#god the best moment if the olympics so far was when the women's four took revenge for the women's quadruple scull loss

[abrahamvanhelsings]

trying to rewatch rowing matches via yt eurosport highlights is insufferable bc they'll show any race britain competes in and if they win they 'dominate' but if some other country does something legendary in a final gb is not in it's fucking crickets

[belphegor1982]

I forgot to put chapter 3 on Tumblr last Friday :3

FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM

Summary: 1937: The O'Connells are required by the English Government to bring the Diamond taken from Ahm Shere from Cairo to London. Things get interesting when Jonathan bumps by chance into an old friend of his from Oxford, Tom Ferguson…

Chapter 2: Right Ground for Trouble (on AO3 here)

“Oh no, please, Rick, not you too!”

Rick began to laugh. Why did people talk so much about boredom within married couples? Eleven years, and Evy still managed to amaze him. In more ways than one.

“Look, honey, I don’t mean to follow the pack or anything, but you truly see mysteries everywhere. And you know what? I was wrong.”

“Were you?” Evelyn seemed pleased, then puzzled. “About what?”

“You don’t just attract trouble. You create most of it as well.”

He had to chuckle at the look on his wife’s face. Then he pulled her close and kissed her to let her know he was joking. For all of her qualities, Evelyn still had some problems catching onto Rick’s humour at times. Rather funny, considering everything he had heard about the famous British sense of humour.

She eventually smiled, and the dark room was silent for a short while. Her head was lying on the pillow right next to his face, and he almost had his nose in her dark hair. The scent of it had changed ever so slightly since they had left London; it was now a bit headier, deeper, and reminded him of sand, stupid as that sounded. The thought that he had come to love the smell of sand made him smile inwardly. He’d have to tell her that, some day. In the meantime, he let his eyes wander up and down her body, and wondered at the feeling growing in him as he gazed at those attractive curves. Before Evelyn, Rick had never truly had a real home, and had not really been looking for one anyway. By finding her, he had found out that he didn’t need a big house to settle in and everything; his home was simply wherever she was. Now this was a thought that he liked a lot.

Ah – his lingering gaze was beginning to make Evy blush. If that wasn’t an added bonus… She was so funny then, with her reddening cheeks, her bright eyes, and the way she bit her lip to keep herself from smiling. The fact that she generally failed delighted him, as his wife happened to be very cute in her unsuccessful attempts to suppress a smile.

“Well, Jonathan always said that there was a nosy streak in the family, but that I was the worst case he’d ever seen. Can you believe that?”

Her eyes demanded an answer from Rick. And he did answer, although he considered this particular moment in this particular place was maybe not best chosen to talk about his brother-in-law.

“Okay, coming from your brother that’s pretty funny, but you’re still the nosiest librarian I’ve ever met. That’s my own opinion about it, and you must admit there’s some ground in my judgement.”

“And you ought to admit there’s some ground in my line of reasoning as well. I mean, think about it! Why pull the act of surprise while he really knew all along…”

“Knew what?”

“Who I – who we were, what we’ve done… After what I saw in that file, I’m even surprised he didn’t bring up Ardeth’s name.”

“It was in –?”

“Oh, yes. There were at least four pages about the Medjai tribe, from their role as Pharaoh’s bodyguards to the protection of the City of the Dead…”

“And Ardeth was mentioned personally?”

“I read his name three or four times. It seems that he was made High Commander of the Medjai in 1932, barely a few years before the second Raising of Imhotep.”

Rick didn’t quite know what to say to that. The Medjai were a desert tribe, one of the most secret ones, and so far he had thought only a handful of people were aware of their existence. Especially in this ever-changing world where no one seemed to care much about mummies, ancient civilisations, dashing adventurers, and mysterious men guarding tombs. Most of the stuff he came across in London’s papers was more likely to involve shady political manoeuvres, arms races, treaties, or winning more gold in the next Olympics.

No wonder Rick felt slightly out of place sometimes.

“So, all this fussing about the first three folk to return from Hamunaptra –”

“All right, it might also be that he’s absent-minded, or that it’s really been ages since he last looked into this file… Otherwise, yes. All of it would just be a front.”

Rick thought it over for a minute, and then pointed out, “You know, I value your argument and all, but are you aware that you’re probably making all this fuss about nothing at all? The guy seemed harmless enough to me – the only thing I was worrying about yesterday was that he looked ready to carry you off, even though you’re wearing this ring.”

To add more weight to his words, he gently took his wife’s left hand and kissed her third finger. Evy grinned at that, but let him finish, her eyes never leaving his face. They shone even more in the dark.

“Anyway, I hope your feelings about it are wrong, sweetheart.”

“Believe it or not, darling, so do I,” said Evelyn, nestling her head against his neck. “Much as I love being right, I wouldn’t like it very much if I really had reason to worry about Mr Ferguson. Jonathan looked a little upset this afternoon when I spoke to him about it.”

“You ‘spoke’ to him? Look, Lord knows your brother and I aren’t exactly the best of pals, but maybe that wasn’t the wisest thing to do.” Rick paused, then frowned slightly. “What did you tell him anyway?”

