hug for good luck before you waved her off. You’d calmed greatly now, nothing like some table laying to ease some nerves. The lasagne was prepped and ready to oven cook, you had a fresh key lime pie in the fridge and you were dressed and presentable with ten minutes to spare. Wonderful. 

The doorbell rung not long after you’d made your way downstairs and you were quickly finding out that Seokjin was a very punctual man. Opening the door to reveal him stood at the porch your heart instantly warmed, skipping a beat when he gave you a dazzling smile and a soft Hey. You felt a little weak at the knees. Nope, you were not ready for tonight. 

In your tiny entryway he offered you a silver gift bag. “I didn’t know what to bring, so.” He said with a shrug as you pulled out a bottle of red wine. 

“Oh, thank you, Seokjin.” You hadn’t been expecting him to bring anything at all. It was a lovely surprise. 

“You probably have some waiting already. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you reassured him. “We’ll use this one.” You were going to use a bottle of white wine you had laying around, nothing special at all. Red wine seemed better, fancier, maybe it would go better with the lasagne?

“Are you sure?” He asked. “I was gonna get you flowers but I didn’t want to freak you out or anything.”

You laughed. What was he going on about? “Why would that freak me out?”

His smile was crooked as he chuckled quietly. “I don’t know. I’m new to this, I thought they would’ve been too forward.” 

You gave a small shrug, voice barely there when you replied. “I like flowers.”

He gazed at you, warm eyes softening as he stepped forward. “Next time.” He smiled. “Next time I’ll get you flowers.” 

You swallowed fairly loudly, averting your gaze as you outstretched your arms. “Let me take you coat.” Was it hot in here? You felt a little stuffy. 

He shrugged off the beige wool blend, revealing the tight fitting black shirt he had on underneath. It stretched over his shoulders, accentuating how broad they were, how hard his chest was and how much his waist curved inwards. The pants he was wearing didn’t help matters too. He looked effortlessly gorgeous, hair parted to the side, a piece curled above his left eye, softening the blow of his exposed forehead. You moved to hook his coat on the rack, realising you could’ve been gawping. Not that you could help it, the man was trying to kill you.

As you turned to face him again, he smiled. “You look really nice.” His voice was soft which just made it even more dangerous. “I think this may be the first time I’ve seen you in pants.” 

“Really?” You wondered. You were partial to a dress in the summer, so he was probably right. You’d chosen a pair of black skinny jeans and a patterned chiffon blouse. Nothing too fancy, but he looked at you with awe-filled eyes. Unless you were imagining it. You cleared your throat. “You look good too.”

He stepped back, arms outstretched as he looked down at himself. “Thanks. No white.” He chuckled. 

You forced yourself to laugh too, nerves creeping back just because of your stupid damn lasagne. “No white.” 

Moving forward again he took your hand. It was warm and soft, just as you remembered from last week. Who cared about the lasagne when you were this close to him? When he was looking down at you with those brown, twinkly eyes? Not you anymore. 

“I’ve been looking forward to this all week, Y/N.” 

Oh.

.

.

You invited him inside the living room first, pouring him a small (and his only because he the car) glass of wine as you chit chatted for a few minutes. Sat next to him was RJ, who you’d taken from your bedroom to join you both for the night. He wanted to say Hi, had been your opening line and Seokjin had found it hilarious, cracking up instantly. Although his “I missed you buddy, how have you been?” went rudely ignored. Maybe the alpaca was nervous… 

Ever the gentleman, he complimented you on the house, noting the décor with a fond eye. That surprised you, maybe he had played a part with the interior of his home. Well, you’d only seen the cosy family room – but it suited him very well. You knew there had been no need to be nervous when it came to inviting him into your home. There wasn’t a judging bone in Seokjin’s body. 

You talked about your weeks, yours had been fine, but of course you left out all the stress over the lasagne. Seokjin’s week on the other hand had been quite demanding, but that was nothing new he told you with an accepting shake of his hand. He was used to it by now, but he had to admit tonight’s date had made it easier this time around. He was full of the charm, not that you were complaining…

Misook was babysitting Arin tonight, he told you when you asked how she was. It was his weekend this week, he and Nana took it in turns – when she didn’t cancel, he added as an afterthought – but he seemed a lot more relaxed talking about his ex-wife this time around seeing as last weekend she hadn’t broken any promises. He was happy if his daughter was happy, and that made you smile. You remembered Arin’s sorrowful face that day her mom had cancelled on her, so you were glad they’d found time to spend time together. You also remembered how irritated Seokjin had sounded when he was opening up to you on the bench at the school fate… You wondered just how often Nana cancelled plans, and couldn’t imagine how frustrating that was for both Arin and Seokjin… You hoped this marked the start of things being easier for them now. 

Soon after that, you served him your starter (“garlic – wait, no I mean, no-garlic bread.”), and you chatted some more over that and while the lasagne baked. It was surprising how little you’d touched the sides on your first date, so tonight you covered even more bases. Family mainly. You told him about your half and step siblings, your parents’ remarriages of course coming up too. He seemed interested in that, wondering about your views on it and if it had affected you as you grew up. As a divorcee you understood the relevance to him and because he was so easy to talk to you found yourself opening up freely. 

His parents were still married and Seokjin was the youngest out of their two sons, so it was quite unheard of for the second born to take over a family company. In fact, it was the first of its kind for his, which made it even harder for him. His older brother had been the rightful heir to LG Electronics but his passion had always been in culinary arts. His parents had been kind enough to let him follow his dreams, and thankfully, for Seokjin, that meant he could follow in his father’s footsteps. He’d been eager to prove himself but it had been hard in the beginning. His status as the youngest son meant that a lot of people set him up for failure, but with his family’s love and belief he’d managed to succeed and confirm himself as the rightful CEO. You didn’t doubt it. It seemed he’d worked hard to get where he was now. That was admirable. 

The influx of information was so interesting to you and it didn’t feel real. While you could imagine Seokjin taking charge, visualising him in that tailored houndstooth suit he’d worn when you’d first met him, it was strange to think the smiley and soft-spoken man sat in front of you was from a long line of power and wealth. He should be untouchable, yet here you were able to reach for his hand across the table. Able to feel his forefinger stroking delicate patterns into your palm as you opened up and got to know one another more and more… 

“So, if your family’s a big deal, what about things like arranged marriages? Are they still a thing?” You asked, maybe confusing fiction for fact. 

Seokjin laughed at your wording. “They used to be, not so much anymore. I met my ex-wife through a friend. They concentrate less on things like that these days.” He shrugged, adding as an afterthought, “As a divorced CEO I think I’m a great example of that.” 

That was true, you thought to yourself, wondering how the breakdown of his marriage had also played a part in the stress of his early years as CEO. 

“I know it all sounds pretty crazy, but I like to think my family is just like anyone else’s.” He continued, smiling bashfully when you met his gaze. “That I’m just like anyone else.” 

You wondered how many people had immediately judged him because of his status… You’d been one of them, right? Even if you hadn’t known any of the details, you’d written him off as some obnoxious, rich guy who flaunted his wealth… You felt guilty thinking back. He was the complete opposite.

You nodded in agreement before grinning. “I’d have liked to see what college Seokjin was like.” 

“A complete nerd, to tell you the truth.” 

He answered so seriously, you didn’t know how to react, and then he was laughing loudly, cracking up at himself. You couldn’t help but join in. That’s when your stove alarm went off, shrill and incessant, signalling the arrival of the dreaded lasagne…

It turned out he loved it though. 

“This is amazing,” Seokjin praised, mouth still half full as he chewed. You did have to admit it was good. It tasted just like the original, despite the lack of garlic. Seokjin quirked an eyebrow, smirking your way. “So, how lucky am I to be able to try this World famous Italian lasagne?” 

“Very lucky.” You kept your answer short. Hoping he’d just drop it. 

He didn’t. 

“How lucky?” He tried to pry from you. “How many people have tried it?” 

You gave him a small smile, hovering your fork over the plate. Technically he was the third, but you couldn’t tell him that, could you? “I can’t disclose that.” 

He emitted a short laugh. “What about the recipe? Care to share?” 

You brushed him off with a soft chuckle. “A chef never tells her secrets.”

“Not even me?” His bottom lip jutted out as he looked across at you. 

Your heart did a little dance. He was being unfair. “Don’t pout like that, it’s making me feel guilty.” 

Thankfully the lasagne topic fizzled out after a couple more minutes, your cold sweat having time to dissipate while you chatted and ate together comfortably. However a few minutes later you noticed Seokjin fidgeting slightly in his seat. You politely ignored it to begin with, unsure if you were just imagining it, but then he started itching the back of his neck. You put your fork down, a sick feeling washing over you. “Is anything wrong?” You asked, now watching him itch up his forearm. “Seokjin?”

He looked at you in mild confusion, eyebrows creasing together as he opened his mouth. “Are you sure there wasn’t any garlic in this?” 

You swallowed away the panic racing up your throat. “I’m sure.” You’d read the back of that jar and then read it some more. “I’m positive.” 

… Weren’t you? You watched him scoot his chair back, leaning down to start scratching the back of his calves. He made noises of discomfort as he did so. 

“Oh, no…” You were up before you could stop yourself, racing around him to start hunting in the recycling for the glass jar. 

“Wait, where are you going?” 

You could hear Seokjin’s voice behind you, sounding alarmed, but you were too panicked to really take it in. You needed to be sure. This was just your second date, you couldn’t ruin things already. Turning him into one giant itchy red blob had not been your intention.  

“I was only teasing you.” Still, his words didn’t sink in. That was until you felt a hand on your elbow, tugging gently for your attention. 

You spun around, worried eyes wide – even wider when you found him so close. He was on his feet too, bent a little to level with you, pretty much within kissing distance. His voice was soft when he spoke, you found yourself distracted by his mouth. “Y/N, I was just messing around.”

You blinked, not truly understanding with all those annoying distractions zooming around your mind, but slowly you pieced his words together. Oh. Despite the relief you felt, now you just felt silly. Plus, he was still so close to you… 

You took a step back, the small of your back pressing up against the counter. You needed a clear head. “Don’t freak me out like that.” You told him, but you still sighed in relief, hand against your chest. “I thought I’d poisoned you.” 

He looked a little concerned, but you could tell by his eyes he found your reaction amusing. “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I just wanted to make you laugh.”

“Make me laugh? You nearly gave me heart failure.” However, you gave him what he wanted, a laugh that sounded weak and shaky, but it was something – you did see the funny side. 

He joined you, shoulders relaxing now that he knew you were okay. He looked behind you, eyes on the trashcan, a bemused smile on his face. “What were you looking for anyway?”

“The jar.” You answered, as if it wasn’t obvious. You turned, deciding to fish it out anyway. Holding it up to him, you were adamant. “See, no garlic. Check.” 

He chuckled. “I already said I was joking.” He took one look at your desperate expression and gave in, taking the jar from your hand. “But if it makes you feel better…” You watched him as he read the label, silently soaking in his handsome features. He looked softer tonight, the curve of his jaw rounding as he smiled. It took you a moment to realise he was done. He handed the jar back to you, and you prayed to God he hadn’t caught you staring at him all gooey-eyed. “It’s fine.” He confirmed. “I’ll be itch free tonight.” 

You smiled and plopped the glass back inside the can. “I looked around town for hour trying to find lasagne sauce sans garlic.” 

He looked guilty. “I’m sorry for being awkward.” Then he paused, eyes narrowing, the hint of a smirk itching at the corners of his mouth. “But… Y/N, are you a fraud?” Huh? What did he mean? You didn’t need to wait long for an explanation. “I thought a certified chef would cook up a batch of her own tomato sauce.”

Oh. You’d gone and put your foot in it, hadn’t you? It was probably time to explain yourself… “I have a confession,” you began, sounding wary. Seokjin looked interested albeit it mildly confused. “I… may have told a little white lie.”

He shook his head, a puff of laughter leaving him. “You’ve lost me.” 

You took a deep breath, knowing you were going to have to spell it out for him. “I’ve never made lasagne before. Ever. In my entire life.” 

He looked confused as silence spread out between you. He sounded it too when he spoke again. “Then why did you say it was your speciality?”

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands for one dramatic moment. “I panicked.” Peeking at him, you babbled on. “I know it sounds stupid but Soojung was curtain twitching and it was stressing me out and then you were asking me what I cooked and lasagne just popped into my head!”

Seokjin blinked, his mouth twitched and then he was laughing – loudly. 

“You find it funny?” You asked, relaxing a tad. 

“Very.” He laughed harder but seeing the look of bafflement on your face he tried is best to still it. 

“I’ve been practicing it like crazy,” you whined, happy you could finally tell him all about your lasagne struggles. “This is my fourth time eating it this week. Soojung nearly killed me.” You snorted at the memory. This started up Seokjin again. “And then I forgot you were allergic to garlic. Your text reminded me this morning and I had to rush out to the grocery store.” 

He was weak at the knees at that, and you were laughing just because he was. It was contagious. “Stop,” you wailed, attempting to get a hold of yourself. This week had actually been quite traumatic. “I’m glad you find it funny, I’ve been in constant stress ever since you drove off last week.” 

“I can’t help it.” He chuckled, although he did sound apologetic. “You’re just so adorable.” The air that settled around his effortless admission made your skin prickle. When he carried on, his tone was gentle. “You know I wouldn’t have minded if you changed the menu to something else, right?” 

You pouted ever so slightly. “But you were looking forward to it.” 

He gave a small shrug. “True, but… that was more so code for ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again.’ The food was just a bonus. I’d be happy with a Big Mac.” 

You felt your cheeks burn and you tried to shake yourself out of it. “So embarrassing,” you murmured. You didn’t know what for… The lasagne mess or the fact he could have this much of an effect of you? You were inclined to go with the latter. 

“What about the no-garlic bread?” Seokjin asked, changing the subject a little. Maybe he’d sensed your embarrassment and didn’t want to make it worse. He was sweet. “Did you make that?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Well, I didn’t bake the bread. I just toasted it.” It was still a speciality of yours though. “It would’ve been much tastier with the garlic.” 

He gave you an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. This body wants to turn me into a miserable old man.” 

Pfft. Old? Miserable? He was anything but. 

“Sit,” he prompted you, smiling as he motioned with his head to the table. “Finish your World famous Italian lasagne before it grows cold.” 

As you moved he delicately cupped his hand around the curve your waist, giving it a soft squeeze before he got to his chair first. Your stomach flipped, head dizzy as you sat and tucked your chair in. Last Saturday popped into your head, the way you’d loosely held hands outside and how you were sure he’d been leaning in to kiss you – properly. 

You knew one thing. You really wanted to kiss him tonight. 

Trying to get a hold of yourself, you glanced at him, catching his eyes. He was already tucking in again, and he grinned bashfully, as if embarrassed. “This really is great. All that practice paid off.” A pause. “You should show me how you cooked it sometime.” 

Your face lit up in surprise. “You cook?” In the back of your mind you were aware that he’d probably been hinting for a third date, but you were so shocked by the possibly of Seokjin cooking you couldn’t stop yourself from asking. 

He chuckled quietly. “I mean, when I have time and can be bothered. I like cooking but it’s just easier to go to a restaurant or get it delivered.” He looked sheepish before adding, “Or Misook does it for me.” 

There was no shame when it came to that. Seokjin probably worked all hours of the day, no one could expect him to tie on an apron when he got home and start pulling out pots and pans. 

“Do you cook a lot?” He asked. 

You nodded. “Soojung and I take it in turns.” 

“So what is your speciality?” He smiled. 

This time around you were in your right mind and able to answer properly. “Veggie tacos.” 

He raised his eyebrows, impressed. Then he tried again. “Can you make them for me sometime?”

He was persistent, you’d give him that. You shrugged, trying your best to sound impassive but the little smirk gave it away. “Maybe if you say please…” 

He laughed, leaning forward, a hand clasping yours as he tilted his head. The piece of curled hair falling into his left eye. “Please?”

Your heart did another little dance inside your chest. 

.

. 

After dessert you both made your way back to the living room, settling on your couch with two pomegranate mocktails Taehyung had prepared for you yesterday. All you had to do was add the pomegranate juice and lemonade to the ice cubes and crushed lime segments and mint before serving, easy-peasy. Seokjin was highly impressed, but of course you couldn’t take the credit. It was all down to your best friend’s very helpful barman boyfriend. 

You were glad Seokjin wanted to stay as you didn’t want the night to be over yet. It had flown by so fast and you’d had so much fun. You already felt like you knew him better, even after only two dates. It was strange to you, how you could feel so relaxed in a stranger’s company, but then again, you guessed he wasn’t a stranger anymore… Plus, he was so easy to talk to, so interesting to get to know…. Everything between you two came easy. 

Like opening up to him, being a bit more vulnerable… 

“I’ve been slightly nervous all week,” you admitted, clutching your drink to you before chuckling softly. “– and not just about the lasagne faux pas…” 

“There was no need to be nervous. I thought we left all that behind on the first date,” Seokjin reassured, smiling warmly your way. 

You were sat together, turned to face one another. It was intimate and cosy. He had one leg lifted, the ankle resting on the knee of the other leg, and where his pants had ridden up, you could see an inch or so of his calf before it met the black cotton of his sock. For some reason, you found that very, very sexy. Maybe you had been single for far too long. 

“We did,” you agreed, hesitating slightly. “It’s just… I haven’t done anything like this in so long.” 

You didn’t even think you’d ever invited someone around for dinner before. You were still quite young when you found yourself in a relationship with Donghae so your dates before him had been very basic. Your dates with him hadn’t really classed as such just because you became official fairly quickly, and your dates after him, well, it was already known that they had been few and far between. 

“You already know we’re in the same boat,” he smiled before chuckling bashfully. “No, but really, when I asked you for dinner that day at the fate I was expecting you to turn me down.” 

“How come?”

He looked down at his drink, lifting a shoulder. “I thought you’d think that I was crossing a line… or maybe the spark I was feeling was all in my head and in reality you just found me really annoying.” 

That was cute. He’d been doubting himself. Human after all. Not that you’d ever thought he wasn’t. You still didn’t miss the opportunity to joke around though. “I mean, both can exist simultaneously.” He taking a sip of his mocktail when you replied so he ended up snorting into his glass, amused by your wit. 

A moment or so passed and Seokjin gazed at you, smiling softly. If he kept this up, you’d be a puddle on your parquet flooring. “So, tell me,” he hummed. “How did I luck out so good?” You raised an eyebrow, wondering what he meant. “How come an amazing person like you isn’t married or in a relationship?”

He must’ve seen the slight shock on your face and panicked instantly. “Is that a weird thing to ask? I feel like it is. I apologise.”

“No,” you insisted, sitting up a little straighter. He followed. “No, it’s not.” You wanted to open up to him. You really did. You just didn’t know where to start. Although, it was pretty simple. “I’ve been single for a while.” 

“How long?” Seokjin was instantly focused, attentive, noticing the change in your body language. 

“Three years. My last relationship didn’t end very well.” You paused, wondering if you should continue. But then… It had been a massive part of your life. No matter how much time had passed and no matter how okay you were now, it had still happened. And Seokjin, he had trusted you enough to open up about his divorce – even before you’d gone on your first date. You wanted to talk about it. You really did. 

“I found out my fiancé was cheating on me.”  

Seokjin’s eyes widened, unable to cloak his surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sincerely. 

“It’s fine,” you smiled. “It was rough getting over it. Took me a while, but it is what it is. It’s in the past now.” 

“Did it put you off dating?” 

You were pleasantly surprised to find it was actually easy to talk to Seokjin about this. Your mouth was opening before you had to think about it. “I mean, at first. I was still very much in love with him, even after he broke my heart. But I got over him and I started dating again – briefly – It just didn’t feel right.” You stopped to smile. “It’s been over a year and I can’t say I missed it… but you…” Nerves growing, you pushed them away. “You’ve changed that. I’m having fun.” 

Seokjin’s face lit up and he chuckled. “I did hit second date status after all.” 

“You did…” 

“So,” he leaned closer, a small smirk on his face. “You could say, hitting your car that day wasn’t actually my fault because it was supposed to happen.” 

You snorted as you laughed, head falling against the back of the couch. “I wouldn’t go that far.” 

He made a sound. “But we wouldn’t have met otherwise.” 

“We would!” You exclaimed. “The parent-teacher meeting.” 

He blinked, feeling dumb. “Oh, yeah.” 

It wouldn’t have had the same effect, granted, but you would have become acquainted with one another regardless. “Would you have still liked me?” You asked without thinking, surprising yourself. 

“Yes,” he replied immediately. “I was instantly attracted to you after all, it’s just…” Instantly attracted? Definitely a charmer... “There would’ve been no way for me to get to know you like I did.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re really adamant that you had to reverse into my car to make this work, huh.”

He shrugged casually. “It was the only way.” 

You laughed quietly, finishing the last of your drink. Time was getting on, it was pretty late, Seokjin had already finished his, you watched him sit up to lean forward and place the glass on your coffee table. His shirt tightened across his shoulder blades and you could see his back muscles as he stretched. Oh.  

Settling back into the same position, he looked over at you and grinned. His teeth were perfect. Did this man have zero flaws? Why were you so whipped? It was embarrassing. 

“I had fun tonight,” you told him, trying to keep a lid on whatever was going on with you right now. 

He seemed pleased with that, nodding his head. “I’m happy to hear that you think I’m a fun person.” 

You scoffed, body falling closer to his. Your shoulders brushed together. Seokjin didn’t take his eyes off you. “Hm. I don’t think I said that.” 

“Hey, don’t be so mean.” He murmured, one side of his mouth quirking up. 

Like you couldn’t stop yourself, your hand reached for the collar of shirt. He had the top two buttons loose and your pinkie finger brushed against his collarbone. Sparks flew, but you tried to ignore them. “I thought you liked it when I was mean.” You teased, voice low. 

Seokjin hummed, his eyes still twinkled like they always did but there was something else to them, a depth that made you feel funny. He sunk closer to you. So close you could study the thick curve of his eyelashes, notice that both his eyelids were different. He really did have beautiful eyes. You could stare at them forever. 

Preoccupied, you slowly realised that he was watching you too, studying your features in the golden glow of the floor lamp that hovered over the couch. His lips parted, you heard them rather than saw it, but then your attention was on them again. Just like it had been earlier on in the night. He was staring at yours too as he spoke. “I wanted to kiss you last week.” 

You heartbeat quickened but you tried to keep cool. “You did kiss me.” You laughed. 

He sighed. “On the cheek.”  

You lightly tugged his collar, fingertips now brushing the skin of his chest. “Isn’t that what you said you wanted to do?”

You could feel his own heartbeat against your forearm that was pressed into him. It was definitely running a little faster than it was supposed to – stronger. “Yes, but…” He glanced up to your eyes. “I was just being polite. I wanted to kiss your lips.”

It felt like you were holding your breath. Maybe you were, you just couldn’t think straight. Time seemed to stretch out, but you knew what you wanted. So you went after it. Giving him a small smile, you replied. “Maybe I wanted that too.” 

He swallowed, voice so low now it was barely a murmur. “Is that an invitation?” His eyes bounced to your lips again, then back to your eyes as he asked permission. “Can I kiss you?”

You ever so slightly dragged your bottom lip beneath your teeth as you nodded, breath catching in your throat as Seokjin leaned forward and closed the distance between you. The hand in between your bodies moved to delicately hold the wrist of your arm against his chest, holding you there as his other hand reached for your jaw, angling your face to press a kiss to your mouth. His eyes were already closed so you followed. 