“Well, I merely pointed out a couple of details to him.”

“What kind of details?”

“For one thing, the fact that it was strange that Ferguson didn’t seem to know Jonathan had been to Hamunaptra. And also that he didn’t see any relation between Evelyn Carnahan and Dr Evelyn O’Connell. It wasn’t such a big deal, honestly.”

“Yeah.” Rick scratched his head. “How did he react?”

“Jonathan? He sounded – sort of angry. He sulked a little bit. I mean, he can be such a child about some things that it wasn’t really that surprising, but it was odd to see him overreact that way.”

Rick was quiet for a minute, as he let his hand run from his wife’s shoulder to her hip. Of course, the thought of the warm skin underneath the nightdress sneaked into his mind and he tried to shut it off, keeping that for later. For the moment, he had something to tell Evelyn.

“Look, Evy… I’ll say this only once, so listen up. I understand your brother. If I’d met an old buddy of mine, and my sister insinuated shady stuff about him after seeing him only for an evening, I would’ve been pretty angry.”

“You don’t have a sister that I know of.”

“I know I don’t,” said Rick, rolling his eyes. “But that, Evelyn, my love, is not the point.”

It was her turn to frown slightly. In the dark, he saw her blink thoughtfully a few times. “So, your point is?”

“My point is, give it time. Don’t go ‘speaking’ more about that to Jonathan – you’ll never get a reasonable answer. Because that’s what you want, right?”

Evelyn let out a little laugh. “Yes, well, Jonathan’s not quite what I’d call ‘ reasonable ’ most of the time. I might’ve guessed that he wouldn’t be reasonable about that. He’s far too trusting , though – one of these days that’ll come back to bite him.”

“Your memory’s that bad? It already has. A number of times. God, choosing Mark Bellamy as poker partner…” Rick couldn’t help a snort. Bellamy was more of a cheat than Jonathan could ever dream to be, and that had caused his brother-in-law to lose quite spectacularly. He had just been lucky Bellamy was only a small-time hustler and not some gang leader.

Evy didn’t add anything, and Rick took the opportunity to crawl closer to her and say between kisses, “Sweetheart, why don’t we – forget about all that and – the rest? We can always talk about it – tomorrow. What d’you say?”

She eased herself among the pillows, and smiled before answering, “That’d be good, yes.”

One minute later, Rick had forgotten everything that was not exclusively Evelyn.

.⅋.

“I am positively surrounded by married couples.”

Tommy turned to Jonathan with an eyebrow raised, and Evy laughed softly. “Is it as bad as you make it sound?”

Jonathan snorted. “Oh, no. It’s worse. See that chap over here?” He pointed to Tommy, who looked surprised. “He told me yesterday that he married a common friend seven years ago. So he’s turned sides. Lousy traitor.”

Tommy grinned, getting the joke.

“Really?” Evy’s voice was polite, but there was a definite pleasure in it as well. “Congratulations, Mr Ferguson. About the happy event, but also for not turning out a complete scoundrel, like my brother here.”

They were walking to the Museum – Evy had kept her promise, and arranged an interview with Dr Hakim, the curator. Despite the overwhelming heat – it was three in the afternoon – Jonathan felt quite thrilled about this interview. He was going to see the diamond, for the first time in almost two years, and show it off to Tommy, who had never seen it. Of course, it was a bit of a drag not being able to touch it – not to mention taking it with him – but that was something already.

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Elizabeth, we met in Oxford years ago. She’s in our home in Dorset right now. She works for the telephone company, couldn’t get time off to follow me here.”

Evy slowed down her pace to be level with Jonathan, and looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, now that I think of it, you’ve never, ever brought up the subject of marriage…”

“That’s because I happen to enjoy my life as a happily debauched bachelor, thank you very much,” said Jonathan, sarcastic. Women and their obsession with marriage… He just couldn’t see the point.

“I’m sure you do,” she retorted in the same tone of voice. “And that’s too bad, really, because I think I would’ve liked being an aunt.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply something, but she was quicker. “Of course, there’s also the fact that I don’t think any sane woman would want to share her life with you the way things are right now. As I know you, you’d be picking her pockets in less than three days.”

Right. Now Jonathan was fuming. “Now listen here, you –”

“I know, I have no right to speak to you like that – I’ll probably be regretting it for the rest of the day, but be that as it may, I’m married, to a wonderful person, and I have a wonderful son. Remember how Mrs Pemberton used to rant on and on about how the blood would be dying with us, because you were a rascal and I was turning spinster. Jonathan, I found someone – why don’t you try and search, some day?”

Evy had stopped in the middle of the pavement at some point of her speech, and was now staring at him in a way that made him look away. She would not move until she’d got an answer, he knew her well enough to be aware of that. Careful to avoid glancing at Tommy, who was standing a few feet ahead of them pretending he wasn’t seeing nor hearing anything, he waited to let his anger cool off a little and said, “Now look. Don’t mix things up. I’m not you – I’m not even like you. I like my life just as it is, and I’m sure you like your life the way it is as well. I’m not marrying some girl just to please you, so it’s no use to badger me about that, all right? If, by extraordinary chance, I happen to change my mind on the subject, you’ll be the first to know, I swear. ‘Til that day, please, not a word about it.”