He hummed at the contact, his lips soft and warm and you let yourself sink. His actions were light at first, faint as he kept constant pressure, as if he was familiarising himself with the sensation. You couldn’t even let yourself think about how this was the first kiss you’d shared with someone for a very long time. All that was going through your mind was how good it felt to be touched like this by him. 

He readjusted the hand on your face, tucking some hair behind your ear to cup your cheek. You liked that. You liked it when he touched you, and he eased from your mouth completely before coming back with a firmer pressure. It was your turn to make a sound; a tiny gasp as your lips began to move together ever so slowly. He liked that, a hum of satisfaction vibrating against the soft skin of your lips. You clutched at his shirt, gathering the crisp cotton in your fist, that would surely turn it creased, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was too preoccupied with reaching for the glass you’d forgotten was hugged to your body by your free hand. 

He unclasped it from your fingers and had no choice but to break away from your mouth to put it next to his on the coffee table. You whined, attempting to tug him back to you, and he chuckled, taking a hold of one of your hands. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, leaning forward to place the cocktail glass down. 

And he was. 

This time he used both of his hands to grasp your face and dive back in. He was more confident this time, moving in such a way his lips pried yours open. You reached for his shoulders, grasping them to hold him closer and this time you both made noises – sweet, quiet ones that worked beautiful together as your lips moulded with gradual urgency. 

When your hands found the nape of his neck, fingers through his hair, he had to drag the tip of his tongue across your bottom lip, seeking entry. You met it with yours, tasting hints of pomegranate and lime with each wash of tongue. A hand of his slipped down to your side, stroking up and down the curve as if he couldn’t help but to touch you. He settled at your hip after a moment, the other splayed against the side of your neck, his thumb rolling small circles under your cheekbone. 

This was getting addictive. You could tell by the way you moaned softly against each warm, wet curl of his tongue. This was everything you’d imagined and more – because you had imagined it. Late and secretly at night when you were trying to drift off to sleep and thoughts of lasagne were banished… You were glad your first kiss was here, inside, on your couch, because this wasn’t something for the open, your knees wouldn’t have been able to hold you up. 

You could have kissed him forever, you mean, you definitely didn’t want it to stop but you pretty much had to. Breathing was a necessity, right? If you couldn’t breathe you wouldn’t be able to ever kiss Seokjin again and that would be absolutely awful… 

You did it the right way though – gradually. Seokjin slowed it right down, only hints of his tongue left as he hummed indulgently, like he was savouring your taste before he had to inevitably pull away. It made your insides jump around like crazy, hearing him enjoying himself, and you tried your best to come to when he started easing the pressure of his lips, pressing small, chaste kisses to them instead as you ultimately (but slowly) broke apart. 

You opened your eyes, blinking up at him, hands falling from his hair, aware you had become one with your cushions. You struggled to free yourself as he sat back and you watched him smile fondly at you. His breath was shaky – so was yours, and you were sure his hands trembled slightly as one reached up to scratch the back of his neck. His neck that was blotched with red, flushed, travelling to his cheeks. They were rosier than you’d ever seen them before. Your gut stirred. 

“I’ve been dreaming of that,” he told you, before making a face at himself. “Too cringey?” 

You giggled – it sounded foreign. “Just a bit.” But didn’t deter the fact you loved it. 

You warmed when you felt him squeeze your hip, realising his hand was still there and you reached for it, tangling your fingers with his. He pulled them to his mouth, kissing your knuckles softly. His expression was thoughtful when he lowered your hands. “In all seriousness, thank you for giving me a chance, after well, you know, everything.”

You smiled, touched by his earnestness, but it was hard to keep a sane mind when his lips were as kiss bitten as they were – deep pink and glistening. You wanted to kiss his face off. 

“It’s no problem,” you quipped, as if you were doing him a favour. 

He chuckled tenderly, and luckily for you he was unable to stop himself from kissing you again. He reached forward, hooking a finger under your chin to press his mouth to yours softly. “I’d really love if we could keep on doing… this.” He murmured. 

“The dating or the kissing,” you grinned, stealing another kiss in the process. 

“Hm,” he contemplated. “Both preferably.” 

And then you were on one another again, eager once more. 

Although, you did manage to pull away briefly to tell him something, his mouth moving to the side of your face to kiss there instead as your hands dragged down his back. You were somehow able to get the words out – ones that made him laugh against your wet jaw. 

“I’m so glad you hit my car.” 

Written 2020 - 2021.  Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. © floralseokjin 2021

[tendertokyo]

My take on NCT at Hogwarts

what is it with me and being active on this god forsaken app all of a sudden... anyways, i know that we've thrown jk rowling in the garbage but listen i can't just throw away my whole childhood for one stupid rich white cis woman. also i have no idea what's going on with the neos but when do i ever? alright here we go

taeil: he's giving me frustrated hufflepuff, like he really wished to be in gryffindoor but it didn't work out. think he'd be a halfblood and have a pet toad. likes to visit hagrid for tea sometimes. simps over some bad bitch in slytherin, really thinks she's into him too, everyone tells him she's way out of his league. broke his wand twice already trying to open a can of sardines

taeyong: also strong hufflepuff energy. he's the keeper and captain of their quidditch team and a prefect too, picked purely cause he's good with kids. walks around without his scarf in the cold winter because he wrapped it around ten's neck one morning and nagged on him for not taking care of his health properly, never got the scarf back and doesn't mind. i feel like snape would intimidate the crap out of him, like he would not be able to stay calm during his classes rip. he'd be adored by all the other teachers though, especially flitwick who believes he's really gifted in charms

johnny: a gryffindoor pureblood and keeper and captain of the quidditch team. always the one who tries to talk things out with mcgonnagall when they pull some stupid shit and get caught, never successful. has the marauders map and likes to throw underground raves in hidden rooms and tunnels. buddies with peeves and the house elves. buddies with everyone actually. and regardless of liking him like that or not, every girl in school has fantasized of fucking him in the quidditch locker room showers ooooop-

yuta: omg the heartbreaker of the school. a halfblood slytherin prefect and beater. snape's favourite student, like he gets whatever he wants from that man without trying. everyone is lowkey into him cause of his hot and mysterious vibe and there are so many rumours about his sex life circulating around, but no one actually knows if he's seeing someone. people also speculate he's a metamorphmagus but no lol he just dies his hair a lot. has a pet cat who's mean to everyone except him and mark. likes to explore the forbidden forest cause he's a weirdo

doyoung: a ravenclaw pureblood who hates quidditch, only shows up for taeyong's matches and nags him afterwards if hufflepuff loses. he's the headboy and happily uses his title to threaten haechan. hates divination with a passion and idolizes mcgonnagal, as he should. knows everyone's bussiness in the whole damn castle, never starts drama but almost always ends it. used to tutor some younger students but they quickly realised he's a mini mcgonnagall and zoomed straight outta there. snape lowkey wishes he was in slytherin but don't tell anyone

kun: gryffindoor headboy, probably the calmest person in that entire house and the only one who can kinda control the chaos. if yangyang or hendery annoy him too much he'll give them the wrong password on purpose, mcgonnagal has this unspoken respect for him for that reason. feels really bad for the house elves and wants to help them as much as he can. known as the dad or daddy of gryffindoor, depending on who you ask hehehehe

ten: the artsiest ravenclaw but fucking terrible at riddles, so he's always stuck at the door unless someone let's him inside lmao. is super into divination but purely for the aesthetic. never wears his uniform properly, always wears taeyong's scarf and lots of witchy jewelry. started a dance club in the room of requirement, loves hogwarts halloween with his whole heart. set a classroom on fire once and managed to sneak away undetected. always hooks up with someone at johnny's parties

jaehyun: the fucking fratboy of gryffindoor. he's a halfblood and a chaser on the quidditch team. left so many girls on read oh my god. sneaks alcohol and weed into school, coorganizes parties with johnny, yuta and mark. people think he's this hot bad boy or some shit, lol no bitch he's a dumbass don't waste your energy on a doofus like him, have you heard his laugh he sounds like a 45 year old man. mcgonnagall doesn't trust him at all, always looks at him with shifty eyes. the fat lady flirts with him everytime he approaches the commonroom door

winwin: on the snobby pureblood side of slytherin, like he gives off really judgy vibes. is in ten's dance club, there's a rumor going around that he's an animagus 'cause he moves gracefully like a cat or smth, but he isn't he's just really talented. spends most of his time in the owlery petting birds. the bloody baron freaks him out, most of the ghosts do. tried to be a big brother figure to renjun and chenle but they bullied his ass like crazy so he dropped them like hot potatoes

jungwoo: the most confident gryffindoor y'all. he's a muggleborn and a chaser. has the cutest pet owl, is really into care of magical creatures. snape hates him because he's too "sunny" of a person. wild at parties but looks fine in the morning somehow. the biggest flirt you'll ever meet and has so many bitches wrapped around his little finger lol, there's a rumor going around that he's real beast in bed. awesome at dueling, uses his cute airhead shtick to apsolutely destroy people. can you tell i love his pisces ass?

lucas: a hufflepuff halfblood and beater. wannabe fuckboy but can't because he cares too much lol, those muscles are made of feelings dawg. hits on every girl he sees and is almost always successful 'cause we're weak for cute and sweet himbos. is the biggest show off on the quidditch field and has his own fan club. really into care for magical creatures, like literally wants to befriend every single one of them, hagrid has to pull his ass away from them before he gets hurt rip

mark: a gryffindoor prodigy, a muggleborn and a chaser. the most stressed prefect you've ever seen. mcgonnagall has a soft spot for him and everyone knows it. snape dislikes him but respects him because he's fucking brilliant at potions. a lot of people like him and are into him but he doesn't know how to respond to them lol socially awkward king. plans parties with johnny yuta jaehyun and ten, is always roped into the dreamies schemes against his will. no one can fucking tell if him and haechan are on good terms cause they're at each other's throats all the time, but slobber all over each other like crazy when they get drunk

xiaojun: the most emotional ravenclaw. a halfblood and a prefect. he dated a girl for a long time and she broke his heart, moped about it in the prefect's bathroom for ages. lowkey believes she cheated on him with yuta but isn't sure, is extra weary around him though. says he's done with love but then simps over a new girl every two weeks smh. no one understands how he's such good friends with hendery and yangyang, like the combination of the two of them is a recipe for disaster. whenever they rope him into their bullshit, he always manages to drop their asses in the perfect time and doesn't get caught. many portaits are jealous of him 'cause he has better bone structure then them lol

hendery: the best definition of a gryffindoor. comes from a rich pureblood family, is a beater on the quidditch team. he's the life of the party, man. out of all the students he hates, he is the one snape hates the MOST and he's so proud of that. a really fast runner so he never ends up in detention 'cause it's just too hard to catch him. buddies with the ghosts and hagrid. tries really hard to impress girls, it only works half of the time when he's not being too intense

yangyang: also a gryffindoor pureblood, tried out for the chaser position but didn't make it, is still bitter about it. has a really fucked up owl that always messes up his letters. constantly in detention, like he's cleaned that entire castle by himself 43 times already. also in ten's dance club, also really good at dueling when he actually tries. really into muggle culture, explores it in his free time and shows everyone cool, new music he found all the time. gives kun daily headaches cause he's way too energetic in the morning

shotaro: imma say he's a hufflepuff but don't quote me on that cause i don't know him that well. he seems like he'd have lots of friends though and would be in ten's dance club

sungchan: don't know him well either so i'll just say gryffindoor??

renjun: i'm torn between ravenclaw and slytherin, gonna go with slytherin for him. he's a halfblood and a prefect, also uses his title to threaten haechan. loves defence against the dark arts anď herbology, might become a healer someday. gets tricked by the moving staircases all the fucking time, ends up at madam pomfrey's way more than he likes to admit. likes the slytherin aesthetic but can't stand the evil stereotypes. most people think him and chenle are brothers, wants to strangle chenle when he plays into it. once told the bloody baron to fuck off, no one dares get on his bad side since that day

jeno: pureblood hufflepuff prefect and a chaser. he's the cute, athletic guy everyone has a crush on. is on snape's good side 'cause he likes cleaning up his brewing station after finishing the task the lession is about. is the best flyer in the entire school and has the best chance of getting scouted in the future, everyone knows it but if you mention it to him he blushes like crazy. i feel like he's been in many fwb situations but they all ended well because he's a gentleman

haechan: a slytherin through and through. halfblood and seeker on the quidditch team. thought he was gonna be prefect and was hella pissed he wasn't chosen, i mean hello you're a snake who would want to give a snake authority goddamn it. also always complains during quidditch matches, calls everything a foul just 'cause he wants to win. puts up this persona of the mischevious slytherin boy but it falls flat on it's ass because he's peeves's favourite target

jaemin: a muggleborn hufflepuff, because of that reason he's sworn to himself he'll take care of jisung like a mother. a chaser on the quidditch team. such a sweetheart my gosh, like that dude is always so happy, unless he hasn't drunk his 6 cups of coffee. speaking of, mcgonnagall and pomfrey worry for his health like crazy but won't admit it. excells at care for magical creatures and charms, horrible at ancient runes like he didn't think there'd be so much math involved. girls are also crazy into him but he's such an introvert, the thought of someone wanting to be around him so much scares him. still flirts with everything that breathes lol

chenle: a slytherin and a pureblood, from one of those rich old families. because of that people expect him to be a lil brat, turns out to be the coolest guy you'll ever meet. he's friends with everyone regardless of house, a chaser on the quidditch team, known as the one who scores the most points in a game. he's great at defence against the dark arts and transfiguration, is thinking about becoming an auror 'cause that dude fears nothing i'm telling you. was made a prefect instead of haechan, rubs it in his face like crazy, but ultimately just let's people get away with stupid shit like "haha nice one, respect". memorized all the secret passageways of the castle in his head, helps johnny, mark, ten and jaehyun with their parties. pisses off filch like no other, was in detention all the time with yangyang until they realised how terrible it is when the two of them are in close contact lol so he gets let off the hook all the time. also fucking flirts with everything that breathes, the biggest fucking tease like you never know what he means smh

jisung: jaemin's muggleborn hufflepuff son, though most people are surprised he isn't in gryffindoor 'cause god the reckless shit that boy pulls... always late to breakfast with his uniforn all messy. people think he's very innocent but like his bestfriend is chenle, so how pure could he be. he's a seeker on the quidditch team, goes extra hard during hufflepuff-slytherin matches 'cause he wants to knock haechan off his high horse. blushes like crazy whenever he sees a cute girl which only gives chenle more reason to tease him 'cause he's a lil bitch like that. is the star of ten's dance club but has tripped and fallen down multiple flights of stairs, this kid's a walking paradox

to conclude:

gryffindoor: johnny, kun, jaehyun, jungwoo, mark, hendery, yangyang, sungchan

hufflepuff: taeil, taeyong, lucas, jeno, jaemin, shotaro, jisung

ravenclaw: doyoung, ten, xiaojun

slytherin: yuta, winwin, renjun, haechan, chenle

[littleoldrachel]

"how much did you drink?"

for the utterly wonderful @gumnut-logic who asked for how much did you drink? with virgil and scott from this prompt list. tysm my lovely 💚💚💚💚 this ran away from me a bit and i am Not Sure but i hope you still enjoy!

[if you wanna prompt me, hmu! but beware i am slooooow]

Scott slinks through the sliding doors, relishing the cooling sweat on his skin as the sky begins its raspberry ripple across the tropical island. His dawn runs are the only time he gets to really be - he loves his family with everything he has and more, but that half hour with just the consistent crunch of earth beneath his feet is his own perfect sanctuary.

And goodness knows he needs it after the past couple of days.

A flash of Alan’s terrified face as the grapple line gave way and he’d plunged -

Scott screws up his face, crumpling the image like one of Virgil’s discarded “rubbish” (read: brilliant, if rough around the edges) sketches.

Speaking of which, it’s time for Scott to do the rounds and check in on his sleeping brothers.

There’s Alan, sprawled haphazardly across the floor of his bedroom - the only sign of his near-death encounter in the careful bandaging around his forearm (“I can too still game like this, Scott, I’m not balancing the controller on my wrists??”). Gordon too, is starfished on his duvet, but beginning to stir as fractured sunlight dances across his room.

Virgil, however - most unusually - is not burritoed in blankets, which sets Scott’s choir of alarm bells ringing. He hesitates, then sighs, patching through to Thunderbird Five even as he makes his way to Virgil’s studio (also empty).

“John?” he asks quietly, because John works on an unpredictable sleep schedule that gives Scott more stress than he cares to admit, but he would like John to be sleeping right now.

“John is sleeping, Commander. May I be of service?” EOS’ voice is more than a little grating in comparison to the bird song that floats through Virgil’s open windows. Scott resists the urge to grit his teeth - he is trying, okay?

“EOS. Hi.” He rubs his chin, eyes catching on the top sketch of Virgil’s messy pile: Thunderbird One streaking across a stormy sky mid-lightning strike. “Can you tell me where Virgil is?”

“Virgil is in the hangars, where he has been for the last thirteen and a half hours,” EOS says primly.

Scott’s head snaps up, even though there’s nobody there to stare at. “What? Did he fall asleep down there?”

“No, Commander, he is very much awake.” There’s something in her tone that riles him up, a pre-rehearsed nature to it, but he deliberately sets it aside for Future Scott. He’s given a curt thanks to EOS before he’s even registered that he’s striding down to the hangars, concern driving him with a speed usually reserved for rescues.

He hears Virgil before he sees him, a loud swear and a clatter of tools as he’s rounding the corner into the workshop.

Virgil is kneeling over a workbench, picking glumly through the jumble of parts skidding across the surface. Dark brows knitted tight, skin pale beneath fluorescent white lights, a graveyard of abandoned mechanisms, drained mugs, and scraps of graph paper all around him.

"Virgil."

It comes out a little sharper than intended, slicing through the silent workshop and causing Virgil to start violently.

"Scott! What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you the same thing?"

"I'm…" Virgil gestures vaguely at the chaotic work surface. "Fixing."

"Have you had any sleep?

Virgil frowns. "I'm fine, it's not that late yet."

Scott stares, concern steadily rising. Virgil is known for losing track of time when absorbed in a task, but only usually with his art, and only for this period of time when he's upset, working something through, or...

Only then does Scott take in the way Virgil's hands tremble around the pieces of metal in his fingers, the jittering beat of his leg like helicopter wings, and slight dampness of the unstyled waves of hair across his forehead. He blinks at Scott, squinting a little in that way that Scott knows means a killer headache is brewing.

Methodically, the Commander of International Rescue surveys the room, searching for the source of the issue. His eyes land on the culprit: a coffee-stained jug, completely drained save the dregs of coffee grounds plastering the sides of the container.

It’s a big jug.

Scott swears.

“Virg. How much did you drink?”

Virgil’s eyes dart all over, not resting for a second on Scott’s face. “I - I don’t know. I just had some whenever I got tired and now I’m-” He wrings his hands, sending metal parts spilling from his palms.

“But why? What the hell were you thinking?” Scott’s tone is chiding, too harsh, and he makes a deliberate effort to reign in the reprimand that’s rearing up inside him.

“I just... “ Virgil swallows, meeting his eyes for a moment, looking away at the disappointment there. “I just needed to understand what happened to the grapple lines. To make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Oh, Virg.

Scott softens, Commander melting back into Protective Big Brother because he gets it. God knows he gets it. He steps towards Virgil, wraps a hand around his elbow, feels it shake beneath his touch.

But why like this, Virgil?

“For thirteen hours?”

Virgil blinks and the genuine surprise in his eyes is enough that Scott accepts that this wasn’t a deliberate act of self-destruction and that loosens the anxious knot in his chest a little.

“I didn’t mean -”

“I know.”

Virgil ducks. “I just needed to find out -”

“I know.”

Virgil bites his lip, and Scott knows the image of their littlest brother’s panicked face is stuck on repeat in his mind. Scott closes his eyes, allows the video to roll in his own head, and the pain that rips through his chest has him tugging Virgil into his arms for a hug. Big as he is, Virgil is never one to say no to a hug, and he folds himself into Scott’s chest with a sigh. Scott can still feel the tension thrumming through Virgil’s body, and he instinctively tightens his grip.

Trust Virgil to hurt himself with his bean-juice addiction. Frankly, they’re lucky this hasn’t happened before with the amount of the stuff he pours into his body.

“I know I’m not having a heart attack, but -”

“You know I love it when you begin a sentence like that -”

Virgil tries to laugh but it comes out a little shaky. "Shut it, you." He rests his head on Scott's shoulder. "My heart is going so fast it hurts. Feels like a goddamn panic attack."

“What the hell have you done to yourself?”

“Mild caffeine overdose,” Virgil’s voice comes out muffled. “Sorry.”

“Mild. Caffeine. Overdose.”

Virgil laughs again, a little surer this time and pulls back from the hug. “I’ll be okay. Just gonna feel horrible for a bit, I think.”

“You think. Let’s see if Grandma agrees.”

“No! Let her have her time away - this is - it’s stupid. I’m fine.”

Scott gives him a Look, but Virgil glowers right back.

Scott loves him, but Jesus, does he wish he could trust Virgil to be honest with him about his health.

“Don’t make me set you up in the infirmary. You know I’m not bluffing.”

The glare intensifies. “I’m fine, Scott.”

Scott resists the urge to roll his eyes with a truly Herculean effort. “I want to do a scan, just to be sure.” “Scott -”

He plays the trump card (regrets playing it at the look on Virgil’s face, but needs must). “I could have lost Allie too, Virg. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

Virgil sags. He taps his watch. “EOS?”

“Yes, Virgil?”

“Please can you pull up my vitals for my dear big brother to fret over?”

“Of course, Virgil. Though I don’t understand why you want Scott to fret, he seems grumpy en-”

“Thank you, EOS.”

A holograph flickers into view, and Scott scans them, relaxing slightly at the lack of danger. Virgil’s heart rate is too high, as expected, and he’s dehydrated and exhausted, but otherwise, he really does seem okay. Still, Scott knows how dangerous dehydration and exhaustion can be, and more to the point, so does Virgil.

“You’re a stubborn idiot, you know that, right?”

“I learned from the best.” Virgil’s smile is teasing, but he’s okay, and Scott releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, Scooter, whatever you say.” Scott glares. “Right. You’re grounded for at least a day -” To his credit, Virgil only looks a little crestfallen. “- And you’re going to rest.”

Scott can practically see the cogs turning in his brother’s mind as he seeks a loophole or way to escape, but for now, he’s going to ignore it. Another problem for Future Scott, poor guy …

“Let’s go. Up to the lounge, now.”

“I should clear up -”

“Nuh-uh. Lounge. Now.”

Virgil lets out a loud sigh, and with much griping about leaving the workshop messy for Brains, leads the way up to the lounge. Scott follows closely, eyeing how Virgil’s feet drag with exhaustion even as his fingers tap away with restless energy.

Scott deposits him on one of the couches, tosses a throw over him, and resists the urge to tuck him in, but only because -

“I’m not sick, Scott. I’m okay! This isn’t necessary,” Virgil calls after him. Scott returns seconds later, a glass full of water.

“Drink all of this. And then have these.” Scott drops two electrolyte tabs beside Virgil. “Now excuse me, but I’m going to consult a qualified medical opinion before I believe you.”

“I am a qualified medical opinion -”

“- Who hasn’t overdosed on caffeine this morning.”