Evy looked dumbfounded, and a little hurt, as Jonathan noticed with a slight pang of conscience. He hated to see his baby sister hurt, especially when he was the one who had caused it. With a sigh, he took her by the arm and started walking again.

“Come on, don’t be offended – you’re the one who brought up the subject, remember? And in such a subtle way, too.”

She said nothing, and when he looked over at Tommy, he noticed that his friend’s shoulders were hunched, as if he was still waiting for the storm to pass.

“All right, all right, I’m sorry I said that. Just – forget about it, will you?” Cripes. His one and only sister, and he still didn’t know what to say when he’d upset her. “Besides, you’re a great mum and all, but you don’t know, maybe you’d be terrible as an aunt.” Ah, he thought he caught something flicker over his sister’s face. So he pressed on, of course. “Right, try to imagine me as a dad. Now if that doesn’t make you laugh…” Hooray! Victory was at hand – Evy had that strained half-smile she gave when she had her mind set on not smiling. Jonathan had seen this expression directed at him quite a number of times when they were younger; now, it occurred mostly when Alex was trying to make it up to his mum after a prank gone wrong. If there was something the boy took after his uncle, it was the ability to talk himself out of every tricky situation. But Jonathan wasn’t sure if the knack of getting himself into these situations in the first place came from Evy or himself.

As they came into view of the Museum, he whispered in his sister’s ear, “Well, if you’re really that mad at me, let’s go find that bloody Book of the Dead, raise a mummy or two, and save the world again – you could let steam off, and I could make it up to you by… doing the best I can.”

That made Evy’s eyes dart up to him, and he was immensely glad to see a genuine smile finally dawn on her face. “Like you did last time?”

Jonathan scratched the back of his neck. He looked briefly at his sister, gave an embarrassed grin, and turned to look ahead at the entrance of the Museum of Antiquities. “Ah… yes. Like last time.”

Evelyn gave her brother’s arm a very slight squeeze, and her smile stayed on. Tommy grinned at him, and Jonathan grinned back. Too bad that the bloke never had a baby sister; he didn’t know the wonderful feeling of victory one could get by simply getting a smile from his sister after a conversation like that.

The curator was in his office, waiting for them in front of his desk, which was rather exceptional – Dr Fahad Hakim was not the sort of man who liked to wait for anyone. He was a thin man, of average height, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. Jonathan saw his small black eyes narrow at the sight of them, and was instantly reminded of how very uncomfortable the fellow made him feel each time he saw him. The ancient Medjai legacy must include the beady, steady stare that was one of Ardeth’s specialities.

“Dr O’Connell. Right on time, as always.” Evy was acknowledged with a polite smile that unveiled white teeth. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing pleasant about the way Hakim shifted his glance from sister to brother, though the tone remained polite. “Mr Carnahan.” How on earth had his sister managed to persuade this dragon to let him stand four feet away from the diamond, he would never begin to guess.

Jonathan gulped discreetly, and refrained himself from taking a step backwards, intent on keeping what little dignity he had left. Tommy looked at him quizzically.

“Dr Hakim?” Best to leave the entire public relation job to Evy. She was easily the best at that – far better than he and Rick. “May I introduce Mr Thomas Ferguson, from the British Antiques Research Department – I talked to you about him yesterday.”

“I certainly remember you doing so. Good afternoon, Mr Ferguson,” said Dr Hakim, extending a hand to Tommy, who shook it in a pretty different way than he had shook Jonathan’ and Evy’s. Evy had drilled him on proper behaviour. Officer training had nothing on Evelyn O’Connell once she got a good lecture going.

“I’m honoured, Dr. How do you do?” Tom’s voice was polite and even – it seemed to surprise Evy, and it sure surprised her brother. Hell, how could he tone down that accent of his at will?

The curator looked pleasantly surprised, too – ever so slightly – as he nodded his appreciation. Then he left his desk and walked over to the door. “Dr O’Connell, gentlemen – shall we proceed?”

The three of them left Hakim’s office and walked down the corridor, Evelyn, Hakim and Tommy in the lead, discussing animatedly some dynasty of Pharaohs. Jonathan trailed behind, idly gazing around him at the old stone walls, grateful for the change in temperature – it was really stiflingly hot outside – and not really listening to the conversation.

When they passed through a room where a few mummies were displayed, he could not help a silent snort, remembering the scream his sister had let out when he had quite literally ‘raised’ a mummy from its sarcophagus, on that particular morning, so long ago. Some things turned out quite weird, really: he couldn’t recall some events that had taken place one week ago, but he had kept in mind every detail of the day after the Sultan’s Casbah, when he had shown that bloody ‘puzzle box’ to Evy. Down to the fact that the Bembridge scholars had rejected his sister’s application for the third time. And also the massive hangover he had been nursing.

They crossed a small number of rooms, and finally stopped in front of a large wooden door. Evy and Tommy stepped aside as Hakim took out a bunch of keys.