Virgil scowls. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

*****

Scott returns with Gordon, whose concerned professionalism quickly morphs into a shit-eating grin when it becomes apparent that actually, Virgil - for all his brilliance and talent - is an idiot.

But he’s surprisingly gentle when he fetches Virgil another glass of water and suitably soothing as they take a calm stroll around the flatter paths of the island to help Virgil burn some restless energy. The waft of pancakes draws them back into the lounge where Scott has stacked up thick, fluffy pancakes that melt on their tongues and warm them inside out.

By now, Virgil is visibly less shaky, and Gordon’s concern has dissipated to the extent that he blatantly steals three pancakes off Virgil’s plate. To be fair, Virgil probably doesn’t need six pancakes, but still. It’s the principle of the matter.

Scott - bless his heart - has also queued up the latest series of the ocean documentary that Gordon and Virgil gush over, but that Scott himself finds mind-numbing. The three of them squash together on one sofa, chomping pancakes and squabbling over blankets as the sun rises on another beautiful day.

Alan strolls in, nose first and still half-asleep. “Pancakes?” he says hopefully.

He catches sight of Virgil and seems to shake himself awake immediately. “Virgil? What the hell are you doing up?”

“Language,” Scott says thickly, the effect lessened by the mouthful of pancake and chocolate spread inside it.

“What the heck,” Alan waves a dismissive hand. “It’s barely ten, Virg?”

“Tell him what you’ve gone and done,” Scott says, because damn straight is he going to hold onto this one the next time Virgil’s yelling at him for taking a stupid risk. Well, at least I can drink coffee without poisoning myself, Virgil can just hear it now. .

“I drank too much coffee,” Virgil tells the ceiling.

“Sorry, V,” Gordon says, his smile wicked. “Allie didn’t quite catch that.”

Virgil sighs. “I overdosed on caffeine,” he says loudly.

“That’s a thing?!” Alan splutters. And then he bursts out laughing and Virgil wants to glare because he’s exhausted and his head is throbbing and there’s an anxious wriggle in his chest that keeps poking at his limbs.

But he also thought for one terrible moment yesterday that he wouldn’t get to hear that laugh again. The relief is infectious.

It never takes much to set Gordon off, but cracking Scott is a true victory, because for a second, the lines around his eyes crinkle with something other than stress.

Alan sets himself up with pancakes (far too smug that he’s allowed the chocolate spread on his where Virgil was only allowed syrup), and plonks himself down on Virgil’s right, bandaged arm and all. Whilst Gordon and Alan quarrel over species of tropical fish, Scott looks over at Virgil, raising his eyebrows. Are you okay? it says.

Virgil smiles and nods.

Inevitably, Scott and Gordon are called away on a rescue, just as Alan has grown tired of the nature documentary and is demanding something more exciting. Virgil consents to the first movie Alan picks out, because he’s too busy watching Gordon fly his beloved ‘Bird away with an expert hand.

God, he’s so tired. His limbs are heavy and aching from the tension of holding them in place all night and his head pounds in beat with his too-fast heart..

He’s utterly exhausted. If only his mind could get the memo. Instead it careens between thought processes: the grapple lines, his failed calculations, the disaster zone he’s left the workshop in -

It doesn’t matter though.

Because Alan’s alive and that’s all that matters.

Alan, whose gentle hand snakes through Virgil’s hair in a tender, soothing way that plucks at the knot of anxiety in Virgil’s chest, whose ministrations are a blessed, momentary pain relief for his sore head.

*****

It’s dark when he wakes, though he doesn’t remember his overwrought brain finally giving into sleep. His limbs no longer feel like they’re spasming out of control and his head aches with a more manageable pain, but he’s still drained. On the floor next to him, Alan is snoring at the centre of a nest of blankets - at least two of which Virgil is sure were wrapped around himself before...

He raises his head to look for his water glass, and nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of his oldest brother standing in the shadows, watching. He’s still in his uniform, which suggests Thunderbird One just docked - presumably her engines through the open patio doors are what woke him.

“What the fuck, Scott?” he hisses.

“Sorry,” Scott says, though he doesn’t sound particularly apologetic. He moves into the light, and repositions Alan so that he can rescue one of the blankets for Virgil once more. “Go back to sleep.”

“Did the rescue go okay?” Virgil asks instead, relieved at Scott’s easy nod - and relatively clean, dry appearance.

“Gordon’s heading back now, all good. And no issues with grapples today, thank God.” Scott’s voice is low but Virgil still flinches from it.

“I’m going to find out what happened, Scott, I swear -”

“I know you will.” Scott’s voice is so firm, so strong that it momentarily steals Virgil’s breath how much faith Scott has in him. "I know you’ll figure it out, Virg. But you don’t have to do it on your own. You and Brains will work on it and find a solution, John’s going to identify the person responsible, and EOS will make sure they can never do it again. But it’ll be when you haven't overdosed on caffeine. Do you understand?”

It’s the kindest of reprimands. The same kind of pleading why won’t you just take care of yourself tone that Virgil finds himself using more and more on Scott these days, but with so much understanding and love, Virgil finds himself blinking back tears.

He can only nod and Scott steps back. “I’m going to go shower. Get some rest, Virgil.”

Scott turns to leave and Virgil forces himself to muster up his barely replenished energy reserves. He snags Scott’s sleeve, “Scott - thank you.”

Scott smiles a smile that’s just them, soft and trusting and concerned. “God knows you’ve looked after me through far worse hangovers than this. But don’t you dare do this again, Virg. I mean it. Don’t make me confiscate all the coffee on the island, because you know I’ll do it if I have to.”

“I know you will.”

Scott runs a hand through Virgil’s messy waves fondly, letting his hand rest at the nape of his neck where the headache pain is regrouping. “Sleep, Virg.”

And he does.

[365days365movies]

January 24, 2021: Speed Racer (Epilogue)

When it came out, Speed Racer wasn’t exactly criticially acclaimed. The Rotten Tomatoes summary for the critical response is as such:

Overloaded with headache-inducing special effects, Speed Racer finds the Wachowskis focused on visual thrills at the expense of a coherent storyline.

And, I mean:

Part of that criticism is understandable, let’s be honest. But how about the rest of it? Well...

Recap

Cast and Acting

I’ll be honest, Emile Hirsch is only OK as Speed Racer. I mean, he certainly isn’t bad, but I also can’t call him an acting dynamo in this one. This probably has to do with the writing and the direction, but he was still just fine; not much more than that. Christina Ricci, John Goodman, Susan Sarandon and Matthew Fox, on the other hand, all definitely take this very seriously, and pour some serious acting chops into their roles. Even Goodman, who as one point has to seriously say the word “non-ja” - yes, really - really gives it some fatherly energy that the role demands. Color me impressed! Roger Allam, too, deserves praise for REALLY pouring on that corporate supervillain energy, like he came right out of comic books. Like I said in the recap, he really channels Tim Curry-caliber acting here, and as over-the-top as that is, it’s fun to watch! Every other actor basically plays their roles as if they’re in a live-action cartoon. Which, to be fair, they are. So, for all of that, we’re going with a 7/10. Oh, and  Paulie Litt as Spritle? That kid is goddamn annoying...which is the point. So, yeah, pretty great job to him, I guess.

Plot and Writing

Plot’s about as typical as you can get for this kind of movie. Honestly, if you were to ask me to draft a Speed Racer film script, it’d probably exactly this movie. And...yeah, that’s entirely fine, I don’t really see any issues with it. Writing is silly at times, and rarely ever profound, but again: you kind of get what you pay for. For what they were given to work with, the Wachowskis (yes, they also wrote this bad boy) did fine. 6/10?

Directing and Action

...8/10. I-I can’t believe it, either. Yeah, um, the racing scenes, the shots, all of it? It’s stellar. This might be a living cartoon, but GODDAMN do they lean into that well. Nothing else to say here, the Wachowskis were clearly the right choice here. My only complaint is that I wish this movie was ENTIRELY in CGI, to be honest. I think the movie actually suffers from being in live-action at all. THat’s why this score isn’t perfect.

Production and Art Design

This one, however, is an unabashed 10/10. Because from the cars to the raceways, and even to the CGI stuff, this film looks AMAZING. IF, that is, you know how to look at it. Gotta say, after getting used to the technicolor bombast of this movie, those visuals got much less distracting, and I was able to actually focus on them. 

Music and Editing

This is a soundtrack I would buy. My biggest complaint with some of these adapted cartoon properties is the lack of iconic music you can find in them (LOOKIN’ AT YOU, BAYFORMERS), and the score absolutely uses the original song to its advantage, while also updating it to a satisfying instrumental. Nice one...MICHAEL GIACCHINO??? The Avengers and The Incredibles composer? THAT MICHAEL GIACCHINO??? No wonder I love the music here!

How about editing? Well...editing leaves something to be desired, sorry to say. Some of the distracting way these sequences are constructed is...less than stellar. Still, Zack Staenberg and Roger Barton did very well with the racing sequences, so it’s got some high highs, alongside its dismal lows. In other words, 7/10 overall here.

76%, and that sounds about right to me!

Is this my favorite racing movie or car movie? No, Mad Max Fury Road still has it beat there. Is this a movie I would watch again? Weirdly...yeah, yeah 100%, and with other people. This isn’t the best movie in the world, obviously, but I do agree that it’s underrated. It’s crazy, its bombastic (yes, I do love that word), it’s nonsensically seizure-inducing...and it’s somehow intriguing at the same time. Would watch again.

That’s it for cars! And we’re in the last week of Action January! Wow, that’s crazy. Can’t believe I’ve kept this up for this long, to be honest. So, how to send off this month? I already know the ending, but how to start? Well...I guess there’s one major subgenre I haven’t touched: disaster.

January 24, 2021: The Poseidon Adventure (1972)

[revasserium]

Prompt A, #28 with Tsukishima please 🥺

hp!! reqs currently: closed 

28. the cliche of the morning after (take two)tsukki ; 1,043 words

when he wakes up the second time, he knows he can’t just write it off as a mistake again. fool me once, shame on you -- fool me twice... he heaves a sigh, wincing at the light that filters (too fucking bright goddamn) through his windows. 

a body shifts next to him, a smaller body, a softer body. 

he bites back a groan. 

well. shit. 

he sinks back into the sheets and tries to remember how it all came about. right, some college party that kuroo-san had dragged him to. too much beer, a really intense game of stack cup (curse his latent competitive nature coming out at inopportune moments), you in that sundress (god, it should be illegal, that sundress, i mean who’s fucking asshole idea was it to invent spaghetti straps?) -- it wasn’t fair. 

it’s not the first time the pair of you had ended up like this, though the first time had also been under similar circumstances (how are there always so many parties to go to? tsukki didn’t fancy himself a particularly sociable person, and yet somehow -- he figures it’s kuroo-san’s fault. it’s always kuroo-san’s fault), with the pair of you both a little drunk, both a little tired, and a whole lot done with this stupid party and all these stupid people, and do you wanna go somewhere? like not... here? 

you’d said yes. 

that morning after, he’d woken up to a splitting headache and a note. you had morning lecture but you told him to text you. it had taken him almost a week before he did. but he did. and it had been a brief series of back and forths in which he’d quickly realized that text is not his medium (he’s not really sure what is) and that you’re probably over him by now. 

this time, you don’t have morning lecture, so it seems as you flip over, your face pressing into his chest in a way that makes him wonder briefly if this is why people want to get drunk in the first place. just for this one moment, where it’s just you and him and there aren’t words, not yet anyway, nothing to ruin the moment. 

you open your eyes and he looks down. 

you smile, sleepy and slow and content. 

he lets out a long breath. 

shit. 

“i’m gonna --” he clears his throat, his voice cracking in a way that makes his cheeks flush, he tries again, “i’m gonna take a shower.” 

you nod, “mkay.” 

he tries not to move too fast, gingerly picking his way across his room, the floor strewn with discarded articles of clothing, clearly from the night before. he eyes the pair of boxers hanging off the edge of his chair before rummaging around his drawers for a new pair. 

he wonders if you’ll still be there when he gets out. 

you are. 

“i borrowed a shirt, hope you don’t mind.” 

tsukishima blinks, his eyes catching on the way his shirt (his shirt!!!) hangs from your shoulder, obviously too large, but oddly fitting. he tries to tame the pleased purr threatening to roll from his chest at the picture. 

“no, it’s fine.” 

you smile as he goes about picking up the clothes and tossing them into the laundry basket. you watch him with your head lilted to one side, as if studying a subject for an art project. he tries not to think about it too hard. 

“do you want... water or something?” 

you nod, and he gets you a cup of water. 

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and he tries not to fixate on the way your thighs seem even milkier beneath the hem of his large shirt. they’d been soft -- that much he remembers. most of you is soft, sweet -- he swallows. 

“do you regret it?” 

“huh?” he whips around so fast he almost cricks his neck. 

he stares at you, sitting on his bed, the half-finished glass of water between your hands, resting over your knees. your expression is unreadable, and as hungover as he feels, he’s already speeding through all the possible answers he could give and measuring the fallout. 

finally, he settles on the truth. 

“no.” and then, a moment later, “do you?” 

you shake your head, bringing the glass back up to your lips. 

he nods, though he’s not sure why he does. 

he watches as you glance down at your phone for a second. 

“i’ve got class later.” 

“okay.” he licks his lips. how exactly does one person tell another person that they’d like to see them in a non-party setting after having drunk sex with them twice? 

“text me,” she says, waving her phone with a slight smirk. 

“yeah -- sure.” 

“really?” 

tsukishima blinks, “yeah, why wouldn’t i?” 

she shrugs, “you weren’t very good at it last time.” 

“i -- i’m not very good at texting in general.” 

she taps her phone to her lips. 

“are you better at calling” 

tsukishima considers, licking at his lips before he nods, slowly, almost hesitantly. is he better at phone calls? maybe? when’s the last time he called someone -- but people do tell him he’s better in person. and calling is a lot closer than texting, right? 

“then, call me.” 

“sure.” 

“unless...” she chews on her own lips and tsukishima jolts with a sudden realization. she wants to see him again. no shit -- otherwise she would’ve left. idiot. idiot! 

“i’m free later on today -- if you are. after your class, i mean.” 

the way she smiles makes tsukishima’s stomach tumble, though he briefly wonders if that isn’t just his stomach being upset with him for the night before. 

“cool. call me.” 

you hop to your feet, picking up your sundress before heading to the bathroom to change. 

tsukishima watched you go with a strange, weightless sensation in his chest. he snaps out of it the moment after the bathroom door closes. he glances down at his own phone to see several texts from kuroo-san. 

he allows himself a small grin. he’d have to remember to text kuroo-san back later -- say thank you, maybe. for inviting him to all those parties. 

[lihikainanea]

tiger napping at bill's house and she wakes up having started her period and shes so embarrassed and her cramps are terrible because she hasn't taken any pain meds but bill is so calm and understanding and helps clean her up, giving her a hot water bottle and does her tampon for her (bc you have made me obsessed with this idea 🥺)

Oh god this kink it is so strong and I am still SO ASHAMED.

Just a reminder that this is a JUDGMENT FREE ZONE. We are all safe here.

Look man, I don’t know if any of my lady friends out there have ever had the pleasure of starting a birth control pill. Whether it’s a start-from-scratch situation, or a change up situation where you were on one before but now you want to try a new one–but let me tell you, in my experience, it is absolute HELL ON EARTH. Get ready to gain 15lbs. Get ready to gain another 15lbs in just your bra, because your tatas will get huge. Get ready to be an emotional basket case. A total hormonal tornado. A HORMONADO, IF YOU WILL. But the most fun of all, is get ready to start your period literally any time, anywhere, completely unexpected for like, 6 months. Last year I had to switch to a pill with less estrogen and Jesus Christ, it was awful. I was either on my period for like 3 months straight at a time or it would just start RANDOMLY and it was a fucking cascade–and let’s keep in mind, too, that I am routinely on flights that last like, 16 hours. And that I train in martial arts, and our uniforms are white. Spontaneous crimson waves were literally my biggest fucking fear all of last year.

So like, look. Maybe Bill and tiger had a conversation one day–both of them always used condoms with previous partners because maybe tiger never really had a steady partner so condoms were a MUST, and maybe Bill always used them with his partners because he just felt a little better having double protection or maybe his partner insisted on it, who knows. Either way, once they start boinking on the regular, maybe they talk about it. Except they talk about it in true Bill and tiger fashion, which means one day over breakfast tiger just blurts out that she’s going to start taking an anti-baby pill that week so he doesn’t have to keep wrappin’ it before he’s tappin’ it and Bill just like, chokes on his orange juice. And once it’s out of his nostrils, once she’s gone back to reading the comics in the paper, he clears his throat and gently squeezes her feet–which are, of course, in his lap.

“Tiger are you sure?” he asks, “Aren’t they kind of…hard on your body?”

“I want to,” she shrugs, “For a lot of reasons.”

“If I’m the main reason, kid, I’m fine however we decide to…do it,” he stammers. And he’s turning a little pink and it’s adorable, “I don’t mind uh…I don’t mind wearing condoms.”

She smiles softly at him.

“I know,” she says, “And thank you. But it would be nice to also be more…regular. There’s a bunch of reasons, Bill. And I just want to.”

“Okay,” he returns her soft smile, “If you’re sure.”

And like, part of me wants to believe that he accompanies tiger to the doctor because she’s terrified of doctors. And while he obviously doesn’t go into the exam room with her, this mental image of Bill all folded in two in a tiny plastic chair, surrounded by pregnant ladies and posters of uteruses and these physical reconstructions of vaginas and vulvas just gets me cackling. He’s so uncomfortable.

ALRIGHT SO. Here we are. So tiger gets the pill, and she starts the pill. And it is hell on Earth. She’s bloated. Her tatas are sore. Literally nothing fits anymore–including her bras, which Bill needs to bite his fist and leave the room every time she changes and he just sees her swollen breasts spilling over the top of her bra. He wants to nose dive into her chest, but he knows she’s uncomfortable and feeling anything less than sexy.

But more than that her cycle is just…havoc. It is unpredictable. It happens any time, anywhere. He’s had to take her home smack in the middle of a dinner party at a nice restaurant when she’s emerged from the bathroom with a panicked look in her eye. He’s had to take his sweater off and wrap it around her waist, bring her to his car as she just cries because she’s mortified. And Bill feels just a tad responsible and a tad guilty, because he still thinks she’s doing this in large part for him. And he really, really feels for her because not only is her cycle unpredictable, but it’s also just a lot more painful than it usually is–which was already a lot. She’s doubled over in pain on the couch, she has trouble eating, she doesn’t want to move, she always gets a migraine. It’s awful for the poor thing.

And Bill just…god, Good Dude Bill. He makes it impossible to be embarrassed around, even when tiger is so fucking mortified. Because it’s inevitable–sometimes it starts in her sleep, and Bill has to gently shake her awake. And she just cries, because she’s in pain but she’s also just so embarrassed but all Bill tries to do is soothe her, comfort her, coax her into a hot shower while he changes the sheets and gets another hot water bottle ready for her. He’ll cuddle her on the couch when she just can’t move from it, wrapping around her and rubbing her stomach gently. And he really just does his best to try and take care of her–makes her lots of hot tea. Makes sure she eats as much as she feels up to eating. Helps her manage the pain a bit with some meds, and when it gets real bad, he runs the best bubble baths and he’ll just sit there in it with her for hours.

And I mean like, look. I don’t know how it happens. But I want it to happen, and I am now at the point where I’ll just FIGHT ANYONE WHO DARES JUDGE ME ABOUT IT. 

But maybe her body is kind of stabilizing a bit after a few months, so they think they’re in the clear. But she’s been complaining of a nagging backache for most of the day, a bit of a headache, and she seems rather oblivious that those are some signs she’s about to get her period and Bill is just looking at her with a quirked brow wondering how the hell someone could be so oblivious about their own body. In any case, he’s a little more aware than she is–but he knows better than to say anything.

But sure enough that night as they’re sleeping, he’s curled around her. And I kind of low key love this idea of a little alarm bell that goes off in his brain sometimes that he needs to check on Little Human. So he wakes up, and sure enough–he feels it. That wetness, all over the front of his boxers. He sighs, raises up a little to check on her–but she’s knocked out cold still, which is probably a good sign. It means she’s not in pain. 

He eases away from her slowly, goes to get a washcloth from the bathroom and some of her supplies. And when he crawls back to bed, he eases her onto her back and starts to pull her panties off. She stirs a little.

“It’s okay,” he whispers to her, and she settles a bit. He pulls her panties slowly down her legs and off, reaching to move her thighs a little further apart. She stirs again, shifts a little and grumbles. He presses a light kiss on her lips.

“What’re you doing?” she mumbles, and it’s sleepy and she’s not even half awake.

“Cleaning you up,” he says, “Stay still.”

And like, here’s the thing. Tiger is still in that floaty state, right? And god I hope none of you have ever had this happen to you, but ever fall asleep first at a slumber party, and then everyone pulls pranks on you? Because I have. I deadass fell asleep once and woke up in the MIDDLE of my friends writing on my face with a Sharpie, and I asked them what they were doing. And they told me they were writing on my face. And I was in that in-between stage, so I legit just said “awesome have fun” and went back to sleep.

Tiger’s halfway between sleep and rational consciousness, and she’s asking questions but not really registering the answers or at the very least, not getting panicked about them. Which is good.

“Why?” she asks, but she doesn’t move and her eyes are still closed. Bill hesitates, runs his hands softly over her stomach and she purrs a little.

“You got your period, kid,” he decides on honesty. And her brows furrow a little at that, and she makes as if she’s going to sit up.

“Oh,” she says, “Oh god.”

And she’s starting to wake up fully, but if he can just keep her relaxed enough, it’ll all be fine. He pushes down on her stomach a little harder, kisses her softly again.

“Relax, tiger. I’ve got you,” he says, “Go back to sleep.”

And he waits until she settles again, before grabbing the warm washcloth and cleaning her up. When he’s done he tosses it into the laundry bin before he grabs the tampon–which he unwrapped in the bathroom, so it wouldn’t make any noise because Bill’s a smart dude–and he puts a soothing hand on her stomach, scratching lightly as he just gently put it in for her. He tosses the rest into the trash, pulling the blankets back up and curling around her. And tiger is registering what’s happening, but she’s so goddamn tired and she’s just so comfy and feeling so fucking safe and well taken care of with him that she just lets it happen. Because it’s the middle of the fucking night, but he’s got those big warm hands running all over her and he’s cooing softly at her and just telling her that he’ll take care of her and she thinks that yes, yes that sounds perfect.

And you know what? You’d be a goddamn fool if you don’t think for a second that Bill is also humming with those good caretaker vibes, helping her, giving her what she needs, taking care of her. He tucks her into his chest and he’s feeling mighty good about himself, too.

But like, look, the next day? When tiger realizes exactly what happened? Oh god. She’s mortified. And Bill knows, because she tries to avoid him from the minute she wakes up.  She’s skittish, nervous, she leaves the room as soon as he comes in and it doesn’t take long for him to corner her and get all up in her space.

“Tiger,” he says as he bends to catch her gaze. She closes her eyes immediately. “Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“You know what,” he accuses.

“Bill, who does that?” she snaps and her cheeks are turning bright red, “God it’s just so…so….so weird and gross.”

“Me, I do that,” he tells her as he tilts her chin up, “And it’s not weird or gross, so shut up.”

“Bill, you literally put a–”

“I know what I did,” he interrupts, “And it wasn’t the first time I’ve done it. It won’t be the last, either. I told you kid, one of my ex’s was really into that sort of thing.”

Tiger finally meets his gaze as her features contort into a look of disgust, her lip curled. Bill rolls his eyes.

“Tiger, look. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable,” he says earnestly, but Bill knows. He knows she’s embarrassed, but he also knows that she didn’t stop him last night.

“But if it didn’t…” he continues, and he bends to take her face in his hands as his eyes sweep over her, “If it didn’t, then that’s also not something you should be embarrassed about, either.”

Tiger is turning progressively more purple. And she reaches up and fiddles awkwardly with the neckline of his shirt.

“It’s weird,” she mutters. And she sounds an awful lot like she’s trying to convince herself. Bill waits, lets the silence hang until she meets his eyes–which are nothing but kind, honest, not an ounce of judgment anywhere.

“Did you like it?” he smiles warmly at her. She huffs, tries to take a step back but he still has her face in his hands. He kisses her softly, reassuringly, but he doesn’t let her get away.

“Did you?” he asks again.

“Bill,” she whines, but he looks at her expectantly, “I didn’t….I didn’t hate it. Alright? I didn’t hate it.”

He still has the same lopsided, soft grin on his face.

“I….like it when you take care of me,” she admits. She’s rewarded with another soft kiss.

“And I like taking care of you,” he says. He wraps his arms around her, squeezing her tight to his chest. She sighs.

“Want lunch?” she asks, both because she’s desperate to diffuse an awkward situation and desperate to change the subject.

“Sure,” he chuckles, and he breaks away from her. 

“Then get out of my kitchen, it’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she says. He winks as he turns to walk away but before leaving completely, he turns back to her.

“Oh, and tiger?” he says, and she meets his gaze, “When it comes to you? Nothing is ever off the table. I don’t care how weird you think it is–I’m down. Remember that, kid.”

[ludi-ling]

Crazy Eights

Well, here it is, a little treat for my followers - the first chapter of Crazy 8′s, the sequel to 52 Pickup. I’m sharing since it’s Day 7 (AU) of Rogue/Gambit Week 2020. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish this story, even though I got a fair way through it, since I wrote myself into a corner, and I’m not sure I like it very much. But I hope you like it anyway. Enjoy!

Crazy Eights

Chapter 1

               Thieving 101.

               Simplest rule in the book.

               Don’t get caught.

               I can hear pere’s voice in my head, clear as day, literally beatin’ the words into all of us, his snotty-nosed, grass-stain-scuffed li’l Fagin’s gang.

               Don’t. Get. Caught.

               And then his face, leaning in towards mine, grinning, saying:

               Unless, o’ course, you have a reason t’get caught.

               Yeah, that was mon pere, full of good, subtle ideas. He’d usually direct them at me cos he knew I was like the worst kind of sponge. I’d be soakin’ all that shit up, swimmin’ in it like a gator swims in swamp water.  As a kid, I’d always figured he was just picking on me. As an adult, I realise all he was doing was laying down challenges, cos he knew this punk-ass kid would rise to the bait every time, pushing every damn boundary he could along the way.

               You got potential, boy. But you got no discipline. Always halfway t’ bein’ in a rage, t’ ventin’ it out on some poor trash. You play de con, kid, you live de con. No heart-on-your-sleeve shit.  Dat stays inside. Cos y’know what? Folks can read dat crap a mile away.

               “C’mon, pretty boy,” the man to my right grunts, as the alarms I’ve set off still scream all around us. “Getcha arse in gear. The boss don’t take kindly to waitin’.”

               He prods me in the back with the barrel of his gun, a little too sharply than is strictly necessary; but I get it, he has a job to do, and actin’ mean is part of it.

               “Yeah, well, that’s what bosses are like, mon ami,” I answer with a smirk. “Never got time for nothin’. Mebbe you should think about goin’ freelance, neh?  It has its advantages.  No calls at unsociable hours… Don’t gotta do all the dirty work y’self… Get t’ have a couple of pretty femmes hangin’ on your every word… Still. I reckon mebbe you two ain’t smart ’nuff yet t’ graduate from the ol’ ‘Crime Boss 101’ course, am I right?”

               “Hey!” The guy to my left gives me a crack on the back of the head with what I assume is also the barrel of a gun. “Shut the fuck up!”

               See? Boring, predictable, run-of-the-mill flunkies. These couyons ain’t never gon’ make it past mid-tier bodyguard material.

               And those alarms are still screaming.  Ain’t some asshole gon’ shut it off already?  It’s givin’ me a headache.

               Whatever. I do as I’m told and shut the fuck up. Mostly because I’m busy scanning the décor of this corridor we appear to be walking down.  The walls are lined with paintings, a mess of eras and styles that could tell anyone with an ounce of taste that whoever’s collecting this shit has none.  Taste, that is.  All it tells me is that this guy has cash, and he don’t mind throwin’ it ’round.  We walk past a Cezanne, and I grimace.

               Hang on in there, li’l guy, I say to myself as we sweep right by it. One o’these days I’m gonna free you.  Soon.

               Cos let’s face it.

               You think I’m gonna leave a Cezanne to rot in Cain Marko’s fuckin’ playboy mansion when it could be on my wall?

               I think not.

               We get to the end of the corridor and, thankfully, as soon as we do, someone finally finds the off switch to the alarms. My lovely escorts throw open the burnished oak doors that I can only assume lead to Marko’s private hidey-hole; and before I have a chance to admire the woodwork, I’m being pushed inside in yet another unnecessary show of who’s boss.  I stumble a little over the threshold, and there he is.  Cain Marko, kingpin of London town.  A big, ugly, concrete slab of a man with a mat of red hair and a jaw like a foot.  He’s sitting on a burgundy-red velvet sofa that looks to be late Victorian.  Possibly a Chippendale? Something to research later.  True to form, he has a girl on each knee.

               Crimes bosses.  I toldja so.  Predictably borin’.  Boringly predictable.

               “Well, well,” Marko greets me with a menacing grimace and a Cockney rasp. “Robert Lord.  Your reputation precedes you.  Finally, we get to meet face ta face.”

               It’s at that point that Jake decides to kick in, a harassed voice in my earpiece, hissing: “Remy? Remy, where the fuck are you? Is everything okay?”

               I jerk my head to one side and Jake’s panicked questioning cuts out.

               “Yeah,” I address the man on the sofa. “Coulda been under better circumstances, though. Don’t much care for bein’ kicked around and chained up.” I clink the restraints at my wrists and ankles meaningfully. “Unless, o’ course, it’s consensual and there’s a woman involved.”

               An ugly grin crosses Marko’s face.  He shifts a little and pats each girl on the ass; they get the message and get to their feet, tottering out on stilettos that take a certain art to walk in – neither of them have it.

               “Well,” Marko says with mock disappointment as he, too, gets to his feet. “If ya wanted to meet under better circumstances, you coulda made a less shitty attempt to rob me, Mr. Lord.  I’d heard you were supposed to be some thief extraordinaire, but you ask me? You, breakin’ into my safe? That was pretty fuckin’ amateurish.”

               “Hey,” I banter back good-naturedly as I watch him walk over to the bar and pour himself a drink. “I got through most of your li’l traps jes’ fine, mon ami.  You wanna talk amateurish, let’s talk ‘bout your alarms. They’re more fuckin’ painful than Tante Mattie boxin’ me onna ears.  And it takes too long to shut ‘em off.  Either that, or your flunkies are too stupid to figure out how.”

               Marko, who’d looked half-amused up to this point, lets his mouth drop into a disdainful sneer.

               “Y’know somethin’, yank?” he growls at me, turning back from the bar. “You talk too fuckin’ much.”

               I raise a wounded eyebrow at him.

               “Yank? Hey, now you’re just insultin’ me.”

               “Oh really?” He laughs; and I take back the comment about his alarm system. This is worse. “Mr. Lord, insults are gonna be the least of your problems tonight. No one steals from Cain Marko and gets to just walk out again. You picked the wrong house to rob, mate.  This is one job you ain’t walkin’ out of.”

               He lifts his chin slightly and calls out:

               “Klein?!”

               There’s no answer, and he gives an irate little pause, looks over his shoulder and says again:

               “Klein?! Where the fuck are you?”

               “I’m here,” a woman’s voice replies from a darkened corner, her presence so unexpected it even causes me to jump.

               “Fuck me, woman,” Marko rasps at her. “How long you been standin’ there?”

               The woman says nothing, simply stepping out from her corner.  I realise there’s a door there.  It’s impossible to say whether she’d just walked through, or whether she’d been there all along.  Marko ain’t big on lighting.  Which is a shame, ‘cos Klein is a woman to be looked at.  Mile long legs and a figure to get all wrapped up in.  Brunette hair scraped back into a bun that begs to be loosened. A glance like wildfire.

               “Sorry,” she says with a small twist of humour, all delivered in a perfectly delicious and proper English accent.  I feel some sorta expression begin to form on my face; an appreciative little smile begins to shift round my lips.

               Forget pretty girls tottering around in sexy stilettos they can’t walk in.  This is a woman.

               She glances over at me, then back at her boss with an expectant expression.

               “This shit thief stole me old lady’s engagement ring.” He takes a cellphone out his back pocket and stares at it. “Lesse how fast you can find it for me.”

               Klein don’t waste time mincing words.  Unlike the two couyons behind me, she’s calm, quiet, efficient.  She marches on up with a roll of the hips that’s entirely unconscious.  When she’s finally in front of me, I catch a whiff of her perfume – a barely-there scent that’s not quite fruity and not quite flowery.

               I cock my head to one side and hitch her a smile.

               She doesn’t take the bait.  Her expression is composed as she sizes me up, wondering where to start.  It’s as if she hasn’t even noticed my smile at all.

           “Be gentle, chere,” I quip.

              That’s when she raises her eyes and gives me a look – part disinterested, part unimpressed. Her facade is almost frosty, but it don’t fool me. Beneath the cargo pants and the bomber jacket and the unadorned face, there’s a something to this woman. It’s in the sway of her hips and the sensuousness of her scent. It’s in a whole lot more besides.

              She frisks me in all the usual places, and, Goddamn, her hands alone are enough to set me on fire. Her movements are precise, clinical... yet as insinuating as the touch of a lover.

              Did I mention yet I haven't had sex in 8 fucking weeks?

              She gets on her knees and runs her palms down my legs, and it’s almost more than I can take.

              “While you’re down there, chere...” I can’t help but say; and she pauses, looks up at me with steely eyes and says... Nothing.

              Her gaze fixes on my fly like it’s the only option left, and now we’re talkin’.

              She holds eye contact as she raises both hands, and thumbs open the button of my pants. Her look is impassive; but there’s an undercurrent there, a something that’s signalling to me loud and clear. She unzips my fly slow as a strip tease, and that’s when the shadow of a smile flickers across her face – a brief split second of something more, something to work with.

              Jesus Christ, I’m holding my breath.

              She knows what I’m thinking. She rises to full height and this time she doesn’t bother to hide the smile. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

              “Thought you were s’pposed t’be lookin’ for contraband, p’tite,” I can't help but drawl. The comment wipes the smile from her lips and her gaze drops. She yanks open my fly and within a few short seconds she’s found the fob pocket hidden inside the waistband of my pants. Another split second later and she’s found the ring.

              She turns and flashes it triumphantly at Marko.

              “You made record time, Klein,” he observes approvingly, glancing up from his phone. “Twelve seconds. I’m impressed.”

              Twelve seconds? I swear it coulda been a lifetime...

              She throws the ring to her boss and I watch on, with a wistful sense of loss, as it arcs across the room and into his hand. Oh well. Next time, maybe.

              “If you’re done, chere,” I pipe up behind her, “mebbe you could zip me up again? O’ course, if you ain’t, we can always take dis somewhere a li’l more private... ...”

              I hadn’t exactly been expecting an answer, so I’m doubly taken off guard when she whips round and socks me hard with a fist to the face.

              I totter a bit, tasting blood and seeing stars.

              Damn, this woman packs a punch!

              In the background, Marko’s laughing raucously.

              “Looks like you chose the wrong woman t’ try and charm, yank.”

              Seriously? Enough with the ‘yank’ thing already!

              I grit my teeth and scowl as he continues:

              “Zip ’im up, Klein. I can afford to be charitable to trespassers. I think we can let him leave here with his dignity, if not his life. He has taste after all. Me old ma’s engagement ring,” and he grins sardonically over at me, “is my favourite piece outta my entire collection.”

              Klein obediently turns around and zips me up with more force than necessary. No more smiles and subtle flirtation. She doesn’t even look at me.

              “Sentimental value,” Marko is saying, turning the ring between thumb and forefinger as he approaches me. “That’s what this ring has, Mr. Lord. Me old ma woulda been turnin’ in her grave if I lost it. Specially to some shitty low-feeder like you.”

              I lick the blood from my lip slowly. Low-feeder, huh? This guy is really throwing out them punches tonight.

              “Yeah, I getcha,” I retort with a sarcastic grin. “Momma woulda slapped ya t’ kingdom come if you ever messed wit’ her jewellery. Beat you wit’ a belt, prob’ly, told ya you were a good f’nothin’ piece o’ shit, I’m willin’ t’bet. Sure, I can read a mommy complex a mile away, homme, and you got it bad.”

              I dunno what’s gotten inta me tonight. Or maybe I do. Frustration is a thing and a half. I'm fuckin’ wired, and I can’t stop running my damn mouth off. I ain’t usually this lippy. Honestly.

              Anyways, I’m steeling myself for a beating from my End-of-Level-Boss, but surprisingly he don’t take the bait. Judging from his get-up, he’s ready for a night out, and he don’t want my blood soiling his purple Savile Row suit. Which is good for me, ‘cos the rings on his fingers look like they could double up for some pretty nasty knuckle dusters.

              “I take it back,” he sneers down his nose at me. “This bloody yank don’t deserve jack.”

              He sweeps away and grabs his jacket.

              “You’ve been lookin’ t’prove yerself, ain’t’cha, Klein,” he throws over his shoulder at the woman still standing beside me. “Take care of Mr. Lord for me, and consider yerself one of the gang.” He walks over to a side table, pulls open a draw and takes out a gun. When he throws it to her, she catches it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “Just make sure you keep some suitably gory keepsake for me to remember ’im by. I’m thinkin’ his teeth. He’s got them pearly whites you can only get in ’Murica. It'll remind me of ’is charmin’ smile.”

              He laughs to himself, throws the ring up in the air, catches it, and deposits it into his pocket.

              “Sorry, Mr. Lord,” he addresses me, “but I have places to go and people to kill.  Don’t worry. Klein’ll entertain you in the playpen.” He waves absently at a door to the right. “I’m sure she’s just itchin’ to get her hands on you.”

              He chuckles and heads for the door, followed by one of his henchmen, leaving with a final, gleeful, “So long!”

              The door bangs shut and now it’s just me, Klein, and Henchman #1.

              Wise strategy on Marko’s part, if Ms. Klein is basically untried and untested.  I might break her little heart, and Henchman #1 might have to put me down instead.

              I suppress a laugh at the thought.

              Klein says nothing. She turns abruptly and sticks the barrel of the gun into the small of my back.

              “Move,” she says.  Her voice is deadpan – nothing to work with.

              “Y’know, chere,” I venture conversationally, as I start shuffling over to the door, “I could speed up some if you’d jes’ untie these chains… Then we could get t’ playtime in the playpen a whole lot faster…”

              “Hey, shut up will ya!” Henchmen #1 barks at me, punctuated by a sharp poke in the back by Klein’s gun. All right, all right, already. I get the message.  They hustle me up to the door and next thing I know, I’m being shoved inside.  Henchman #1 shuts the door behind me and I hear the locks thunk shut.  Now it’s just me, and Klein.

              It turns out the playpen could give H. H. Holmes’ hotel of horrors a run for its money. It’s a pokey little room, and someone’s done gone and painted the walls in a nice shade of red and crusty brown. Blood, gore and brain matter.  The whole place stinks of death.  Merde. The light-hearted mood I’ve managed to maintain so far immediately takes a dive.

              “I take it housekeepin’ don't come round often,” I quip in an undertone – hardly as insolent as it could've been, but it earns me a kick up the ass anyway.  I stagger forward under the momentum, turning to face my would-be executioner as I do so.

              She has the gun pointed at me.

              “Chere, I’d put my hands up if they weren’t tied behind my—”

              The gun fires.

              And the bullet hits the wall over my shoulder.

              The crazy femme don’t give me a moment to recover.

              In a flash she’s lowered the gun and is marching right over to me, grabbing the front of my shirt and jerking me down into a hungry kiss.

              “It’s okay,” she whispers when she sees I’m too shocked to respond. “There aren’t any cameras in here.”

              The words are barely out of her mouth and she’s kissing me again. This time I slip easily out of the chains that I’ve been working on ever since they were clapped on me, and as soon as they hit the ground, I let my palms slide up over her cheeks, pulling her closer, deeper into our kiss. Her fingers wind into my hair, tugging lightly; her body presses against mine, reminding me exactly what I’ve been without the past couple of months. I grab handfuls of her perfect ass and pull her in closer.

              God, I’d fuck her right here, right now, if we weren’t in this shithole and this wasn’t a very important job.

              We kiss until we have no air left to breathe.

              “Lord, I’ve missed ya, Remy,” she murmurs against my lips.

              “Mmm, not as much as I’ve missed you,” I answer sincerely, stealing another kiss before adding heatedly, “Eight whole weeks without you, chere... It’s enough t’ drive a man certifiably insane.”

              She laughs, soft and sexy, her fingers combing lightly through my hair as she backs up a bit and regards me.

              “Darlin’,” she murmurs with a smile, “you were the one who said no contact...”

              “Didn’t wanna risk breakin’ your cover, Anna,” I reply, bridging the slight gap between us and feathering light kisses along her jawline. “Cain Marko’s gang don’t got a real nice reputation, sweet.”

              “Pfft,” she scoffs. “I can handle myself.”

              “For sure,” I agree. “But I’d prefer it if we didn’t tank this mission ‘cos we couldn’t keep our hands offa each other.”

              She hums with vague agreement and runs her thumb across my bottom lip.

              “Sorry about the fist to the face, babe,” she apologises. “Hope I didn’t hurt you too much."

              “Peh.” I wave it off absently – I'd pretty much forgotten it already. “You do what you gotta. Speaking of...”

              But she’s already way ahead of me, rooting around in her utility belt and taking out the small mem-chip case.

              “Nice distraction, by the way,” she congratulates me wryly as she hands me the goods.

              “Didja like it?” I ask her, pocketing the small case.

              “In theory. Thought you had more style, though, Cajun. You managed to set off every alarm in the fucking building.”

              “Heh. Just wanted to make sure you had enough time to pull the heist, cherie.”

              She rolls her eyes expressively.

              “You thought it was funny pissing everyone off, admit it. And what was all that business with the fob pocket?”

              “Chere,” I answer with mock sincerity. “Eight weeks of celibacy and you think I’m gonna pass up the chance to have you feel me up? C’mon.”

              The punch she lands on my bicep is enough to hurt.

              “You are such a troll!” she shoots at me with more affection than ire, I’m happy to say.

              “You love it,” I mutter, grabbing her helplessly and kissing her mouth soundly. We end up wasting a few more precious seconds making out again.

              “So what we gonna do, huh?” I ask her once we break apart. “Henchman #1 is waitin’ outside, and I figure we could both take him out pretty easy...”

              “Nuh-uh,” she cuts me off with a mischievous grin. “That’ll break our cover for sure. You, sweetheart, are taking the back door out.”

              Her gaze slides over my shoulder, and when I look back, I see that the back door is actually a chute in the wall. From the amount of gore it’s covered in, it’s pretty obvious it's a disposal chute – for corpses.

              “You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, p’tite,” I groan under my breath.

              “Think of it as payback for kicking me down that garbage chute back at the Plaza hotel,” she banters back lightly, clearly enjoying this.

              “Anna, after this, we’re even and then some,” I say dolefully.

              “Yup,” she replies cheerfully. She swoops in for another quick kiss before saying: “I’ll be waiting for you by the East gate in about 30. Got some stuff to finish up here, otherwise they’ll get suspicious.”

              “All right.” My response is half-hearted. I ain’t relishing goin’ down that chute, that’s for sure. Anna, however, is completely indifferent to my plight. She’s almost at the door already when I stop her.

              “Uhh… Anna?”

              She stops, turns.

              “What?”

              I point down at my chained-up ankles.

              “Li’l help, please?”

               She gives a theatrical sigh; but she comes back anyway, dropping to her knees and undoing the chains round my ankles.

              “I’m pretty sure you could do this yourself faster than I ever could, Cajun,” she says pointedly, to which I shrug and reply:

              “Sure. But havin’ you down on your knees in front of me brings back all sorts of happy mem’ries I’ve been denied the past couple of months.”

              The chains clatter to the floor and she quirks an unimpressed look at me.

              “Jesus. You’re puttin’ out more pheromones than a skunk puts out spray.”

              “Chere, I been insulted ’nuff today, bein’ called a ‘yank’ an’ all. You reckon you could find an analogy a little more flatterin’ than a skunk?”

              She gets to her feet and plants her hands on her hips.

              “Swamp boy, there ain’t enough analogies in the world for the dirty things I wanna call you right now,” she declares in her gorgeously titillating and rarely-bestowed native Mississippi accent.

              “Oooh,” I banter back. “Dirty, huh? Beb, when I get you home tonight, you can call me all the dirty things under the sun. I can’t wait.”

              She chooses to ignore the statement, walking over to the chute instead and pulling it open. When she looks back at me, she’s smiling sweetly.

              “Sugar, when we get home tonight, the first thing you’re gonna do is take a shower. Cos once you’ve gone down this here chute, you’re gonna be dirty as hell, and not in a good way.”

              Trust her to kill the mood. I peer down the hole gingerly. The miasma wafting up from down below is worse than any skunk’s.

              “Chere, you wanna rethink this? Only I get the feelin’ one shower ain’t gon’ be enough t’ get the stench out...”

              “Quit being such a baby!” She’s smiling way too hard for my liking at this point. “The sooner you get this over with, the sooner we can wrap up this job.”

              I step reluctantly up to the edge of the hole, and she leans in over my shoulder, murmurs in my ear: “And the sooner I can get my hands on you again.” She lets that suggestion linger. And, Dieu, does it linger.

              “Now buckle up and hold onto the railings,” she warns me.

              “What railings?” I manage to get out, before her boot heel connects with my ass, and I’m suddenly tumbling through the filth and mire down, down into the depths of the Marko mansion.

-oOo-

[Chapter 2 now here!]

[welllpthisishappening]

By City-Wide Decree

It's a crush.

And in any other situation, that would be it. He'd be able to keep going about his day in normal pining fashion. But nothing about this is normal. Because in the last few minutes Bellamy's complained about shredded cheese and Clarke's making jokes about Bleecker Street and apparently there's some city-wide rule about car services now.

Or: the last thing Bellamy Blake expected during a national health pandemic was being forced to kiss his neighbor.

----

Rating: Teen Word Count: Just over 5.6K AN: Hey there, internet. It was really only a matter of time until I wrote some kind of nonsense here. But I do want to say that this story does include COVID-19 stuff, so if that is not for you, I totally get it. That being said, this admittedly very silly nonsense, is very much just that and hopefully it offers a bit of a distraction for a few minutes. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam

----

He almost drops the box of macaroni in his hand. 