The room behind the door was small, and rather dark, the only ray of light coming from a high, fairly large window. There were several items, but none of them caught Jonathan’s attention as much as the diamond, sitting imposingly on a low, sober-looking display shelf against the wall. The light was mirrored in its numerous facets, only stopped by the elaborated gold decorations.

The Diamond of Ahm Shere in all its gleaming glory.

“Whoa,” whispered Tommy, his eyes goggling.

“I know the feeling,” said Jonathan in the same voice, a big grin pulling at the left corner of his mouth. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

Tommy only nodded, blinking.

“The diamond taken from Ahm Shere,” announced Hakim, heading for the gem with Evy. “Although I suspect you already know the story behind it, Mr Ferguson, since you appear to be familiar both with Egyptian secrets and the ones who brought it here.”

“I do know the story,” Tommy said, not taking his fascinated eyes off the diamond. “Is it true, what I’ve heard? About the link between the oasis and the diamond?”

That drew Jonathan’s attention away from the gem. “What link?” he asked, puzzled. “What’re you on about?”

“According to what Ardeth once told me,” said Evy, taking a step to have a better look at the diamond, “the pyramid would be a sort of lock to the oasis, to which the diamond would be the key. But I didn’t quite understand what he meant by that. Besides, I had other things on my mind, at that point.” She trailed off, and Jonathan realised that this conversation must have taken place aboard Izzy’s dirigible, on their way to Ahm Shere. While they had been chasing after Imhotep and Anck-su-namun, who had kidnapped Alex. Bloody rotten mummies.

“Why didn’t I catch that bit?” he asked, interested in both the answer and talking Evy away from the memory. That worked, and she stared at him, a thin dark eyebrow raised sarcastically.

“I believe it had something to do about you dreaming about that ‘gold pyramid’…”

Jonathan opened his mouth, but, deciding that he’d had enough quarrelling with his sister to last him a long time, shut it and turned back to the diamond with a noncommittal shrug.

Then they heard the footfall. Hurried footsteps racing up the hall, coming closer and closer, until –

“Dr Hakim! Dr Hakim!”

The curator walked over to the door, where a young, skinny Egyptian fellow had just come rushing in, his face drenched with sweat.

“What is the matter, Jamal?” asked Hakim in a slightly strained voice, and Jonathan marvelled at the cold, calm curator suddenly coming so close to losing his cool.

“Problems – problems in the – the Akhenaten chamber,” the young assistant panted breathlessly. “Someone has moved pieces – the bust of the accursed Pharaoh has been set down – glass all over the floor, must be a broken window –”

“Calm yourself, Jamal,” said Hakim, putting a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I’m going. Have you told Abdul?”

“Yes, sir, I met him on the way here,” stammered Jamal. “What shall I do?”

“Just give me one second while I speak to our guests,” answered Hakim patiently, and his steady voice seemed to have a calming effect on the boy. He nodded, and leaned against the wall for support, as Hakim turned to his ‘guests’.

“Well, I’m genuinely sorry that the visit was so dramatically shortened, but it appears I am needed. May I escort you to the main hall?”

Tommy opened his mouth, looking scandalised, but Jonathan was quicker. “Come on, can’t we just stay a mite longer? I mean, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

“Whoever broke into the Museum could break in here and steal some more objects,” replied the curator, coolly. “And I believe you’ve seen enough of the diamond. After all, it is all that it seems – just a gem.”

“It’s not ‘just a gem’!” exclaimed Tommy. “It’s the only remnant of the Oasis of Ahm Shere – the key to the pyramid and the chambers within!”

“What exactly do you know about it?” Evy piped up, and Jonathan noticed the glint in her eyes. Oh, boy. Whenever it appeared, this glint meant trouble.

Tommy shrugged disappointedly. “Not much more than you do. My superiors aren’t quite keen on giving out information they feel we don’t need to know.”

Jonathan didn’t like the look on Evy’s face, so he stepped up and tried to be reasonable, for once. “We could stand sentinel. You know, guard this room or something, until you find the guy. Nothing’s going to happen to the contents of this room while I’m in it, I swear.”

“And I’ll help,” added Tommy. “Believe me, if anyone tries to break in uninvited, I’ll bash their ‘ead in.”

The curator looked unimpressed, but Evelyn stared at them, frowning. “Can we actually trust you with the diamond? Do you swear that nothing will happen?”

“Evy, I swear on my own head,” said Jonathan, seriously. Well, almost. He really wanted to be, though.

Beside him, Tommy nodded solemnly, his face impassive. Evy sighed. For some reason, it was Hakim who spoke, and even more surprising, there was the ghost of a smile on his severe face. “Well. It would seem that you are quite determined. Consider yourself to be on a mission from now on. I may be wrong, of course – but I have a few reasons to think we can trust you.” And he smiled. He actually smiled slightly at Jonathan, his eyes still stern, and the Englishman got the feeling that he might be familiar with some of the events that occurred at Ahm Shere. Maybe Ardeth had told him about it , as they were distant blood relatives. In fact, their closeness was certainly more due to their both being Medjai than their actual kinship.

Jonathan stared back, a feeling of pride growing in him. Then he shook himself out of it and grinned. “Well, thanks – for trusting us, I mean. Not many people who’d do that, I guess.”