The edge stabs his palm, a weird pain that's really more like the general sense of Bellamy’s frustration because just a few seconds ago he witnessed two grown adults glaring at each other over the final few rolls of toilet paper in aisle five. And there aren’t really that many other people in this grocery store, which he supposes is a good thing. Everyone taking social distancing seriously and staying home and he’s got every intention of doing the same, but first he’s got to deal with this. 

“Pre-shredded cheese,” he mumbles under his breath, glancing at the box. He’s bent the edge. He hopes he doesn’t break the box. There weren’t many left in that aisle, either. Just the one thing of shells Bellamy had been able to grab and four boxes of whole wheat linguine, which, really, almost offends him more than the idea of pre-shredded cheese. 

In a variety of flavors. 

And adjectives. 

“Cheese should not have adjectives attached to it,” Bellamy continues, and apparently he’s reached the crazy portion of his day. 

That also seems to be the standard for most of the world, though. He’d been very close to breaking up the toilet paper fight. So maybe he’s just catching up to everyone else. He needs to go home. He needs to—

“Pick a goddamn cheese,” he says. Whatever sound he makes at his own private conversation isn’t so much a sigh, but rather another round of frustration and possible resignation and taco-flavored cheese can’t be that bad. 

Right? Maybe. 

He can’t imagine what kind of preservatives are used in taco-flavored cheese. Like..are there even spices involved? There should be spices. When all of this is over he’s going to write a strongly worded letter to the Kraft family. 

Bellamy sighs again, drawing more than a few looks and a glare or too, and he’s going to give himself a headache if he keeps rolling his eyes at their current rate. He lunges forward, careful to account for the box of macaroni and the small thing of buttermilk that’s honestly starting to make his fingers go numb and—

An arm moves next to his. 

She’s also a little off-balance — a backpack that’s close to bursting and something that might actually be paint streaked across her left cheek, but Bellamy can barely register that when she’s already starting to stumble back, a package of margarine clutched in her hand. 

“Oh,” Clarke breathes, eyes going wide and what looks like the first hints of a smile tugging at the ends of her mouth. “Hey, Bell.”

His stomach flies into his throat. 

As per usual. 

That might be the most normal part of his day so far. 

To say that he’s been harboring a pretty monumental crush on Clarke Griffin since she moved into the apartment across the hall from Bellamy would be—

Accurate. 

It would be accurate, honestly.

In almost painful fashion. 

Six months ago, she showed up with a handful of boxes and paint on her jeans, and a smile that seemed to reverberate through him. In a way where that doesn’t sound insane. Maybe he wasn’t catching up to everyone else. Maybe he was just sprinting past them. Towards crazy. 

The kind of crazy that also means he’s stupid into his neighbor. 

She’d said hi first that day too. So he offered to help her carry some boxes and she’d promised she’d be ok, but he was stubborn and a little overwhelmed by the very specific color of her eyes and she really did have a lot of stuff and they’d ordered from the Thai place up the street after. 

And if that's not the basis for a pretty solid friendship, then Bellamy isn’t sure what is. 

Only that’s really all it is. Because, well—Bellamy isn’t sure. Octavia would say he’s being an idiot and to some extent that’s true, but he and Clarke are pretty good friends now and sometimes she curls up on the corner of his couch when she’s stressed about the arts budget of the high school she works at in the Bowery or he kicks on her door when he’s got some new pages he thinks she might like to read and it’s—

Good. 

Normal. 

In a world that is very quickly spiraling out of control. 

He hopes those people didn’t actually start yelling over toilet paper. He’s not sure his brain would be able to cope with that. 

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asks, taking another step back and he hadn’t noticed she’s got another bag of art supplies in her left hand. 

“Glaring at cheese.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Glaring at cheese,” Bellamy repeats. He nods towards the minimal selection, Clarke’s eyes widening at his admittedly petty reaction to the cheese issue. It should not be an issue. “I—well, I’m running low on some food and I—” He grits his teeth, suddenly hopeful that he’ll be able to melt into the supermarket floor. 

That’s probably not hygienic. 

“Is it super top secret, then?” Bellamy clicks his tongue. “No, it’s—ok, do you promise not to laugh?” “Absolutely not.” “You look like you staged a battle getting here.” “Nah,” she objects, but there’s a slight blush creeping across her cheeks and it’s probably wrong to feel some kind of victory at that. Just, like—with everything else going on. Flirting should probably be a low priority at this point. 

“Then…” “Why are you angry at the cheese?” “Mostly the selection of cheese,” Bellamy admits. “Because I’m supposed to use a very specific kind, so—” “—For what?” “My mom’s mac and cheese recipe.” She gapes at him. Which is not the reaction he was hoping for, really. He’s not sure what would be better, but he had been pretty partial to the blush and he’s positive this is somehow the paint streak’s fault. 

Clarke has a habit of getting paint everywhere. 

There’s still a stain on his floor from three weeks ago. 

“Did you think I was going to laugh at you making your mom’s mac and cheese recipe during an international health pandemic?” Clarke cries. It draws another round of curious stares and one set of incredibly narrow eyes from a woman with a cropped haircut and a cart practically overflowing with paper products. 

Clarke sneers. “I might actually fight someone for bulk-buying things. God, people are—” “—The worst?” “Is that why you’d thought I’d laugh at you being adorable?”

Bellamy forgets all about his stomach and its current location in his throat. He’s far more preoccupied with the matter of his exploding heart. Which is not nearly as painful an experience as he would have assumed. 

His smile threatens to take up most of his face, muscles unaccustomed to the movement when everything else seems to be going to shit. He hopes standing this long in the dairy aisle doesn’t adversely affect the buttermilk. 

That’s a key part of the recipe too. 

“Adorable, huh?” “Oh shut up,” Clarke grumbles, kicking her foot out of habit. She’s still a few feet away from him. That probably shouldn’t be disappointing either. In any situation, honestly. “Seriously, are you out here being weird about cheese because—” “—A quick detour out of adorable.” “Only because you keep interrupting me.”

He smiles wider. “When I was a kid, my mom used to make this mac and cheese for every major event. Birthdays, holidays, great grade on a test.” “Because you were a nerd?” “Look who’s interrupting the flow of the story.” “You should consider speeding up your approach” Clarke laughs. “The lady with forty-thousand paper napkins might come back and start pelting you with them for taking so long.” “You think she bought those paper napkins for reasons not related to eating food?” “God.” His shoulders shake a little when he chuckles — another threat to the pasta and his grip on any of the groceries he’s trying very hard to buy. “Moral of the story? I’m stressed out, people continue to be the worst, I saw a bunch of people, including actual grown adults, sitting out in Washington Square like nothing is wrong, so in an attempt to combat the general horribleness of the world I am going to make my mom’s mac and cheese recipe. Only apparently a lot of other people have had the same thought—” “—About your mom’s mac and cheese recipe?” 

“Bring the paper napkin lady back here so I can throw stuff at you.” Clarke grins, and the overall brightness of her eyes is probably just a byproduct of the lighting in the dairy aisle of Gristedes. Or so Bellamy will tell himself for the next forty-eight hours. 

“Taco cheese does not scream mac and cheese,” he continues. “But I’m also not willing to stage some sort of quest for the appropriate kind of cheddar. Or blocks of cheese.”

“It can’t be shredded cheese?” “Eh. I’m willing to make some sacrifices at this point.” “Wow,” Clarke drawls. “How gallant of you. And you wanted to make it yourself, then? No thoughts of take-out from Murray’s.”

“Don’t insult me like that.” “You have issues with a place that actually has cheese in its name?” “Murray’s Cheese Bar is an overpriced tourist trap that does not need my business to stay in business. I’m sure they’re perfectly fine.” “Murray himself?” “Or whatever corporate chain that place is owned and operated by. Plus, have you ever had their cheese plate? Like—just, it was gross. We got, maybe, half a dozen crackers.”

Clarke presses her lips together, but her laugh still manages to find its way into the six-feet of mandated space between her and Bellamy. “Did Octavia order the cheese plate at Murray’s once?” “And a bottle of chianti.” “Fancy.” “Gross,” Bellamy amends. “I can’t stand red wine.” “Why didn’t I know that you hated Murray’s so much? Do you feel that way about—” “—Most of the places on Bleecker?” Bellamy finishes, ignoring Clarke’s wide-eyed stare at yet another interruption. They have got to get out of this store. The processed air is obviously going to his head. Or, whatever. 

Maybe just the state of his heart. “Down with the establishment, huh?” Clarke quips. She absolutely, positively does not rock towards him. Bellamy is sure. 

He hums, and maybe his issue really lies in the overall state of his heart. Explosions cannot be healthy. In a biological sense. “Why are you here, then? I’m assuming it’s not just to share the very high opinions you’ve got about the restaurants on Bleecker.” “Ok, that is not what I said at all. I’m not advocating we start doing some kind of Bleecker restaurant crawl when this is all over, even if that one Gelato place on the corner is good.” “Tourist trap.” “Is the oxygen thinner on that high horse you’re riding?” Bellamy scrunches his nose when he makes a vaguely ridiculous noise in the back of his throat, part agreement, part unspoken suggestion to keep talking. “Whatever,” Clarke grumbles. “I am here because I needed butter to make cookies. But there’s only this garbage.” 

She brandishes the margarine, arm flung out in front of her and Bellamy refuses to be held accountable for whatever noise he makes at that. Just as ridiculous as the last one. With even more flirting involved. 

“I walked down here,” Clarke adds. “There are no other stores open and—” “—Walked from where?” Bellamy asks sharply. He doesn’t mean for the words to come out quite like that, but he’s also not entirely sure what feeling is shooting down either one of his arms. 

He’s very glad Octavia isn’t here. 

She’d make fun of him. 

More so than usual. 

“Relax,” Clarke mutters, jerking the bag at her side. “I needed stuff for class, but most of my supplies are still at school and it’s not like I can get into school any time soon, so I went up to Marmorino. Nyko agreed to open for, like, twenty minutes so I could get some new brushes and—” She shrugs, all nonchalance. Like walking twenty blocks to the art supply store in the middle of that previously discussed pandemic so she can keep teaching kids how to paint isn't equal parts absurd and wonderful.  “What are you going to paint?” Bellamy asks. “We’re doing life studies. Figured it’d be a good way to get parents involved too. You know, kids paint their mom or their dad or...whatever. Like I said, I just needed a brushes. And butter.”

“Those go hand in hand, huh? You know I have butter.”

Clarke blinks. And her grip on the bag noticeably loosens. ���What?” “Butter,” he repeats. “That’s how this all started. I kept opening my fridge and the butter was sitting there, like it was taunting me and—”

“—Can the butter form coherent sentences?” “I’m offering you butter, princess. And mac and cheese. If you want it.”

Another blink. 

That’s...Bellamy doesn’t want to consider what that is. Because this is not the first time he’s done this. Or vice versa. Far from it. They both live alone and they’re friends and it’s not that far across the hall, after all. 

There’s just not usually an international health pandemic involved. 

“Yeah?” Clarke asks softly, like she’s waiting to shout surprise. Or throw paper napkins at them for standing in the dairy aisle for so long. 

Bellamy nods. “Yeah. That’s how humanity survives, right? We pool resources and seek out companionship in times of difficulty.” “Something like that, I’m sure.” “Ok, so you leave the gross margarine here and I’ll deal with the taco cheese.” “I have cheddar in my fridge.” Maybe this is a dream. Maybe the after-effects of his exploding heart have left Bellamy hallucinating in the middle of Gristedes. Maybe he got food poisoning from the cheese plate at Murray’s when Octavia visited three weeks ago and he’s only just now discovering it.

Clarke smiles. 

“If you want it,” she adds. “I—well, I’d had big plans for grilled cheese quarantines, but there was only block cheese at that point and I haven’t even opened it. Yours for the taking.” He nods slowly, trying to come to terms with all of this. It’s not flirting. No one flirts like this. They shouldn’t flirt like this. 

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “That’d be great. A, uh—COVID team, huh?” Idiot. 

Idiot. 

He’s sure Octavia knows about this. Somehow. A sixth sense that alerts his younger sister to his overwhelming idiocy and she’d been annoyed that he hadn’t invited Clarke to Murray’s with them. 

“Something like that,” Clarke says again. “Ok, then let me pay for a car back home. I don’t know if my shoulders can cope with this backpack and—do not offer to carry this backpack for me,” she adds as soon as Bellamy opens his mouth, “I’ll get the paper napkin lady back here, I swear to God.” “She’d probably call a manager on you.”

Clarke scoffs, but her smile hasn’t changed and Bellamy spends most of the next twenty-four minutes standing in the checkout line thinking only about that. Until Clarke tells the guy in front of them to “stop being a dick” to the cashier when he starts complaining about the lack of bread in aisle two. 

The guy doesn’t say anything else after that. 

And the cashier definitely mumbles “thanks” when Bellamy puts his slightly bent box of pasta on the conveyor belt. 

They don’t spend long waiting for the car — and Bellamy can’t imagine business is exactly booming, which is part of the reason he agreed to this and the rest is entirely selfish and possibly a little stalker’ish and he just likes spending time with Clarke. No matter the world’s collective health situation. 

“You two together?” the driver asks, hardly opening the window and it’s not easy to understand what he’s saying.  

Bellamy furrows his brows. “Excuse me?” He swings open the door, sliding across the backset and moving his feet so Clarke’s backpack can fit comfortably between them. And he’s not one to pass judgement, particularly not now, but the whole thing looks a bit like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. There are sheets of plastic wrap stretched between the front seats, the driver wearing gloves and casting impatient glances in his rearview mirror. 

Bellamy glances at Clarke’s phone — the driver’s name is Bryan. 

“C’mon man,” Bryan presses. “I need an answer.” “I don’t—” Bellamy starts, shaking his head and that dream theory is starting to make more and more sense. “What are you talking about?”

“The rules.” “Ok, that doesn’t clear it up. Can we just go?” “Nope. I need you to tell me. I don’t want my license revoked.” “What the hell are you talking about?” Clarke lets out a soft gasp, eyes going impossibly wide. “Shit. Are you kidding me?” “What part of nope are you guys having a difficult time wrapping your heads around?” Bryan asks. “Listen, I can’t break the law, ok? I—we’re living in crazy times and—” “—Seriously what are you talking about?” Bellamy snaps. 

Bryan takes a deep breath, shoulders moving with the effort, and Clarke hasn’t looked Bellamy’s direction in what feels like an eternity. He can’t rationalize the chill that slinks down his spine, a growing dread that threatens to tug him through the backseat or take up residence in between his ribs and he’s got to stop making so many sweeping biological assessments. 

There are no facts to back any of this up. 

And yet he can’t quite understand the look on Clarke’s face either, teeth digging into her lower lip while she refuses to meet his gaze. “Guys,” Bryan groans. “In or out, yes or not, just—prove it.” Bellamy opens his mouth again, ready to demand answers if need be, but Clarke is already talking and the words don’t process immediately — mandate from the mayor and I totally forgot and only real couples. 

She grits her teeth when she finally looks up, a pained expression that almost makes Bellamy shiver. It’s unnaturally warm in the city that afternoon. “Did you not see the press conference?” she mutters. He shakes his head. “I, uh—I totally forgot about it, but ride-share services are still cool and essential, they just...if you share, you have to be a couple.” “Real couple too,” Bryan adds. “That’s what the mayor said.” Clarke squeezes one eye shut. “He did, yeah.”

Bellamy has no idea what’s happening. That’s not hyperbole. He genuinely cannot keep up with the conversation or the events of the last few hours and he’s certain this is now somehow the fault of the paper napkin lady and those toilet paper people and— “So,” Bryan continues, “either prove it or lose it?” “Lose what, exactly?” Bellamy rasps. He doesn’t take his eyes off Clarke, can see just how tight her jaw has gone and the exact moment her tongue flashes between her lips and maybe it would just be better for everyone if he grabbed her backpack and sprinted the fifteen blocks back to their apartment. 

Apartment building. 

They don’t live in the same apartment. 

Seriously, screw the toilet paper people. 

“My services,” Bryan answers. “Seriously. I’m not getting fucked over by this. So prove you're a real couple or start walking.” “And how would you like us to do that, exactly?” “Kiss her.” It is several different miracles that Bellamy does not rip down Bryan’s plastic wrap wall right then and there. He considers it, fingers flexing and head at a sudden angle while he glares at the rearview mirror. But something keeps him from actually reacting and it might be Clarke’s soft ok a few inches away. 

They are no longer the appropriate six feet apart. 

“Wait, what?” Bellamy asks, only marginally disappointed when his voice manages to crack over both words. 

Clarke’s smile doesn’t waver, but it shifts slightly — a little cautious and a little nervous and, maybe, a little hopeful. She leans forward, ignoring the goddamn backpack and how straight Bellamy’s spine has gone, breathing quickly like he did run those fifteen blocks. “Just a kiss, right?” she mutters. “Couples kiss. That’s—” “—Real couples,” Bryan amends. Bellamy might strangle Bryan before they get out of this car. 

“Right, right, right. And that’s—it’s not a big deal.” Bellamy’s never going to blink again. 

“I don’t know how else to double check,” Bryan admits. 

Clarke hums, still moving and Bellamy doesn’t flinch when her hand lands on his bent knee. So, points or whatever. Her tongue flashes once more, a soft huff of air that barely reaches his cheek when she’s close enough and this can’t possibly be sanitary. 

God, he does not want to be thinking about that now. 

Bellamy doesn’t remember bending his neck, but it appears to have happened anyway, curls threatening to fall in his eyes. That’s not right. The top of Clarke’s backpack digs into his chest, what feels like an actual paint brush pushing against the side and he’s going to say something. He is. He’s going to promise that he can walk and he’ll carry the backpack and just meet her at home, but none of the words seem all that interested in coming out of his mouth and his lips pop softly when they part, another bit of movement and a direct violation of social distancing and—

His eyes flutter shut when Clarke kisses him. 

With Bryan watching intently. 

And it’s not...well, it’s not quite the way Bellamy had always imagined when he’d let himself imagine this. Far more often than he should. It’s stilted and awkward, weird angles and bumped noses. It’s chins jostling for position and that fucking backpack, both of them far too aware of the two bags of groceries at their feet. 

Bellamy does his best not to actually sigh — even more frustration, that does not belong in a situation like this, but then his eyes open and the tip of Clarke’s tongue finds his lips and everything kind of spirals after that. 

His hand flies up, curling into her hair and pulling her closer, a crunch that is absolutely the box of shells, but the shells can go fuck off for all Bellamy cares. He opens his mouth, lets his head tilt slightly until they find a rhythm that’s a bit like driving at seventy miles an hour on an open highway. That’d be impossible anywhere in New York. 

Even under quarantine. 

And yet. Bellamy feels like he’s rushing towards something, everything and anything and a variety of words that should be far more overwhelming than they are. He nips at Clarke’s lower lip, lets his nose drag along her cheek until he’s practically tracing that streak of paint and the sound that draws will be branded on every inch of him for the foreseeable future. They only break apart to catch their breath, the rhythm going almost desperate when Clarke’s nails scratch at the back of Bellamy’s neck and—

Bryan coughs. 

He might not tip Bryan. 

No, he’ll definitely tip Bryan. It’s a fucking pandemic. 

Bellamy’s not a total dick. 

Just…

“So, uh, cool,” Bryan says, already pulling out onto the street. “Thanks for the, uh—for the demonstration, then.” Clarke jerks back. 

And Bellamy feels like he’s been thrown in the East River. Specifically. Because that river is notoriously grosser than the Hudson. 

He’s gross. 

He twists, trying to put as much space between them as possible when they’re still in Bryan’s silver Toyota Camry. And he doesn’t actually count the minutes that it takes to get back to their building, but it’s awfully close because it seems to take a lifetime and happen far too soon, Clarke mumbling her thanks and hoping Bryan doesn’t have to drive too much in the future and Bellamy doesn’t want to think about the state of that box of shells. 

It feels far too literal. 

And they don’t rush up the stairs, both Bellamy and Clarke taking even steps as they do their mutual and collective best to stare at their shoes. But then he’s tugging his keys out of his back pocket and the air feels like it’s crackling around him, enough tension to power the island of Manhattan — especially when Clarke follows him inside his apartment.

“So, uh—” she starts, a click of her jaw when she notices the look on Bellamy’s face. 

His eyes have started to water, they’re so wide, standing in the middle of his exceptionally tiny living room. “Clarke, I—” “—Oh shit, I forgot the butter.” “Clarke.” “No, no, I should go get the butter, right? Yeah. That’s—shit, I didn’t even think. I...sorry, sorry, it’s—” She shakes her head brusquely, like she’s trying to shake away the awkwardness and Bellamy wishes there weren’t any awkwardness. He wishes he’d asked her out before the world started falling apart. 

He’s back in her space in a few more steps, fingers finding her flailing hands. She’s biting her lip again. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” “No?” “Absolutely not,” Bellamy promises. “I might, though. I just—I didn’t realize what was going on and then—” “I’m going to go get the butter,” Clarke announces, sounding almost disappointed at the idea. She pulls her hands back, a quick hiss of pain when she manages to elbow herself in the side in the process, all but running out of his apartment. Her backpack is still on his couch. 

Bellamy doesn’t move. He’s not sure he can, honestly. His legs feel like they’ve locked themselves in place, waiting with those same wide eyes for something he’s not sure he can have because it can’t possibly happen like this and Octavia is probably hysterical on the other side of the country. 

And he’s still not counting seconds or minutes, when he finally manages to get his feet to cooperate. So he can wash his hands. Like a responsible adult. Not one who hoards paper products. 

The footsteps that return to his still-open door a little slower than usual. 

“You didn’t close your door,” Clarke points out. She kicks back, a tremulous smile and Bellamy can’t believe this is going to happen while she’s holding butter. And at least two pounds of flour. He’s not sure what’s going to happen, exactly. “Did you even turn your oven on?” He shakes his head. “No.” “Real fond of that word all of a sudden, aren’t you?”

Bellamy doesn’t think he imagines the edge in her voice, narrowing his eyes slightly like that will help him pick up on certain conversational cues. It doesn’t — especially when Clarke breezes by him, marching into her kitchen like it’s hers or could be hers and that’s probably when he decides. What he wants to happen. “Do you want to make the cookies or the mac and cheese first?” she asks, and that question sounds more determined than any Bellamy’s heard before. Some of the tension in his shoulders disappears.

“Hey, will you talk to me?” 

“About something other than our cooking order?” “Yeah,” Bellamy nods. “Definitely about something other than our cooking order.” “I’m really hungry, though.”

His laugh has a certain strangled quality to it, but that may be a product of his heart, recently reformed and re-exploded. As soon as Bellamy realized what kissing Clarke was like. “I’m not going to let you starve,” Bellamy says. “Just—c’mon, look at me at least.”

She doesn’t. She pushes up on her toes instead, stabbing at the buttons on his oven. Bellamy sighs, doing his best not to start proclaiming things, giving voice to the sentiment that’s been bouncing around his soul for the better part of the last six months, and the flour that’s sitting on his minimal counter space is half open. 

The top’s rolling up, a haphazard curl to the paper, which only makes it easier to reach his hand inside without Clarke noticing. 

And immediately flick his fingers in Clarke’s direction. 

Her eyes flash, mouth dropping open, but Bellamy just grins, another flick that leaves flour clinging to Clarke’s cheek and the ends of her hair and she’d never washed that paint streak off. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands. 

“Got you to look at me.” “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Am I laughing?”

Clarke groans, trying to shake the flour off. All it does is ensure her hair shifts and the smell of her shampoo takes over most of the air in his kitchen. “You’re an idiot,” she sneers, “that’s what you are. I’m trying to feed us and—” “—You’re really very concerned about that. We’ve got to reorganize this conversation.”

Bellamy needs to get more flour before he can go for the third flick, but that proves to be his undoing. Clarke moves before he can, reflexes that he’d like to have a very serious discussion about eventually and she doesn’t flick. She slams her hand into his chest, a perfectly formed print in the middle of his shirt, twisting the fabric under her like that will make sure the mark stays there. 

Things are starting to feel a little literal again. 

At least he hopes so. 

So, it’s only reasonable and passably romantic to retaliate in kind — letting his flour-covered fingers flutter over Clarke’s hair and one of them gasps, but it’s difficult to figure out when they’re as close as they are, her hands dragging across his side and dangerously close to the top of his jeans and Bellamy’s definitely the one who groans when Clarke works her way under the hem of his shirt. 

Clarke beams. Bright and honest and her eyes are blue enough that Bellamy briefly considers getting lost in them for those minutes he’s still refusing to count, but then—

“God, I can’t believe I had to use some stupid marshall law bullshit to kiss you,” he mutters. 

“Is marshall law the right term there?” “No, not at all.”

She lets out a shaky laugh, hand staying exactly where it is. “I didn’t think so. And I—this was not some elaborate ruse, just for the record.” “Were you looking for elaborate ruses to make out with me?” “We’ve got to work on your vocabulary. Make out doesn’t seem right either.” “A work in progress.” “For the words, or…” She gasps again. Presumably because Bellamy’s ducking his head and his arm has curled around her middle and it’s easier to kiss her when there isn’t a backpack between them. Bellamy’s hand flattens against the small of Clarke’s back, a curve there that is quite suddenly the only thing he’d like to talk about for the remainder of the day. 

And they’re just as good at this as they were in Bryan’s car, but there’s something inherently different about the second go-around. An ease to the angles and the now-familiar rhythm, like they’d simply been waiting for the chance or the opportunity and—

“Maybe make out was an acceptable description,” Clarke mumbles against Bellamy’s mouth. He grins, dropping down so he can kiss her jaw and the side of her neck, only a little pleased with the goosebumps he notices there. “Oh, don’t get smug,” Clarke adds, “that’s not a good look on you.” “That certainly sounds like you’ve got opinions on my looks, actually.”

She clicks her tongue, leaning back to get in his eye line. “Maybe a few.” “A few?” “Bell, c’mon, that’s—” “—I have a very big crush on you.” Clarke blinks. Opens her mouth only to close it. Smiles. Scoffs. Blinks again. And then she’s kissing him and it’s good and great and both of those things feel wrong during a pandemic, but Bellamy assumes there's something to be said for the human spirit. Or whatever. 

“Makes for a good story, though,” Clarke says, eyes gone a color Bellamy’s never seen before. “You know, if you’re looking for something to write about.” “You want me to write about us? I write history books.” “Is this not historic?” “Oh, now who’s fishing for compliments,” Bellamy chuckles. Clarke blushes. Again, or still. “I would have liked to kiss you under less dramatic circumstances, but, uh—it also wasn’t the worst first kiss I’ve ever had.” “High praise.” “We’re very good at kissing each other.” “Yeah, I figured we would be.” “Did you just?” Clarke hums. “I’m pretty sure my friends had some kind of pool going. Especially now. When I’d finally give in and just like...attack you with my mouth or something. I talk about you all the time. At school. To Raven. Strangers on the street.” “Strangers on the street?” “I mean, Bryan assumed we were a couple.” “That’s because the mayor required him too,” Bellamy argues. “But, uh—I get the opinionated peanut gallery. O was convinced we were secretly dating when she was here.” “Before or after the chianti?” “Well before.” “Oh,” Clarke says, like that’s somehow surprising or good. Bellamy hopes it’s good. He’d like some good at this point. “You should probably change shirts.” “That sounds like a suggestion to take my shirt off.” “Wow, weird.” Her laugh turns into something far closer to a giggle when he kisses behind her ear, a fact he’s already stored for future reference, but then they’re moving and there are discarded clothes and kicked off shoes and neither one of them bothers to get up when the oven finishes pre-heating. 

“I have a crush on you too,” Clarke says, head propped up on her hand. In Bellamy’s bed. They’re in Bellamy’s bed. 

Her backpack is still on his couch. “Good,” he grins. “You want to eat, or…” “God, I’d thought you’d never ask.” And they do make both things, Clarke announcing that this is the best mac and cheese I’ve ever had while Bellamy does an absolutely terrible job of stealing cookie batter on the sly. She moves her backpack eventually too — into the corner of his living room. It’s easier that way, something about pandemics and limiting movement and if one of her students notices the change of scenery during their live-streamed class two days later, none of them say anything. 

[naturepointstheway]

Caught on a bad day (Life is Strange fanfic)

In the alternate timeline where William is alive, Chloe tells Max the latter caught her on a ‘good day’. What if Max had caught her on a ‘bad day’ instead?

Max pauses in the middle of the path to the Prices’ door, taking in the changes to the house before her, with its fully complete blue paintwork and the ramp--

Wait. A ramp?

The Prices never had a ramp. 

Shit, shit, shit. What else have I done?

She tries, and fails, to stop herself from imagining the worst. Did she hurt Chloe? William? Or perhaps Joyce? Surely, people need ramps to their house all the time, not just people who need more accessibility due to a disability or aging. William and Joyce weren’t even that old anyway, so why would they need a ramp? Or maybe they were fostering or had adopted a child who needed a wheelchair. That had to be it.    

Chloe. Chloe... please be okay, God please be okay... 

She takes a deep breath, another, another, and still her chest squeezes back in the vice of anxiety. Panic swells inside her, turns her stomach with that bottomless sick feeling as she walks up to the front door, her hand poised to knock. 

Okay Max, you can do this. Come on. 

 She tries to swallow, but her throat is too dry, too parched with apprehension as she knocks gently on the door, stepping back to wait until someone—please, please let it be Chloe—answers. 

Instead, it is William that answers the door, immediately breaking out into a warm smile on seeing Max. 

‘Max Caulfield, we thought we’d never see you again.’

A rush of nostalgia and relief on seeing William’s still-warm smile swells in Max’s heart, despite the shock at the changes so far.

‘I could never abandon Chloe like that. I might not have kept in touch, but…I couldn’t not see her again after coming back here.’

‘Come inside.’

William steps aside, and Max, trying to keep down the rising panic squeezing at her insides, walks into the hall of the house at once familiar and strange. She hears the door click behind her, followed by William’s voice.

‘She isn’t in her old upstairs room anymore, Max, instead we’ve converted the old garage into a new room for her. Makes it easier for her to get around. Got her wheelchair and everything now.’

Wheelchair. Chloe’s in a wheelchair. Shit what have I done?

Max steps up to the door that once led into a garage, but now leads into Chloe’s new room in this new timeline. What has she done to her best friend, her partner in time and crime? She tries to keep her composure as William addresses her once again.

‘I must warn you, Max, she’s having one of her bad days.’ 

Max stares at the door; it’s so not right that there is no ‘wrong way’ sign. 

‘W-what do you mean?’

‘You already know about her car accident two years ago. Has she talked to you about it?’ 

Shit, shit, shit. 

‘I...don’t think so.’ 

‘A driver illegally cut her off, and she ended up...’ a heavy pause. ‘The accident left her paralysed from the neck down.’ 

Max leans a hand on the door, willing herself not to pass out. Chloe...Chloe paralysed. Neck down. Unable to feel a thing. Unable to dance, let alone go out to enjoy concerts and go down in the mosh pit.  

I fucked up. Well done Max. You’re a loser. A fucking loser. You don’t deserve Chloe. She deserves a better friend than you.

William’s hand on her shoulder brings her back to the present, or whatever present this fucked up reality is. 

‘Max, you look like you’re going to pass out. Do you need to sit down?’

‘N-no, I think I’ll be fine. I need to see Chloe. Please. I haven’t seen her in five years. Will she be okay enough to see me?’ 

‘She has very regular headaches like now, as her body redirects all the pain toward her head.’ 

‘God.’ 

‘But I think she’ll be glad to see you, nevertheless.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

‘Are you sure you don’t need to sit down?’ 

‘No, I think I’m okay.’ 

William, despite clearly looking concerned for her, knocks gently on Chloe’s door, and opens it just enough for Max to see it is dark inside, like all the curtains have been drawn. 

‘Chloe?’ 

Silence. William opens the door a little more, looks inside, before turning to address Max. 

‘I think she’s sleeping right now, but feel free to go inside. It’ll be a pleasant surprise for her to see you when she wakes up.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

William stands aside so Max can step through the door, and stops still on the threshold, feeling the blood drain from her face as she surveys the dimly lit interior, and the bed with—

Oh god, Chloe! My Chloe!

It is wrong, so wrong, so very wrong to see her best friend motionless in a hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator, a drip, and God only knew what else. Even in the dim light, Max sees the thick tube running from Chloe’s throat to the ventilator with its silent vital sign readings, and she hates herself more than ever. It’s so wrong to see Chloe without her usual blue hair, instead left as its natural blonde. Instead of punk posters and graffiti, the walls are nearly bare, save for a photo here and there, and what appears to be a pinboard with desperately few bits of happiness and comfort tacked to the cork. 

What Max wouldn’t do to tear apart the house until she finds that goddamn photo, to undo all of this, even at the cost of William’s life, undo, rewind all the last five years, until she’s back in her old timeline, back with an able-bodied, blue-haired Chloe, and not this...ghost...

She wants Chloe, her Chloe from her timeline, her beautiful blue-haired badass, who dared her to kiss her in another time, in another morning, in another life. She’d willingly hunt for another hundred bottles in the junkyard if it meant bringing back the Chloe she’d grown up with, running around Arcadia Bay in their pirate get-ups. 

Max takes a deep breath, forces herself to step over the threshold into the dimmed bedroom, hearing William close the door behind her as softly as possible. Chloe’s head is still turned to the side, looking for all the world like she’s in a peaceful sleep, were it not for the soft ventilator-aided breaths, or the drip in her arm, or that tube running from her throat. 

This is my fault. All my fault. I’m so sorry, Chloe, you didn’t deserve this. You deserve to dance, to go to concerts, to dye your hair blue, to fall in love, to stomp around the house in your big boots...to...what have I done to you. My fault. My fucking fault. 

Max can’t help but think that Chloe in this reality has never painted her nails electric blue, nor etched a tattoo on one arm that Max has, on more than one occasion, wished she could sit and trace and trail with her fingers, following its designs from forearm to shoulder. Now, instead of a tattoo needle carving art into her arm, it’s a drip delivering pain killers into her bloodstream. Rather than a necklace of bullets, she has a tube taped in place to her throat. 

She can’t bear to look at Chloe a second longer, not now anyway, and turns her attention elsewhere, immediately spotting a wheelchair in a corner, her heart dropping to the core of the earth at the sight. There is enough light for Max, on closer examination, to see it also has a tube similar to what Chloe in the bed has now. Max reaches a tentative hand to the wheelchair, tracing her fingers over an armrest before pulling her arm back, fingers covering her mouth, brows knitted together as she fights back tears. She can’t move her eyes away from the odd things at the top of the seat, where Chloe’s head would be were she in the chair. Max wonders if they were there to help keep her head still. 

I can’t believe I put Chloe in that chair...or the bed. 

Max tip-toes away from the chair, not wanting to wake Chloe, and takes note of the sign on the bathroom door, and manages the weakest of smiles at the words. 

Gas masks optional. That’s so Chloe. 

What she wouldn’t give to see that ‘wrong way’ sign again. Strange how one can miss such a little thing that otherwise might be ignored as part of the scenery. 

She doesn’t dare touch the huge computer screen nor the mouth-operated joystick; knowing her clumsy self, she’d probably break it, though there was no reason she couldn’t use rewind to fix it. Still, better safe than sorry. She allows her fingers to trail along the edge of the desk, one foot in front of the other, back toward Chloe’s bed, and stops when she sees a familiar bracelet with spikes. Picking it up, Max allows a little pinprick of relief to see some sign of the Chloe she knew from her old timeline. 

Still a punk at heart, Chloe. Never change. 

Strange how something as small as a punk bracelet with spikes could make her feel just a tiny bit calmer, at least until she catches sight of the drip right in front of her, delivering morphine to her best friend’s bloodstream. She wishes she can block out the whoosh of fluid flowing from the drip into Chloe, lying so still right there.

Legs weak and shaky, Max moves to the small wooden chair across from the bedside, lifting it up to move it closer, but not too close, to Chloe. Slumping back into the seat, Max watches Chloe sleep for a moment, sees the way her chest rises and falls with each shaky breath, before she leans her elbows on her knees, letting her face drop into her hands, palms pressing into her eyes. 

It isn’t long before Chloe’s voice, hoarser and wearier than Max ever heard it, drifts into her ears. 

‘Either I have so much fucking morphine in me that I’m hallucinating seeing Maxine Caulfield, or you really are here. The fuck you been the last five years.’ 

Max raises her head to see Chloe has woken up, her face turned in her direction. But instead of the pissed off look Max expected, her heart skips a beat to see, instead, the smallest of smiles, one she hasn’t seen since...this morning, really, when she woke next to Chloe on her double bed after a night at the swimming pool at Blackwell. The smile, though sullied by the tension of pain in her eyes and the corners of her mouth, is still enough to melt Max’s heart. 

‘C-Chloe!’ Max has to use all her willpower not to immediately jump up and draw Chloe into a hug, lest she hurt her. ‘I’m really here.’ 

‘Damn, perfect timing as always, Max. You caught me on a craptastic day, dude. Shame, since we haven’t even seen each other in five years. Liked your letters and selfies but… could’ve made an effort to visit more often.’ 

‘I’m the worst.’ 

‘How long have you been here watching me sleep anyway, you creep?’ Max relishes the snarky tone—so Chloe. 

‘Not long, actually. William told me you were having one of your bad days.’ 

Chloe grimaces, turns her head so she stares up at the ceiling. ‘You have no idea. Doped up all day on morphine and my head still feels like it’s gonna implode. Or explode. Whichever happens first.’ 

‘Ugh, sounds crummy.’ 

‘God, I hate this. All of this.’ Chloe nods over at the machines, ‘Two years of this crap. Prick. Ditched my car with his SUV. Woke up in hospital unable to feel a thing, let alone move a muscle. Back snapping like a twig was last thing I felt.’ 

A shiver prickles at Max’s back, and she can’t help a little shudder of horror. 

‘Jesus. I... I don’t know what to say.’ 

‘Don’t.’ Chloe clenches her jaw, squeezes her eyes shut. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Sorry. Talk makes it worse.’ 

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bother you.’ Max can’t help a twinge of guilt.

‘Shut up,’ Chloe’s voice is softer, but still painfully hoarse, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ 

‘You are?’ 

‘Um, I haven’t seen you in five years. Of course I am. Makes a change from my usual visitors.’ 

‘Visitors?’

‘All the friends who never visited me or just left me all together.’ 

‘Chloe, I should have visited you more.’ 

‘Not like we could just waltz out of here anyway.’ 

‘I’m never leaving you again, Chloe, okay? I mean…if you need rest, I can leave you alone, read a book.’ 

‘Or we can still chat like old times,’ Chloe’s voice sounds more strained than before, her eyes closing almost against her will, ‘Don’t be surprised if I drift off again.’ 

Max allows a hint of gentle teasing into her words. ‘I’ll just think you’re bored of me talking about photos.’ 

‘Hey, if it helps me drift off with this fucking headache...can’t even with sunlight. Way too bright. Makes it even worse.’ 

‘It’s almost sundown.’ 

‘Still messes me up.’

‘That bad.’

‘All the pain is redirected to my brain. Funtimes.’

‘That sucks.’

‘You don’t say. No need to feel too sorry for me. I can do that by myself.’

‘You’re a survivor, Chloe.’

‘Platitudes I’ve heard before.’

Max hears a hint of that old familiar bitterness buried in Chloe’s words. Sure, not as bitter, nowhere near, but still, there it is.

‘I mean it, really.’ Max reassures her.

‘Doesn’t help when I’m like this. All doped up to eleven, and yet in so much fucking pain.’

Max glances back over her shoulder at the bathroom built for Chloe, still with that sign that is just so her. She turns her chair around a little so she faces Chloe more directly.

‘Your parents do so much for you. They really do love you. You’re here.’

‘More like they’re here for me, Max. They can’t even take a walk alone. It sucks.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry for what? For me? No thanks. I get enough of that from people. I’m not an invalid, you know, lying here like some dying woman in a Victorian novel.’

There is a long pause, and Max casts around for something, anything else to say. Clearly, Chloe was not putting up with pity, something even Chloe in her original timeline wouldn’t put up with. She hated fake people, platitudes, and pity, and this timeline’s Chloe was no less different.

‘You have an impressive set-up with the computer.’

‘I can at least watch concert videos on that beast. And check out all the concerts. Hate myself for not being able to see them. Not today though, I’m in way too much pain to listen to any pirated youtube videos of concerts.’ Her words are broken by a series of dry coughs. ‘Throat’s dry already. Haven’t talked this much in a while. See if there’s water left in my cup. It’s on the dresser.’ 

Glad for something to do, Max stands up, walking over to the dresser with the cup of water. Grabbing the cup, she sloshes it around a little to check how much water there is in it—it seems to be nearly full. She returns to Chloe, sitting down next to her on the bed, bringing the cup close enough to Chloe’s lips so she can take a sip from the straw. 

‘Drink up, buttercup,’ she hears herself say, watching as Chloe drinks from the straw, eyes never leaving Max’s face. Max almost can’t bear to see how much love and gratitude there is in those soft blue eyes, pupils large in the dim room. She had forgotten how Chloe’s eyes had looked, before being hardened by bitterness and trauma from a world that had abandoned her. This Chloe had none of that trauma, and so her eyes were softer and more beautiful than Max ever remembered them to be. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—

Chloe presses her head back into the pillow, turning her mouth away from the cup, obviously having taken her fill. 

‘Thanks, Max.’

‘Always happy to help.’ 

‘Next time, grab me a beer.’ 

‘That’s…not going to help headaches.’

‘Wet blanket. I was joking.’ 

‘I know you were,’ Max assures as she replaces the drink on the dresser, ‘Is there anything else?’ 

‘Think...I might rest a while, Max. Like I said, caught me on a shit day. Go take some pictures or something.’ Chloe turned her head to nod at the shuttered window, with golden light leaking around the corners. ‘What do photographers call this time? Everything looks amazing at this time.’ 

‘The Golden Hour.’ 

A long pause, Chloe still staring at the curtained window, as though to reflect on this new piece of knowledge. For a time, there was little noise except for a bird twittering outside and the ventilator working to help her breathe. Max thought she might have drowsed off when Chloe turns her face back again to Max with a wan smile, her forehead crinkling with pain, eyes closed.

‘Learn something new every day, Max. Now thanks to you, I know.’ 

Max waits a few more minutes, still looking over at the window, imagining the view beyond. She realises she had not paid any heed to anything that was outside, but then again, her mind had been thinking only of one thing—or person, rather. Chloe, now lying before her in a bed, unable to move anything below her neck, stuck day and night, not unless she was in her wheelchair, able to move around at will, wherever she wanted. But all the most modern wheelchairs in the world could not undo her paralysis, could not help her feel anything below her neck again. 

Convinced that Chloe has dozed off again, Max quietly leaves Chloe’s side, returning to the bedroom door, opening it to the soft golden light of sundown. The house seems to be very still, except Max can smell something delicious wafting from the kitchen, and her stomach growls in anticipation of dinner. No doubt Joyce is in there cooking up a meal; Max wonders if Chloe eats much, and this idle thought is chased immediately by a jolting realisation that she likely has to be hand-fed her meals. 

God. No dignity for her. This sucks. Oh Chloe...

Bills and opened envelopes lie on both dressers and table, and Max cannot help but take a quick glance at them, without touching or being too obvious about it. She carefully suppresses any outward reaction on seeing the horrific bills they have to pay, even just for Chloe’s basic supplies. A newspaper article on the table catches her eye, and her hand flies to her mouth as she reads about the mysterious whale strandings on the beach. 

Has this anything to do with my powers? What the hell am I doing?

Strange how seeing an article on the stranded whales she’d seen earlier on the bus ride from Blackwell Academy really hit it home for her. This surely could not be a coincidence after the snow, the eclipse, and flocks of dead birds. Was the storm coming in this reality too? 

She was just fucking everything up, that’s all she was doing. 

Trying to take her mind off this shit, Max drifts to the sliding door facing out into the yard, spotting at once that their old board with their innocent childhood drawings had been moved from the space it usually inhabited in her original timeline. Why over there, across from what used to be the garage…

Oh. 

No doubt Chloe wanted it moved so that she could see it from outside her window whenever she could. So she could remember Max, even though there had been no visits from her for five years. No doubt seeing a reminder of Max gave Chloe hope that the former would come back someday to visit, and today that wish had finally come true. 

How fitting that the wish had been granted at the golden hour, a time that granted a touch of magic to every photographer’s framed shots. If only Max had her camera now, she might have taken a photo or two of the painting tinged by sundown, or of the bird on the fence, its feathers dusted with evening light. 

 A few hours pass Max by, spent exploring and reflecting on changes in this old familiar, and unfamiliar, childhood home away from home. She could not bear staying long in Chloe’s old room, bereft of the smell of weed and stale pizza, of the clutter of beer bottles and cans and piles of unwashed laundry, and the walls naked for want of punk posters and graffiti borne of a life ‘dipped in shit’ as Chloe had so colourfully described it yesterday. 

But then she is summoned to the stairs, eventually, by Joyce calling for Max, that Chloe is awake, that she wants to see her again. Chloe’s headache has simmered down a good bit, Joyce says when Max joins her at the bottom of the stairs. Not by much, she hastens to warn, but enough that she can talk again with Max, at least for a little while. 

Max doesn’t hesitate for even a moment, rushing back into Chloe’s room, shutting the door again behind her. It is still very dim inside, a small lamp on a dresser the only source of light, aside from the glowing screens of the machines hooked to Chloe, and the heat lamp’s glow. Again, Max’s heart skips a beat when Chloe catches her eye with a smile. 

Has she always been this beautiful when she smiles?

Max makes her way back to the chair next to Chloe, settling herself in it as she had before, stretching her legs out in front of her, at a loss for what to say.

‘Dude, stop.’ 

Max blinks in confusion, staring at Chloe. ‘Stop what?’

‘Feeling sorry for me. My parents and I do enough of that on our own.’ 

‘I just never expected it to be...like this...’ 

‘Well you never made much effort to find out either.’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Just because I’m like this doesn’t mean I can’t do anything. Fuck, getting my wheelchair after months motionless in bed was so...freeing. Could actually move my ass around without help.’ 

Max glances over at the wheelchair in the corner. ‘It looks...very high tech.’ 

'My parents made sure to get the best. Even if it bankrupts them.’ 

‘All of this looks so impressive.’ 

‘I can go online, talk shit with other people, listen to music. I’m not just...sitting here like a sentient Christmas tree.’ 

‘What kind of music? Classic?’ 