Evy chuckled, and the curator’s face went back to its usual gravity.

“We will conduct a thorough search,” he said, turning to young Jamal, “and I hope we’ll be able to catch the intruders in time. Stay here with Messrs Carnahan and Ferguson, while Dr O’Connell and I gather the attendants for the search.”

“Yes, Dr Hakim, sir,” said Jamal in a firmer voice, straightening his fez on his head. Hakim laid briefly a hand on his shoulder again, and, after a last glance at Jonathan and Tommy, he walked off with Evy. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a key turning in its lock, and footfall dying away.

There was silence; then Jonathan went to sit on the floor, his back against the wall. Tommy soon came to join him.

“Well, that’s quite some sister you’ve got, mate. She’s not only smart, she’s got guts as well,” he said after a little while.

“I know.” Jonathan grinned. “She and her family – they’re the stuff heroes are made of.”

“Knock it off, Jon. You’re her family too, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Of course I haven’t, you idiot – it’s just that I’m no hero. Try as I may, I’ll always be the average bloke, and I happen to like it that way. God knows they need someone normal in the family, for a change. Bloody bunch of heroic nutcases, the lot of them.”

Tommy nodded with a smile, and didn’t press the matter further, something for which Jonathan was secretly grateful. There were entirely in the wrong place for a proper heart-to-heart, and much too sober for it.

He looked up across the room to Jamal. The boy was standing near the door as he gazed at the chamber, looking a little scared. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two or so.

“Your name’s Jamal, isn’t it?”

The assistant started, and looked at them curiously, as if he wasn’t sure that the Englishman had actually addressed him. Jonathan grinned encouragingly.

“Erm, yes,” stuttered Jamal. “It is. You’re Mr Carnahan, aren’t you?”

“That’d be me, yes – didn’t know I was that famous.” Jonathan nodded. “And this fellow here, with the weird accent, is Tommy Ferguson.”

Tom waved briefly with a smile. Jamal nodded respectfully, and stared back at Jonathan. “You’re the Jonathan Carnahan who brought the Diamond of Ahm Shere to the museum?”

“I am,” he said, both pleased and puzzled by such fame. “How long have you been working here for?”

“Three months, sir,” answered the boy. “Dr Hakim was very kind to hire me even if I was not twenty-one. I really needed to work, and I like to work here.”

“How old are you, anyway?” asked Tommy.

“Twenty-one now, sir. My birthday was last month.”

“Jolly good – happy birthday, then, son!” said Jonathan, grinning. “Even if it’s a bit late –”

Something made the three of them look up at the window. There was a sound behind it, although Jonathan didn’t recognise what it was exactly.

Then another kind of sound came from the door. This time, the Englishman recognised it at once – somebody was trying to break through it.

“Tom –”

“I heard.”

Jamal had joined them near the wall, shaking like a leaf. As the mystery man on the other side kept fiddling with the lock , Jonathan started to feel the familiar cold sensation rising in his stomach, which meant he was dangerously close to panic. There was no adventurer around, no blazing guns this time. What to do, what to do, what to do…

Turning around wildly, he caught sight of a cylindrical thingy with the head of Horus at the top. He grabbed it and joined Tommy who was standing in front of the door. Jamal was a few feet away, still shivering, but resolute.

“Don’t you need –?” asked Jonathan, as he noticed his friend’s hands were empty of any weapon. He was answered by a grim smile.

“Don’t worry, mate. I won’t.”

The lock scraping grew more and more intense. Through his panic, a part of Jonathan’s brain that was still functioning marvelled at the fact that those guys, whoever they were, had managed to find, amidst all the rooms and chambers of the museum, the one hiding the diamond.

And them. Though not for so long, it seemed.

CRACK!! The window was smashed into pieces, distracting the three men for a second as they whirled around – it was one second too many. The door banged open, and before Jonathan could turn back to it, pain exploded at the back of his head. He had the sensation of falling backwards, the metal cylinder still clutched in his hand; a split second later, the world turned blood red, then black, and he knew no more.

[hayjeon]

Snow and Ice 01 [m] (ft. Jungkook)

→ friendswithbenefits!au with Snowboarder!JK and figure skater!reader during the Olympicssss!

→ 11.1k | part 2 (coming soon!)  

A/n: I know that winter olympics is exclusive to winter sports and vice versa with summer, but let’s ignore that for the sake of the fic ;) (ie. mentions of gymnasts) 

also this was meant to be a oneshot, but after getting somewhere around 18k...i decided to split into 2 parts! sorry, but hope you guys enjoy what I already have! :D not heavily edited sry but enjoyoyyyyoyyoy

“How fucking hard is it for the boys to seriously not sound like a bunch of monkeys at 3am in the damn morning?!” You grouch, stomping out of the restroom to Irene. 

She’s already dressed in her gym outfit, and tying her shoes. “God, I know,” she rolls her eyes. “I think they’ve made a bet or something to see who can make it the longest after bottomless drinking.” Stretching, she groans, “They were up even up til 5am I think, after you fell asleep.” 

You roll your eyes, slipping off your robe and pulling on a tight spandex pair of leggings and sports bra. You grab your water bottle and join your teammate as you walk down the hall of the rooming area and into the gym. “It would be nice for once to try and get a normal week of life before the games start. By the way, are we doing cardio today?” 

Irene nods, tying her hair up high. “Start off with 60 minutes running and then help me stretch? We’ll go practice on the rink later after lunch.” 

You nod and throw the towel on the handle as you step up onto a machine. It’s 6am, but already, dozens of other athletes are busy at work, pressing the weight machines and cardio machines to life. You can see that the gymnastics girls are taking up most of the easy weights, and the hockey players fiddling with the heavier weights. Seokjin, one of the guys from your university’s snowboarding team, walks up to you with a smile, starting up the running machine next to yours, and matching your brisk walk. 

“Good morning,” he grins, “How are you feeling?” 

You roll your eyes, cracking your neck. “God, Jin, I wanted to kill the guys on the fourth floor. Literally, they’re the loudest herd of chimpanzees when they’re drunk.” 

Seokjin laughs, upping his speed. “They made a bet to see who could drink the longest from the keg. It was interesting to watch but my coach would’ve killed me if she were here and saw me sleeping anytime past 1am. And even though our coaches can’t be here in the lodgings,” he shudders, taking a swig from his bottle, “I’d rather not find out what she’ll do to me if she ever knew the truth.” 

You laugh, increasing your speed and matching his long strides with quick ones of your own. “Good thinking, you’re smart.” 

He grins at you and the both of you ease into your daily routines. 

Everyday is like this, even when you’re not in the Olympic village. This is your second Olympics, and your second time representing your country for women’s figure skating. Being said, getting here meant that every day was a routine, just like today’s, monkey boys living a floor above you or not. 

Wake up at 5am, and cardio for an hour, stretch for 30, practice jumps on mats for 30, and then actually skating for another 2 hours, before returning to stretch out the sore muscles, and then finally getting to eat your first meal, which was probably a salad, chicken breast, and maybe a fruit smoothie if your morning cardio was more productive than usual. Then it was a bit of rest and loosening the muscles with a warm bath, and then back with weight training and more skating until it was night, and the lactic acid buildup was making your muscles all shaky and unsteady. Rinse, repeat. 

It’s easy to throw popcorn at your tv screen and sneer, “Idiots,” when a representative of the country makes a mistake during the games. Somehow, everyone sitting at home in front of their televisions, munching on their bottomless fried chicken and coke became masters at whatever sport they were watching this time of year. But becoming an olympian meant that this was your life: training, practicing, and winning. 

You amp up the speed on the machine into a full sprint as you think of the way you only got a silver medal the last time you competed. The bratty Jennie Kim had won the gold, and managed to shove it in your face every single time you two saw each other. She was here too, you could practically smell the hatred and the evil emanating off her skin whenever you were in a 50 mile radius of her. 

You sigh as your music lets you drift off into a place, a place where you don’t have to think about how sweaty and tired you are already. The music that you chose this year for your routine was classy, and so was the show that you prepared. 

It took months of training, and was also the reason you had to go so hard on cardio this year: there were four triple-axels, triple toe-loops you had to master during the routine, and that didn’t even include the two triple salchows towards the end of the routine. None other than Kim Yuna had attempted and succeeded at doing a routine like that completely without failing. 

All while looking like a complete goddess. 

Beethoven’s 9th symphony was a fairy-like, dainty work of art, with swells of the orchestra booming in the background to create an ominous feeling to it. To master this routine, you’d had to also go through hours of acting classes, to get “in touch with your deepest emotions,” like your coach Minho had convinced you. 

Your mother had gotten her hands on the most gorgeous outfit, a turquoise, shimmering deep blue-green that make your skin glitter and shine and complimented your eyes and matched incredibly well with the silver accents and accessories embroidered onto the dress. 

You don’t really remember how you got here. It just started as an innocent day at the rink, where you’d convinced your mother to let you do something more interesting than learning the piano or the violin, and she’d let you choose between gymnastics and figure skating. You were mesmerized by the pretty outfits as a little girl, so she’d taken you for lessons. 

And then the lessons slowly became rehearsals for the junior figure skating team, and then your coach labeled you as team captain, and then you were being sent off to do shows all around the country. You were then competing and winning gold medals as fast as ever, and at the ripe young age of 17, you were crowned as the next Female Figure Skating Olympian to join your country’s team, to train and compete in the next winter olympics. 

That was how you were thrust into this world of competing and working yourself to the bone at age 18. It just...sort of happened, and at one point in your little 18 year old life you did have a moment to turn around and survey how the hell you got here in the first place. But, it was too late, and you were way too invested, switching out hours of studying or playing video games or with dolls for training on the ice in your childhood to back out now. 

Your workout comes to an end and you’re already sweating bullets and chugging down buckets of water by the end. Irene finishes a couple of seconds before you do and waits for you as you cool down and step off. You both take a couple more minutes to towel off and cool before you step into the mirror room, and begin to stretch. You place your ankle on top of the poles for steadiness and begin stretching your upper body, cooling down in the air conditioned room. 