‘Uh, no fucking way am I listening to that. Punk, rock, that’s more my thing. Something I’m sure you’re way into, right.’ 

Max can’t help but laugh a little, half in relief that this Chloe still likes the same music. ‘Uh...not really.’ 

‘Figured.’ 

A pause slips between them, Max shifting on the chair as though to find another comfortable position, while Chloe turns her head to study the ceiling. 

‘Sorry to be boring tonight, Max. We totally would’ve hung out on the beach or something.’ 

‘What? No, no you’re fine,’ Max leans forward, touching a hand on the blankets near where she thought Chloe’s arm was. 

‘I would totally watch Blade Runner tonight with you, but…pain. Joy.’ 

‘Do you…need more painkillers? Should I ask—’

‘Nah, stay,’ Chloe’s gaze falls back to Max, ‘Being here with you makes it less shitty. Really. I’m so glad I got to see you today, it took you long enough to visit me.’ A smile lilts on her lips, reaching her eyes, so stark in both gentleness and not-quite-hidden pain. ‘Seeing you here…reminds me so much of when we were kids running around Arcadia Bay, playing at pirates. Seems like so long ago when we were that young.’ 

Max lets out a soft sigh of nostalgia. ‘Seems literally like yesterday to me.’ 

‘Time flies, doesn’t it?’ 

‘We should’ve taken over Arcadia Bay while we still had the chance.’ 

‘But you will. You still have time, Max. And you’ll be photographing every little thing along the way.’ 

‘You know me well.’ 

Chloe winces a little again in pain. ‘Fuck. Shitty timing. Max, do me a favour?’ 

Max stands up, ready to do anything for Chloe. If she needed the world, the moon, hell even goddamn Pluto, she would do it. Chloe deserved so much more than this. 

‘Anything. Anything you want, I’ll do for you.’ 

An impish grin tugs up Chloe’s lips, her blue eyes catching Max’s. ‘Anything, huh? Because hot monkey sex would be nice right now too.’ 

Max opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out, even as a blush creeps up into her cheeks and she has to look away, hearing Chloe’s teasing laugh, pulling at her heart with its familiarity.

‘Oooh look, I made Maxine blush!’ 

Omigod, Chloe. You’re impossible. 

‘I…I’m…’ 

‘God, Max, you’re so adorable sometimes. Can you look in that drawer over there?’ 

Max finds the drawer Chloe wants her to open, and sees nothing but several tubs and tubes of medicated lotion.

‘Keeps my blood circulating. Or makes my headaches fuck off a little more.’ 

‘You need some right now?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘Uh which one?’ 

Max finds the one Chloe wants and brings it over to her, unscrewing the cap. 

‘What should I do?’ 

Chloe gives her a look, raising an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know, unscrew the cap, pour lotion in your hand, rub hands together, then massage lotion onto my forehead and temples. Simple enough instructions.’ 

‘Think I can follow those instructions.’

Chloe closes her eyes as Max rubs her hands together, sitting next to her on the bed, placing her hands on Chloe’s forehead, feeling how soft her skin is under her palms, fingers massaging lotion into her temples as gently as she can, feeling the brush of Chloe’s hair over her fingertips. Close up, Max can see the deep bags under Chloe’s eyes, the very faint line forming between her eyebrows, and how thin and pale her face has become from so much pain and weariness. It’s strange to think this Chloe is nineteen, same as her Chloe in her old timeline, and yet she seems so much older beyond her years. 

Am I the same when Chloe looks at me, whether here or in my old time?

Her hands, so tender and careful, now still on Chloe’s cheeks, cupping her face between her palms, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. 

‘Is…is that making it better?’ 

‘You’re good at this—hell of a lot better than the nurses.’ 

Max can’t help a little smile, moving a hand up to brush some of Chloe’s hair back from her forehead, letting the blonde strands slip between her fingers. 

‘Always wanted coloured bangs,’ Chloe says in a whispery tone, ‘Like Pris.’ 

‘Who?’ 

‘Blade Runner.’ 

‘Oh…I see. You’d look amazing with blue hair.’ 

‘Weird. I would have said the same for me.’ 

‘With a cool beanie to top it off when you go outside.’ 

‘Dressing me with your eyes are you, Max? Normally it’s the other way around.’ 

‘N-no, I mean...you’d look stunning.’ 

‘Never change, Max.’ 

Max draws her hands a little away from Chloe’s face. ‘How’s the pain now?’ 

‘Lot better than earlier today, and not as bad as it would be without you here.’ Chloe’s eyes open, meeting Max’s with a sleepy, yet achingly glad, expression. ‘You’ve made my day being here at all. Can’t believe we’re already on the cusp of adulthood.’ 

‘Yeah…me too.’ 

‘I keep wanting to go back to that time, when we were dorky kids covered in pancake flour…I still have that photo somewhere.’ 

Max’s breath catches in her throat, heart hammering. ‘You do?’ 

‘Yeah, in the album on my dresser over there,’ Chloe nods toward the wall beyond her ventilator. ‘Tomorrow morning, we can go on a trip down memory lane, get all mushy about ye olde days. Not tonight, not up for it.’ 

‘I can wait until morning,’ Max assures her, ‘I’m just happy we’re together again.’ 

‘Me too, Max. It’s been too fucking long.’ 

In this reality anyway. Was it just this morning Chloe had dared her to kiss her, and ended the day with an argument in her truck? Meanwhile, for this Chloe, and this Max, five years had passed since the last time they’d seen each other. At least this timeline’s Max made some effort to bother keeping in touch, even if she never visited. 

Max slung her legs up on to the bed, lying back as gently as possible until her head is next to Chloe’s on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. She allows her eyes to close, just for a minute or two, relaxing against Chloe next to her, trying not to think about how she cannot even feel the presence of her best friend next to her in the bed, like this was just another one of their old sleepovers. 

‘Some sleepover, this, isn’t it?’ Max whispers, seeing Chloe turn her head toward her out of the corner of her eye. ‘I mean…when was the last time we had a sleepover?’ 

‘Right before you left, actually,’ Chloe whispers back, ‘I missed our sleepovers. Or, rather, when you came here to sleepover with me.’ 

Max turns her head to meet Chloe’s gaze, heart skipping as she sees how close their faces are to each other. She still cannot believe this is the same Chloe she knew from her old life. So different and yet still just the same in so many ways. She wonders if this Chloe would ever have double dared her to kiss her. 

‘I remember. I don’t think we ever slept so much as stayed up as long as we could. We always pretended we slept all night.’ 

‘My parents always saw right through that.’ 

Max laughs a little, nostalgia mixed with sadness. ‘Yeah. Yeah they did.’ 

Chloe’s face softens into a small smile, her eyes never leaving Max’s, even as her eyelids start drooping again, drowsy from so many pain meds.

‘Max…you’re…you’re the only one I grew up with…who’s visited me…ever…’

Max shifts so she’s lying on her side, facing Chloe, foreheads just touching, the tickle of a strand of blonde hair against her own.

‘Chloe, I promise, I’m never abandoning you again. I’m never leaving you.’

A soft sigh, Chloe’s head tips a little against Max’s. ‘I love you, Max.’

Max allows her own eyes to close, drowsy from the stifling warmth from the heat lamp, and being so close to Chloe she could have kissed her again, like she had that all-too-brief moment this morning. She’s amazed she’s already so tired, her mind a whirl of shock, fear, love, and nostalgia, and still she finds herself drifting away, Chloe next to her.

Love you too, Chloe.

The photo could wait until tomorrow morning. For now, all that mattered was this Chloe, in this lifetime, in this thread of time.

[popculty]

Surviving the Coronapocalypse: A Masterpost

Living in the current coronavirus capital of the U.S., I’ve been thinking a lot about how woefully unprepared my city was, and how I can help other people who will likely be in the situation we’ve been in within the next few weeks or months. There have been a LOT of posts - from memes to crap advice to solid advice to a misspelled hashtag that somehow blew up without anyone noticing. It’s been all over the place and kind of overwhelming, honestly. So instead of reblogging a million individual posts, I wanted to consolidate some of the most useful information/resources I’ve come across into one handy, update-able reference post. And because this a pop culture blog, there’s gonna be plenty of that sprinkled in. This isn’t going to be an exhaustive list, by any means - that would be impossible, considering how many angles there are to this thing and how quickly it’s evolving. But feel free to use this as a starter, and add to it as you come across other resources worth sharing.

First, protect your health:

1. I can’t believe in the year 2020, 150 years after germs were discovered, that we have to even say this, but: Wash your hands, people. This seems obvious, and we hear it constantly, and yet I keep seeing people use hand sanitizer like it’s the same as hand-washing. Not-so-fun fact: IT ISN’T. Not even close (so double fuck this guy!). First of all, it’s only effective against some types of germs. Secondly, it does NOT kill or remove those germs, it just temporarily neutralizes them, allowing them to resurface later. Hand sanitizer should only be used when hand-washing is not an option. It’s better than nothing, but is not a long-term habit that will save you. If you are going to use hand sanitizer, it needs to contain at least 60% alcohol to be effective. Alcohol, however, dries the fuck out of your hands, and germs love dry skin because they can hide in the cracks. So it’s important to moisturize afterward. But I’ll say it louder for the people in the back (esp. men who still haven’t figured out how bathroom hygiene works and then wonder why they’re dying at much higher rates from this): JUST 👏 WASH 👏 YOUR 👏 DAMN 👏 HANDS! 👏 Scrub for 20-30 seconds, like Kristen Bell told you. There are a million memes for this. Find one that speaks to you, or make your own, and use it.

2. “Social distancing” - By now we’ve all heard of this, and it’s a good thing for everyone to start doing right about now, regardless of whether or not you are feeling symptoms, because as Idris Elba just reminded us (bless), many people do not show symptoms, for weeks or even ever. So: try to stay six feet away from other people as much as possible. If you can’t avoid getting close to people, just make it quick. The latest info is that it’s not airborne (thank god), but transmitted via droplets (i.e. from coughing), so it really doesn’t matter whether you’re inside or outdoors.

3. And now a word from my infectious disease specialist mom who is working on the front-lines of this: 📣  If you have symptoms (fever, cough, shortness of breath), stay home and take care of yourself like you would if you had the flu. Do not go out in public unless you absolutely have to, (i.e. you are literally dying and require medical attention) and if you do, WEAR A SURGICAL MASK. IF YOU ARE NOT EXPERIENCING SYMPTOMS, YOU DO NOT NEED TO WEAR A MASK – THEY SHOULD ONLY BE WORN BY PEOPLE WHO ARE SICK/COUGHING (to stop those droplets), AND BY HEALTH CARE WORKERS. DO NOT HOARD MASKS FOR PERSONAL USE - THEY ARE ESSENTIALLY USELESS TO YOU AND IT DIVERTS THEM FROM THE DOCTORS AND NURSES WHO ACTUALLY NEED THEM. 📣 Thank you.

4. If you can stay home, stay home. Simple as that. Sure, flights are cheap and we all love a deal but at what cost, Becky?? Just because you can fly (you’re young! you’re healthy! you’re feeling lucky! you *hair flip* just don’t give a fuck!), doesn’t mean you can’t show some goddamn personal restraint and concern for your fellow (elderly, at-risk) human beings. If you won’t listen to me, listen to Wonder Woman. Participate in the #stayhomechallenge and #dontbeaspreader.

5. Inform yourself. The news is doing a really good job of sowing general panic and not much else. And obviously, the situation is literally changing everyday, but here are the basics you should know, via handy infographics. To keep up with the latest, I recommend this interactive map and Science Vs., an investigative science podcast that is currently doing a series of episodes on the ever-changing COVID-19 situation. It does a really good job of painting a picture of how this virus actually spreads, who is at risk, and what a pandemic would actually look like. The “Pandemic” episode of Explained on Netflix is also proving incredibly prescient right now.

Be a decent human being:

The truth is, if you know the facts, coronavirus isn’t actually that scary. What is scary is uninformed people acting impulsively and selfishly. Like, there is no logical reason for the run on toilet paper (coronavirus doesn’t even make you shit!). The reason there is no toilet paper in your grocery store is because a handful of excitable people panicked and bought up all the Charmin they saw. Then other people panicked when they saw the empty shelf and thought, “I guess I should be stockpiling tp too ??” So they did. Then other people came to the grocery store, saw the empty shelves, and posted pictures of those empty shelves on social media. And now everyone in the entire world is freaking out about toilet paper, for no goddamn reason. This scarcity (of tp, of Purell, etc), is a human-created problem, not an outbreak-created problem. Whereas, if everyone had remained calm and bought only what they needed, we could have avoided this entire headache. But people are gonna people, I guess. (If you’re still freaking out about toilet paper though, you should really just invest in a bidet, which is far more sanitary and better for the environment anyway.)

All this is to say: Think before you act. Stop tweeting pictures of empty shelves - you’re only fueling the fire. And don’t use the climate of fear and uncertainty as an excuse to act like a shitty person. When things return to normal, your actions right now will be remembered by those around you. So:

1. Take a look at this graph. If you’re healthy and young (under 60), don’t be a dick. Before you snatch every last roll of toilet paper or bottle of cold remedy off the shelf, considering leaving some for the grandmother behind you who’s probably terrified and has only just now risked leaving her house for this one grocery run, only to find the shelves bare.

2. Moreover, instead of getting swept up into the panic-buying and selfish hoarding, consider buying/delivering groceries for the elderly and at-risk, who are unable to leave their homes. Find out what volunteer opportunities have sprung up in your community to specifically address outbreak-related needs.

3. Donate to food banks - People who have been furloughed from their jobs will have an even harder time putting food on the table, and kids that depend on free school meals will still need to eat if their school is closed.

4. Support local businesses. Big businesses will weather this just fine, but your mom-and-pop store down the street? Your local grocer? They’re hurting already and might not be able to survive weeks or months of low sales or even closing down for a period of time. So...

Buy from local stores rather than big chains as much as possible.

If you are eating/ordering out, choose local, and especially Asian restaurants, who are really hurting right now, and because again: YOU CANNOT GET CORONAVIRUS FROM FOOD. YOU’RE JUST BEING RACIST.

If you don’t want to eat out at all right now (probably advisable), buy gift cards to local restaurants for yourself or others – This will support struggling business now when they need it, and then you can cash in on them when things calm down a bit.

Likewise, if you have tickets to a play, show, etc that gets cancelled, consider not asking for a refund and instead making that a donation to your local stage company, independent cinema, arts center, etc.

If you live in a city where a large event with many local vendors gets cancelled, find out if there is an alternative pop-up event to support those vendors, or buy from them on Etsy. Many artists and craftspeople depend on one huge, annual event like a fair or Con for their entire year’s earnings, so having that event postponed or cancelled is a huge financial blow to them. For example, when Emerald City Comic-Con got pushed til August, this lovely Twitter thread popped up to support the artists.

Maintain your sanity:

The other big thing we are starting to realize is that this social distancing is going to cause a loneliness epidemic in countries that are already some of the loneliest in the world. We don’t know how long these measures will be in place, so we need to prepare ourselves, mentally/emotionally:

1. Take a breath - Even worst-case scenario, this isn’t the end of the world. Try to keep perspective. Apps like Happify, Calm, or any of these can help keep obtrusive thoughts at bay, provide guided mindfulness meditations and breathing exercises, and help center you when you feel like the world is spinning out of control. This is likely going to be a marathon, not a sprint, so pace yourself and be proactive about your mental health.

2. Stay connected – We have more ways to keep in touch virtually now than ever before.

FaceTime, Marco Polo, Discord – Use technology to check in with your friends and family.

Podcasts are a great way to feel connected to others right now. Death, Sex, and Money just did a listener call-in episode, which was a good reminder that this outbreak is affecting people differently across city, state, country, race, class, gender, and ability. Another one of my faves that is going to be applicable to more people than ever in these coming months is The Hilarious World of Depression, in which comedians like Rachel Bloom, Solomon Georgio, and Margaret Cho talk about mental illness and comedy. In one especially relevant episode, Mara Wilson talks about how people with anxiety tend to handle crisis much better than neurotypicals (which explains how I’m so zen right now...)

3. Keep busy - Not being able to go out and socialize like we are used to is likely to make a lot of us stir-crazy. But there are a ton of things you can do and see from the comfort of your own home.

Go on a virtual museum tour, or see the Palace of Versailles.

Take a soothing, 8-hour virtual drive through Iceland.

Watch operas at The Met.

Explore NASA’s stunning media library.

Tackle your book list.

Start writing that novel (or finish that fic!)

File your taxes (Get that return!)

Do your spring cleaning.

Plant a victory garden to reduce the strain on producers and avoid crowded stores.

Binge the shows your friends keep telling you about (follow this blog and podcast for recs!)

If you have kids, here’s a list of all the free educational courses being offered right now.

Libraries may be closed, but you can still get free ebooks, music, movies and TV shows on the Hoopla app, and movies on Kanopy for free if you have a library card or are a student or teacher.

Some upcoming theatrical releases have been postponed (No Time to Die, indeed), but others, like Emma and The Invisible Man, will hit streaming platforms immediately, so you can still get your new movie fix.

So many things to do! Try not to see it as being confined, but rather as an opportunity to do all the things you’ve been putting off. If getting shit done makes you feel good, do it! But hey - remember that you really don’t have to be productive right now just because capitalism tells you to. This is also a great time to be still and relish doing absolutely nothing.

4. Perspective - Remember that this is not the only thing happening in the world right now (psst, the U.S. government is using this distraction to fuck with our privacy, AGAIN.) Also, this is not the first pandemic humanity has endured and it will be nowhere near the worst, so soothe yourself by reading about past pandemics and how we got through them.

Alright. Back to covering pop culture for me (we’re gonna need escapism now more than ever). I’m not gonna even try to update this regularly, that’s just too daunting. But I encourage you to add to this and share as needed in the coming weeks/months.

Stay safe out there, and

[leadkiss]

disenchantment prompts: season one

[+]  —  feel free to adjust wording, pronouns, etc.

1x01: “A PRINCESS, AN ELF AND A DEMON WALK INTO A BAR”

“I’m actually hoping for death. Thanks, though!" "I thought that I’d get married for true love or because I was wasted." "First off, not a ghost. Ghosts are losers that got murdered. I’m a demon." "Your whining really turns me on." "I wanna taste something other than sweetness." "I’d rather die a big death than live a small life." "You know that little voice in your head that tells you to do the right thing? I’m the guy yelling over it." "I never said I’m your friend." "Well, I like war, but I wouldn’t say I love it." "Times when you really shouldn’t are exactly when you really should." "I was raised by a pack of drinking buddies and I came out perfect." "I’m not here to answer cat questions." "I’ve never had a nightmare. Is this one?" "Cool night air, sky full of stars. This sucks. How much further?" "Hey, he’s making fun of my dreams! That’s what friends do!" "You can sleep down by my feet. I call it the friend zone." "Pardon my language, but destiny is baloney!”

1x02: “FOR WHOM THE PIG OINKS”

“You don’t scare me. I was born scared!” “Your cruddy life is worth living! And so is mine, if you live.” “I know. It felt weird when I said it.” “I don’t see anyone else storming your castle, princess.” “Uh, you know what? I’m just not comfortable with murder.” “Selfish? Maybe. But cruel? Eh, also maybe.” “I must admit, the quantity blood exceeded my expectations.” “That’s not fair! You’re playing to your strengths and not mine!”

1x03: “THE PRINCESS OF DARKNESS”

“What a naughty night we had.” “May I interest you in a joy ride?” “Get ready. Next week, we’re going to try arson.” “You know they prey on the weak in prison? At least, I intend to.” “I’m kinda scared to try this. Will you peer pressure me?” “That is the most fun I’ve ever had without remembering a single moment of it.” “Trust me! I haven’t led you astray in minutes.” “I guess I’m gonna do this, unless someone talks me out of it.” “If I spend any more time with my family they’re going to start asking me why I’m not married.” “This is not good for my hangover.” “Great, you’re gonna make me be the good guy? Ugh, I hate that.” “Like I said on our first date, nothing could be worse than this.”

1x04: “CASTLE PARTY MASSACRE”

“You doing anything weird in here I said “no” about?” “Just making murder plans with my cat.” “If I find so much as a misplaced hair when I come back, I’ll cut off your arm.” “Dude. Decide what you want, drink ‘til you have the nerve to go for it, then keep drinking so the inevitable rejection doesn’t hurt so bad.” “I didn’t know you were interesting.” “Let’s make this night so legendary they caution children about it.” “I’m gonna march up and say something I’ll have figured out by the time I get there.” “Nice! She drank her way out of depression like a pro.”

1x05: “FASTER, PRINCESS! KILL! KILL!”

“You have got to learn to read the room.” “How dare you bring logic into God’s house?” “You know, I would have left willingly!” “Sorry. I’m done threatening you.” “This ain’t about my impulse control.” “You’re a good-for-nothing, and you’re good at nothing.” “Just remember, this job is easier than it looks.” “Every time I turn my head away, something bad happens.” “I would not kiss me right now.” “If you’re gonna crawl back, can I ride you like a horse?” “Are you crazy or under a curse?” “I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve never killed anyone before. (Who wasn’t trying to kill me first. Or bother me. Or marry me.)” “This is a goddamn solemn occasion so shut the hell up, all right?” “What is wrong with you? It’s like you WANT me to cut your head off.” “Every time that girl gets a little responsibility somebody winds up alive.” “I suck. The only thing I’m good at is sitting on this rock and crying.” “I’m confused. Does he want to die?” “I like this, but as a friend.” “All right, the creepy laughter has to stop before we can have a real conversation.” “You did it. You finally killed someone intentionally. I’m so proud of you.”

1x06: “SWAMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE” 

“It’s drunk and I’m late. We better sneak in quietly.” “Oh floor, you’re always there for me. So supportive. Not like walls and staircases, always getting in my way.” “I’d like to have a role to play in your life. I’m tired of feeling useless.” “You’re a great writer! I read your diary.” “I’ll bring you what you deserve.” “Hey, I’m an enabler. There’s a big difference.” “Just once can we go on a family vacation without having to run away screaming?” “I hope you can sense my sarcasm through your drunken haze.” “See, this is why I always tell you not to try things.”

1x07: “LOVE’S TENDER RAMPAGE” 

“If you could be any mythical creature, what would it be?” “We should go home before we pass out in the street. Again.” “I haven’t lived long enough to give up on my dreams yet.” “I can’t believe he stuck to his story no matter how hard I laughed.” “Why would I do you any favors?” “Don’t try to be my friend.” “What are you coming to me for? We don’t got that kind of relationship.” “Make room on the dance floor, cause I’m full of shrimp and I need to lay down.” “What can I say? I’m attracted to people who are good at their job.” “None of this would’ve happened if you’d just told the truth!” “I lied because I was too insecure to admit I tried to kiss you.”

1x08: “THE LIMITS OF IMMORTALITY” 

"Entertainment is just a tool that pacifies the masses and leads to the decay and ultimate collapse of civilization. Let's clap along!" "I prefer to stay safe the old fashioned way: running like a coward." "I'd rather die than listen to this." "Immortality is a curse. When life is endless, so is everything else." "What part of "no thanks" do you not understand?" "I didn't save you so much as you fell on me." "Unlike other villains, I shan't be telling you my plan. Good day." "I am all about the easy way." "Eh, I've beheld better." "Now the only pain is humiliation." "Forty-five years of necromancing have led me to this moment." "See you in hell, weirdo!" "You know, I'm profoundly lonely, but I think you should leave."