“Well if it isn’t y/n?” A voice sounds in the entrance of the stretching room and all the heads in the room turn to see who it is. 

You don’t even have to look to know who it is. 

He cockily wipes his face with a towel and throws it over his shoulder, spraying a steady stream of water from his bottle into his mouth as he saunters over to where you’re stretching. You roll your eyes and ignore him, switching sides and propping your other leg up 90 degrees as you curve your torso towards it with your hand stretched towards your toes. 

He walks up to you and in the mirror, you can see the other girls in the room whispering and giggling at the presence of the handsome Olympian. 

Jeon Jungkook. Age 22. Also his second time competing in the Olympics. Gold medalist if we’re talking about olympics, but all time World Champion in the Men’s Snowboarding medium and Guiness World Record holder for highest score last year, beating out previous record holders and his own best scores with the recent win. Endorses like a thousand snowboarding and athletic brands like Northface and Tim Burton. Also the owner of his own resort on the side. He was a celebrity within the Olympians, and also voted one of the hottest Olympians ever. 

“Looking good,” he rakes his eyes up and down your body, grinning sleazily. “How long has it been, 3 years? 4 years?” 

You huff as you take down your leg from the pole. “If you could ever for once figure out how to do math, you’d know that it’s been 4 years since the last olympics, Jeon Jungkook.” 

He smirks when you finally respond to him, walking over to lean against the pole as you sit down and begin stretching your hamstrings. “Congrats on your win during the World Championships, I watched and cheered for you during it.” 

You roll your eyes. “Are you here to make fun of my silver medal too? I have enough knowing grins from Jennie Kim to last me a lifetime.” You switch legs, leaning forward and pressing your knees against your chest. 

He laughs, “Hell no, I would never dare to make fun of the ice queen.” 

Straightening up, you narrow your eyes at him. He’s been calling you that since you can remember. “Get lost, Jungkook. Go do your weights or whatever.” You resume stretching, extending one leg far behind you as you sit comfortable in a split. 

He stands, watching you from above. “Suit yourself. Know I’ll be back though.” 

He walks cockily back, lifting the edge of his shirt to wipe at the sweat on his brow, which is completely stupid because he has a towel. It’s so obvious he does it to get a ruse out of the other gymnasts and skaters stretching in the room, which it does. 

Irene inches up to you and joins you in your stretches. 

“Don’t ask,” you groan and switch sides. 

She shrugs, laughing at you in the mirror. “Wasn’t gonna. That exchange spoke for itself. He definitely has the hots for you.” 

You roll your eyes and groan as you get up, and Irene joins you to help you stand and lift your leg up as high as she can reach, way up over your head. “Uh,” you cringe at the stiffness of your thigh muscles, “He does that to everyone. Seriously. I’ve seen him even give some of the referees sleazy looks. It’s just in his blood.” 

She whistles as you switch legs. “Well whatever his blood’s doing, I bet it’s working real hard.” 

“Ew!” You exclaim and laugh, letting her switch sides with you as you help her with her standing splits. “Never!” 

She laughs, finishing her other side. “Alright grumpy, let’s go get you some breakfast before you rip my head off and get even more hangry.” 

_____________________________________________________________________

You both get washed up and changed before heading over to the Dining Hall. It’s basically another stadium, with the lower levels transformed into a buffet style area and tables and chairs all looped together like high school all over again. 

Hoseok, one of the male figure skaters, joins your table and Seokjin appears a couple minutes after, his plate piled high with all the food he could find at the buffet. 

Hoseok cringes at the sight, “Jeez, dude, how many calories even is that thing?” 

You and Irene peer over to see a buttload of eggs, rice, noodles, meats, and salad piled onto his tray. The both of you sigh at the sight, watching dreamily as Seokjin shoves the food endlessly into his mouth. It was your own personal mukbang broadcast. 

“Uhhh two-touszhndf-mpmph” Seokjin mutters, and Hoseok glares again, cringing at the food that flies out of Seokjin’s mouth. 

“Two thousand?” You balk, resting your chin in your hand as you push a cherry tomato around on your plate with your fork. “Did you increase it since last time?” 

Seokjin nods, washing his huge mouthful down with a swig of orange juice. “I don’t know what it is about this weather, but I’m starving.” 

Irene sighs, setting down her cup. “God, I just wanna eat a big heaping bowl of french fries and a oozy, greasy cheeseburger right about now.” Hoseok nods in forlorn agreement and you nod too, pouting at the sad dressing-less salad in front of you. 

Seokjin talks again, food flying, “They have some! Over there! Can’t you sneak one? Our coaches aren’t even here.” 

Irene doesn’t even bother looking. She shakes her head. “No, it’ll affect our jumps. Really. Even the slightest bit of change in our weight will throw our center of gravity off. Plus, have you seen our outfits? They’re tight as fuck.” 

You nod, sighing as you swallow the last piece of cabbage. “Mine’s so tight I have to wear a stick-on bra instead of having it padded, like normal.” 

Hoseok cringes, “Hell ya, mine’s so tight I have to clench my ass cheeks everytime I do a sitting spin, or else the spandex gets too tight and gives me the absolute worst wedgie.” 