1x09: “TO THINE OWN ELF BE TRUE”

"Where is the monster I married?" "I'm not a god. I'm not even a healthy man." "We lost him, but cured his headache." "How can you keep messing up a recipe with two ingredients?" "Lying to me in any other way but flattery is a mortal crime!" "You know, I just realized something: You're the reason I have a drinking problem." "Nice typical reaction, Mr. Predictable." "I wish you the best of luck embarrassing some other kingdom." "I found him! Wait a minute. It's just three quarters of a dead raccoon." "You do realize you're still hitting me?" "Hey, hey, hey. Slow down, champ. Oh, god I'm turning into my bartender." "You're never gonna be whole until you figure out who you really are, and there's only one way to find the answer." "I can't go home! It'll wreck my image as a total badass." "I smell cocoa, caramel and conformity." "I owe you an apology. Relatively speaking, you're a badass." "It's times like this I wish I had 3,000 fists." "I'll be watching. And judging. And generalizing." "I've been meaning to—but the thing is, I—so you see—well, I'm glad we had this talk. How about you talk now?" "I'm down to my second to last emergency flask, so let's have a toast." "I was waiting to tell you until after I was dead, so I wouldn't have to tell you." "Hey! Nobody calls me [name] except my best friends, and my worst enemies." "Ah, screw team spirit." "It's okay. I always wanted to go out when I was still young and hot." "Oh, man. If this is sadness, I don't like it one bit." "Nothing you can do can fix this!" "I don't even think it's real. It’s just some myth in a book." "You lied to me and betrayed me! Get out!" "Well, hey, good thing is, I swiped the only thing he cares about." "That's gotta make you feel a little better, right?" "Sorry, it's just... you have snot, like, all over your face." "Just close your eyes and don't think too much." 

1x10: “DREAMLAND FALLS”

"I had to choose you." "Thank you for your kind gasps." "They taught me the fine art of stabbing." "It's just too painful seeing the truth all the time." "I blame myself, cause I didn't even notice." "I'm much more embarrassed than I am aroused." "Ha! I foresee trouble in someone's future." "What a horrific day you've had. Let's have too much wine and forget about it all." "I can't believe I'm reduced to talking to you." "It's gonna be another long, lonely night." "How did you get like this?" "Pour a drink, light a cigar, and hand 'em both to me." "This is where I come to clear my head. Or to sleep it off." "It's almost like you were never away." "Can you steer my stumbles in the direction of the bed?" "I have to take action. I hate action!" "My clothes are really heavy. Can we have this conversation sitting down?" "I used to spend many nights up here, watching the stars, the moon, the neighbors." "The truth has been right under your nose the whole time." "You know, we could've just gone to marriage counseling." "I do know how to pick 'em, don't I?" "I should be the one killing everyone. I should be the one creeping everyone out." "It was the only way to get you to stop talking." "I guess the only bright side is, now I got nothing left to lose."

[egofutuimatertua]

A post for the void of Tumblr

So today was the first day I went to school (I'm doing the year over bc i didn't really go last year.) It was a fine day nothing interesting happened, there are only a few others in my class so it was pretty quiet. There's one girl in my class, she has short black hair, a bit chubby, reads manga, looks a bit emo but she's cute I really wanna be friends with her but I don't think I'll be able to talk to her.

When I got home from school I was exhausted which was great because it's not like I'm not already tired all the time. My brother came home a bit later and after him my dad. Everything was fine tbh, I was a bit tired and I had a headache but other than that I felt pretty great I even finished an art thingy I was working on. (might post it later cuz I have no one to show it to.)

Later I started to feel a bit numb right before I hyperventilatted for literally Les than a second and then I felt like absolute garbage. So naturally I cut myself as one does just to realize I have PE tomorrow and I won't be able to hide the cuts also the pants I usually wear are ripped now but whatever. After all that I went downstairs to get some water. I didn't bother to hide the fact that I had cut myself because I really wanted to talk with someone but my dad didn't even fucking notice. I was starting there talking to him with paper pressed against my arm and a glass of water in my left hand (the same side I cut on) with my wrist facing up and I was holding my glass at the bottom.

My dad didn't even notice it in the slightest, instead he was telling me about my brothers school.

My own goddamn dad doesn't care enough about me to notice when I need to talk when I'm making it so obvious. Great. Just fan-fucking-tastic. I hate myself, my dad doesn't care about me, my brother doesn't do anything but play video games.

Heh. I'm not going to last more than a week before I give up and stay in my room and isolate myself.

[llampacaeatingguppy]

for that book ask game, i've gotta ask every. single. question. i love books and i love hearing abt ppl's opinions on books, so lay it on me, abi!!

I WILL, THANK YOU! 

book you’ve reread the most times?

The Princess Bride. I’m basic and it entertains me jaklfjdsakfjsaklfdjs. Really though, I don’t reread very much so that’s not a hard one

top 5 books of all time?

YOU KNOW I’M BAD AT RANKING WHY

ugh

fine

I’ll try. In no particular order:

The Princess Bride-- William GoldmanThe Enchanted Forest Chronicles (and more specifically the prequel trilogy Dealing with/Searching for/Calling on Dragons)The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy--book I beta read and isn’t published yet so idk if it’s okay to talk about--I should be able to think of another one, but I can sense a headache coming so I need to wrap this up and it’s taking me too long to think of one

What is your favourite genre?

Fantasy/science fantasy

what sections of a bookstore do you browse?

H A! Uhm, usually the YA/teen fiction section, fantasy/sci fi section, and art/craft section. If there’s a nerd section (like D&D stuff or whatever), I’ll stare at it and try to will friends who’ll play it with me into existence. So far, my mind powers aren’t powerful enough to succeed 

where do you buy books?

Usually either Barnes&Noble or thriftbooks, but I just borrow them a lot nowadays

what books have you read in the last month?

The Fall of Giants by Ken Follett and Dragonspell by Donita K. Paul

is there a series/book that got you into reading?

An old book from my teacher’s bookshelf in first grade. It was about a collie, but I don’t really remember details any more. i loved it so much she let me have it at the end of the year

More recently, The Enchanted Forest Chronicles was the first book I read that really reminded me that hey, reading is pretty neat I should do that more

what is the first book you remember reading yourself?

See above, paragraph 1

when do you tend to read most?

When I’m at my parents’ place

do you have a guilty fav?

A thing not at all taking itself seriously. The more ridiculous the better. Give me goddamn Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail or the original Star Trek levels of goofs and cheese in novel form and I’ll be the happiest camper to ever exist. This is most readily available in kid books, so uh. Seeing me reading dumb cartoony book for kids that may or may not have pictures in it isn’t terribly unusual

what non-fiction books do you like if any?

Yeah nonfiction can be fun! A Street Cat Named Bob is the last nonfiction I think I read. I’m a sucker for cats. There should be more cats in books

did you enjoy any compulsory high school readings?

I flipping LOVED Frankenstein

do you have a goodreads?

My guess is no, since I don’t know what it is and I’m too lazy to google it to find out jkafkalhfskladkjfshfskf

do you ever mark/dog ear books you own?

yeah. Not as much as I used to because I mostly borrow from the library now that I have to pay with books with my own gosh dang human money instead of my parents paying for them

recommend and review a book.

Dealing with Dragons by Patricia C. Wrede. If you’ve ever heard me talk about books after I’ve started reading more, these have probably come up. It’s fantasy, but a goofy, ambling sort of fantasy. The characters are endearing, the jokes are funny, and it doesn’t take itself seriously in the slightest

how many books have you read this year?

How exactly do you expect me to know that? okay hang on let me try...

Eight? I know it’s not impressive I haven’t been reading again for very long

top 5 children’s books?

OH HELL YEAH THIS ONE I CAN DO

Gregor the Overlander -- Suzanne Collins

The Looking Glass Chronicles -- Frank Beddor

Lockwood & Co. -- Jonathan Stroud

The Hero’s Guide to Saving Your Kingdom -- Christopher Healy

the Artemis Fowl series -- Eoin Colfer

This is literally almost all remembering what books I loved though, with the exception of Lockwood & Co.

do you like historical books? which time period?

Ehhhh I didn’t really like them much when I was a kid, but The Fall of Giants wasn’t bad so maybe I’ll branch into it?

most disliked popular books?

I dunno, man. 50 shades of gray? the game of thrones books? Like what books are even popular right now? You expect me to know that? 

what are things you look for in a book?

Humor. It’s not a dealbreaker, but dang will humor make me gravitate towards a book more than anything else. Other than that, happy endings. Bring me the happy endings. I will refuse to read something if I know the ending is unhappy. And also The Power of Friendship

[thepartyresponsible]

another fill! this one is for @plantgrapes, who asked for a bodyguard and rockstar au with clint and jason. i got a little carried away, so i’m just posting a snippet of it now. i’ll post the rest of it on ao3 later.

“No, come on,” Clint says, horrorstruck, betrayed. “Coulson, please. Come on.”

“You have your assignment.” Coulson doesn’t even blink as he pushes the folder another inch or two across the desk. “I’d focus on packing, Barton. Your flight leaves in an hour.”

Clint hunches forward in his chair, buries his head in the hand that’s not currently wrapped in a brace. Beside him, he can hear Natasha doing that thing she does, where she politely clears her throat instead of laughing in his face.

“Too bad, Barton,” she says. “Maybe you should stop jumping off buildings.”

“Yeah,” Clint mumbles, “or maybe I should aim for the sidewalk instead of the dumpster.”

“We’re all very sorry,” Natasha says, not quite rolling her eyes, “that you have to spend the next four weeks hanging out with rock stars instead of hunting war criminals in Somalia.”

Coulson drops another file on the desk. “Don’t be too sorry,” he says. “You’re going too.”

The smile evaporates from Natasha’s face. “What,” she says, flat, disbelieving. For that one, beautiful moment, this whole clusterfuck is almost worth it, and then Clint remembers: rock stars, tour buses, bodyguard duty, and it’s not worth it at all.

Clint skims the file, but reading while flying always gives him a headache, so he decides, as usual, to let Nat take care of all the complicated interpersonal bullshit. He knows all he needs to know. Someone with money is trying to kill at least two members of The Outlaws, and SHIELD’s involved because someone, somewhere, called in a favor.

Or maybe because someone, somewhere, is holding a grudge. It’s difficult to tell if their primary objective is supposed to be protecting the band or eliminating the hitman. Even Coulson hedged, when Clint asked.

“Well, here’s something redemptive,” Natasha tells him, as Clint fusses with the tray table and considers faking a heart attack. “They’re French history scholars.”

“No,” Clint says, “stop it.”

“Their latest single,” she continues, holding up her phone, “is about guillotines.”

Clint squints at the cover art on the screen. “Is that the president?” he asks. “Is that the president’s head in a basket?”

She nods, mouth curling up. “It’s called ‘Let Them Eat Debt.’”

Clint considers that for a long moment and then nods. “Listen,” he says, “about our suicide pact.”

“We don’t have one,” she says, as she reaches into his hoodie pocket to steal his headphones.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s what we need to talk about.”

She shakes her head, still smiling, and hands him one of the earbuds. “Calm down,” she advises. “They’re not that terrible.”

“Nat,” he says, as she starts the first track, “I can already tell this is shit. You can’t dance to this.”

“You can’t dance at all,” she reminds him, because she’s cruel, and merciless, and can dance to anything, at any time, no matter how much vodka she’s had or how much blood she’s lost. “Now, stop whining, and listen.”

They aren’t terrible. They’re just young, and pissed off, and loud about it, and Clint has no patience for that kind of thing.

“I was right,” he says, when the song ends. “You can’t dance to that.”

“You can’t,” Natasha repeats, as she scrolls through the available albums. “I’m going to play this the next time we get a raid. The only thing it’s missing is gunfire. And arterial spray.”

Clint is assigned to the lead singer. Nat gets the drummer, a nervy combat vet who voluntarily goes by “Bucky,” has a prototype prosthetic, suspiciously nice hair, and PTSD.

“Can we switch?” the singer asks, hand in the air like they’re in high school. He’s Jason Todd, and, as far as Clint could tell from his file, his hobbies are limited to playing music, being unfairly attractive, and getting into fights with anyone who holds still long enough.

“Depends,” Natasha says, with a shrug. “Why?”

“For symmetry.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward Barnes, and then nods toward Clint. “They’d look great together. I mean, they even fucked up the same arm.”

“Jesus,” Barnes says, closing his eyes. “Jason, come on.”

“He might as well look good,” Jason says, shrugging. “Because he’s sure as fuck not needed for anything else.”

“Hell, Nat,” Clint says, shoving his good hand in the pocket of his jeans so he won’t be tempted to throttle this guy where he sits. “It’s almost like we’re not wanted here.”

“We were hired to do a job.” Natasha smiles at the singer, flashing teeth. “We are going to do that job,” she says, “and you are going to survive until the end of our contract.”

“You can both look after Bucky,” Jason says. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Jason,” Bucky says, quiet. He’s got that exposed nerve look to him, the listlessness that comes from being burned out, hyperaware for too long. He presses his lips together, gives Jason a look that’s a little too raw, edging toward pleading.

Jason stares back for a long moment. Clint reflects on how it’s going to be a real bitch, explaining to Coulson that he beat up Jason Todd for being mean to his own bandmate. And then Jason sighs, deflates, and runs a hand through his hair.

“Alright,” he says, narrowing his eyes at Clint. “But if you fall in love with me, I’m not singing you any Goddamn Whitney Houston songs.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, rolling his eyes. “That’s really not going to be a problem.”

Jason, somehow, gets to introduce them to the band. Allegedly, they’re undercover because there’s a chance some member of the crew is responsible for the murder attempts. Clint thinks it probably has more to do with Jason not being ready to admit that he can’t fight the whole world by himself.

“This is Natalie,” Jason says, pointing at Nat. “She’s a photojournalist. She’s working with Bucky. And Artemis, for the record, I already asked, and she’s in a committed relationship, so we’re preemptively enforcing the three-foot rule.”

Artemis looks up from her laptop. She eyes Natasha thoughtfully for a moment and then refocuses on her screen. “The three-foot rule is only for Harper,” she says. “About you.”

“Bullshit,” the last bandmate says, dragging himself off the couch. He’s Roy Harper, redheaded, gangly, and allegedly in recovery, although Clint hasn’t seen a sober man wear a backwards trucker hat since the early 2000s. “Jay loves it when I get handsy with him. The three-foot rule was about you and the paparazzi. And also those girls who followed Bucky into a bathroom once.”

“Into a bathroom?” Clint tips his head, feigns contemplation. “It sounds like you guys need some kind of security team.”

“What for?” Roy asks, blinking. “We’ve got Jay.”

Jason gives Clint an absolutely insufferable smirk and then says, “This is Clint. He’s, I dunno. My assistant, I guess.”

Roy assesses Clint, and his eyes stall out on the brace around his wrist. “Shit, what happened to your hand?”

What happened is Clint broke his wrist after he dropped from a three-story building and had a disagreement with the fire escape on the way down. What happened is Natasha was in the street, vulnerable, and he drew fire from two separate helicopters armed with machine guns.

What happened is classified.

Clint opens his mouth to give some kind of bland, believable lie, and then Jason starts talking.

“He’s, just.” Jason waves his hand, dismissive at first and then oddly graphic at the end of it. “He’s really bad at jerking off.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause. Clint spends most of it fantasizing about punching Jason in the back of the head. Bucky levels a glare Jason’s direction that suggests he’s having similar thoughts.

“Wow,” Roy whispers, staring at Clint. A curious, considering look crosses his face, and then he runs his tongue over his lip and gives him a weird little wave. “Well,” he says, “if you need any coaching--”

“Three-foot rule,” Jason says, immediately. “Jesus Christ, Roy.”

“I can just talk him through it,” Roy says, wide-eyed and earnest. He looks at Clint, and, somehow, he’s just sincere enough that it’s impossible to take offense. “From however many feet away you want,” he says. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, nonplussed.

“Don’t give up on your dreams,” Roy tells him.

“Okay,” Jason says. “We’re done.”

“I’m sorry about Roy,” Jason tells him, later, in a tone that implies he’s sure as hell not sorry about Roy, and, also, Clint can go fuck himself if he has a problem. “He’s not always—it’s been awhile since he had to talk to strangers when he wasn’t high out of his fucking mind, so. He’s not great at it. Sometimes.”

Clint’s faintly surprised that Jason made it all the way through that explanation. He’s seen people spit out teeth with more grace and good cheer. “Honestly,” he says, “Harper’s fine. You’re a bit of an asshole, but I don’t have a problem with Roy.”

“Good,” Jason says. He squints at him, chin ducked, jaw tight. Clint keeps his hands open and relaxed at his sides, can’t for the life of him figure out if this guy wants to fight him or not. “He’s my best friend,” Jason says. “I mean, there’s Bucky and Artemis. Who are also my best friends.”

“Sure,” Clint says. “Look, I just told you. I don’t have a problem with any of them. You’re the only one who’s pissing me off.”

Jason stares at him for a beat, and then another, and then, finally, he relaxes. “Fine,” he says. “I don’t give a fuck what you think about me.”

The fact that he cares what Clint thinks about the others is the first thing about Jason Todd that Clint’s actually liked. Other than his jawline, and how tight he wears his jeans.

“Good talk,” Clint says. “Now let’s talk about those unlicensed firearms I found in your tour bus.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about those. They won’t trace back to any of us.” Jason raises his eyebrows at Clint’s expression and seems to think further explanation is required. “I stole them,” he says, “from a bunch of drug dealers in Gotham.”

Usually, when Clint accuses someone of illegal activity, they have the decency to deny it once or twice. He’s caught, wrong-footed, because he hadn’t actually found any guns, hasn’t had any opportunity to search the tour bus, and what the hell did he mean he stole from them drug dealers in Gotham.

“Shit,” Jason says, narrowing his eyes. “You aren’t law enforcement, are you?”

“You know,” Clint says, philosophically, “the hardest part of being a bodyguard is protecting the client from themselves.”

“Oh, suck it up, Costner,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “At least you didn’t work for any of those dealers.”

[bastardsunlight]

😡

😡 :  Worse role play-related encounter and what advice you would give to others to avoid similar situations?

Okay so hang onto your butt ‘cause this is going to get long. ALSO heads-up there’s discussion of manipulative behavior, fictional rape/assault, and mentions of suicide.

A couple of years ago, I met this gal who wrote an OC—innocuous enough. She did sick art for her OC and it was fun to interact. I cannot recall if it was Cable or D to whom she first attached herself. We had a decent thread with D on me old blog, RadiantDecay ‘til the purge killed it. I think we picked it back up but idk…

Cable was the big one—the doozy.

So some of you know (e.g. anyone who’s written with me/read my muse sexuality/gender HC list that I have always written Cable as 100% pure grade-A home of sectional. I was very upfront about this when she clearly expressed a desire to ship with him, like, romantically.

Now, I don’t have a problem with age gap—I ship Raiden with people and he’s literally eternal so…. What I take issue with is when one muse is so very clearly WAY too immature to come close to appealing to a muse who has seen Some Shit™. Their lived experiences just cannot match up. Cable is a 50-60some time traveling gritty fuckin’ badass telepath with a giant gun and a constant headache named Wade Wilson (sometimes husband tho; depends on the day).

Turns out this gal was (probably still is) a MAJOR FC hunter. Josh Brolin (a Cable I only write peripherally) and Benicio Del Toro were her focuses (another buddy I met through her writes MCU’s collector, so there’s your Del Toro). I told her flat out Cable is gay and she was immediately lowkey hostile. She got over it though and we started writing.

Red flag much?

Thirty some odd replies in and this is shaping up a bit. We’re playing it on Providence, Cable’s island that’s made of his ship—blah blah blah—her OC has a power surge that knocks out half the computers. That was another thing about her OC. She HAD to be the strongest person in the room but also unaware of her strength except when it was interesting to the plot.

She started messaging me again about SHIPPING THEM. I said somethin’ like “he probably sees her as a daughter or granddaughter, maybe—he’s a mentor type. Also he’s still gay.” She acted like I’d never told her so I did something I rarely do and scrolled tf up, screenshotted the message, and posted it. “Yeah,” I said, “but I did.”

On another track, she decided to get into Devil May Cry. She wanted to write her OC as the reincarnation of Nero’s dead mother or something? But also wanted me to write that Vergil had raped the poor girl. Now, again, referring back to the chart, Vergil is also gay as fuck. I was also up front about this, BEFORE she whipped out the sexual assault card and even THAT I had to pry from her.

By this point our “friendship” was rocky as fuck. When I refused to write or acknowledge that, because I found it offensive, she started writing a “fuck you fic” (the channel title) in the server she named after herself and in which she gathered her “friends” (e.g. people who played characters with those FCs). I think she booted me from the server or something idk.

Anyway there was a bunch of shit and I actually DID keep screenshots from various disco conversations (which btw I NEVER do, but holy shit this was insurance), bu the culminating thing that made me run for the hills was the night she threatened suicide via voice message she straight up sent me over discord because I refused her freaky-ass rape plot. She said shit about how I called her “manipulative” (I didn’t) and how that really hurt and something about her fucking dog? Idk. She’d also mentioned at some point that a previous Cable Rper had referred to her as a “manipulative bitch”.

HMMMMMMMMMM.

I ain’t gunna post her URL or whatever, but suffice it to say, I got a hold of a mutual friend (thank god they gave me the time of day) to tell ‘em what had actually happened, ‘cause evidently the chick decided to ghost me and then tell some WILD tales with seriously doctored screenshots to her buddies in her server. They let me tell my story and trusted me on it because evidently the screenies were HELLA sus. They also shared some really uncomfortable instances of her racism and homophobia so that was neat—this friend being a queer person of non-whitery an’ all that. Nice. I recalled that when I’d mentioned I was queer meself, she’d kind of drawn back and acted REALLY goddamn strange.

So yeah, I asked this friend a final favor and I’d bugger off if they didn’t wanna deal with me: “please tell her she needs to unblock and DM me right now or I’m going to leak every fucking screenshot I have”. I was NOT happy. I just needed her to know that I knew she was lying about me and that I felt nothing but contempt for her. I told her in no uncertain terms that if I so much as got a fucking HINT that she was fucking with this mutual friend, I’d post ‘em all on a frickin’ sideblog and tag every single person with whom I KNEW she associated.

Was I gunna do it? For this friend? Hell yes. On me own, unprovoked? No. I had and still have a strict “no bullshit” policy when it comes to call outs, burn blogs, blah blah whatever. But the threat was enough to keep her worthless trap shut. See the reason I needed her to DM me was that I’d closed the convo without realizing she’d fucked off. I now have access to it—yes even today—so if you’re out there sweaty {; fuckin’ try me~

ASK THE MUN! - accepting

EDIT: a gazillion years later, but still Munday at least, I realize I didn’t answer the second half: advice to avoid similar situations. Honestly, give folks a chance, but follow your gut and do not be afraid to have extensive fucking rules. If people are scared off by a lot of reading in a hobby that requires reading, you don’t want to write with ‘em anyway. In addition, passwords (which I have) are OKAY. There are folks with “I don’t do passwords” in their rules and that’s fine, too; they’re just not going to be your writing partner. Do not bend on that. Be patient and cordial, but if your rules say “no threads without the password” don’t bend. (obvious exception is that like, mutual friends give you the all-clear on ‘em ‘cause they know this person personally duh, but otherwise stick to your guns!)