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “Guys, shut up. You know who has the worst, tightest outfits? The swim team.” 

The three of you stop talking, and burst in laughter as Seokjin rolls his eyes. You imagine the swim team in their tiny little speedos, junk squeezed tight and asses practically fighting to get out. You snort, “HAHA, don’t those guys ever like accidentally moon someone or like slip out of those things? I feel like they’re so small on their hips, it’ll fit around me.” You giggle, and Irene joins you, laughing at Seokjin’s disgusted expression. 

He’s about to respond when a voice interrupts. “Talking about the swim team’s speedos?” 

You all turn to see Park Jimin, captain of the Men’s Ice Hockey team turn up with a few of his teammates to your table. He sets his tray down next to yours, and laughs when Irene nods. 

Seokjin resumes, “Okay they’re not that tight, like I won’t lose any sperm because of it. They’re just...snug.” 

Irene cackles. “How do you even know?! You’re a snowboarder!” 

He shrugs, chewing thoughtfully. “Sometimes when you’re boarding you need a little extra waterproof protection.” 

The entire table explodes into laughter and disgust, and you join in, finally feeling a weight lifted off your shoulders. 

“Man, this makes me remember how it was in camp all those years ago, doesn’t it?” Jimin adds, and you guys all reminisce to the high school days, where athletes would attend a “athlete-morale” camp over the summer every year, which was just a sorry excuse for job-less coaches to shove down inspiring speeches and “team-building” activities down your helpless throats. 

A lot of you separate into your own conversations, launching into giggles and yells of memories you all shared together. That’s how you knew so many of the Olympians here. Even though you all had different schedules and different sports and areas of interest, somehow most of you had gathered at this camp every summer without fail. And every summer, the lot of you would suffer and bitch and complain together about how stupid and useless the lessons and activities were, and plot ways to escape your cabins at night to sneak away and do some drinking or exploring. Given, you drove your camp leaders crazy. They’d never seen a group of athletes like you guys, they said as they warily sent you home after a week of sleepless nights. 

Jimin nudges you. “How have you been?” 

You grin, turning to him, “Good, you?” 

“Same as ever,” he grins, smiling the sweet smile where his eyes would crinkle. 

“Actually you look a little different, you lost a lot of your baby fat.” You reach over and pinch his cheeks, and he frowns at you humorously as you laugh. “I remember we used to call you acorn because your face was so round.” 

He groans, “Seriously, I never forgave Yoongi hyung for coming up with that name.” 

You laugh, sipping your coffee. “I hear you and your team won silver in nationals, congratulations.” 

He sighs, “Thanks, y/n, but you know in our world, only the gold is worth congratulating for.” 

You nod, “I know how that feels.” Shrugging, he agrees with you, sending you a sad forlorn apologetic smile. He probably heard down the grapevine that you’d gotten silver.

“But at least this year, you’re gonna win gold right?” 

You shrug, picking at your cup. “I don’t know...the routine is really hard and I’m still jet lagged and not feeling my best. I’m getting nervous, and that anxiety was exactly why I stumbled a bit during my routine last year and lost the gold to Jennie.” 

“Ah Jennie,” he recalls, “Pretty, but sort of a bitch.” He shrugs, and Irene cuts in. “Sort of? Nope, she’s such a bitch.” 

The two conversations between yours and Jimin’s and Irene’s with Hoseok and Seokjin merge as Irene rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, it was ridiculous. Jennie’s routine wasn’t half as great as y/n’s but there was a slight stumble, which wasn’t even a stumble, and Jennie won. Which is ridiculous because Jennie actually tripped and had to leave out a spin on one of her turns to make sure she didn’t actually fall.” 

Hoseok tips his head. “Y/n, you stumbled?” 

Before you can even answer, Irene does it for you. “It was literally just a slight stumble, at most she switched her blade and landed with a bit more spark than usual.” 

You shrug, nodding at Irene to thank her for explaining it. You’d had to explain it way too many times now. “Whatever, it’s past now, and there’s not much I can do about it. We’re both here now, so it’s just important that I stay focused.” 

Seokjin nods. “Don’t worry, y/n. You’ll win. I’m sure of it.” 

Hoseok snorts, “How?” 

Seokjin makes a funny face, “Didn’t ya’ll know that I’m a genius and got voted the #1 most handsome face of the Olympians? If anyone knows things like that, it’s me.” He says, and everyone chuckles at it. Same ol’ Seokjin. 

“Speaking of which, here comes #1 most “daddy” Olympian.” Hoseok comments, glancing at the entrance of the dining hall. By instinct, you turn with Irene in your chair to see Jeon Jungkook sauntering in with the rest of his snowboarding team. 

The guys are gorgeous, with languid body movements, but strong bulky builds underneath all their protective waterproof jackets. Their jaws were chiseled and their looked rugged in that hot way. Jaebum, the one on Jungkook’s left was Irene’s favorite for a while, and was handsome and charming enough to even appear on a couple of variety shows and drama cameos. The snowboarders were actual celebrities back home.

You roll your eyes and turn back as quickly as possible, but not before Jungkook’s gaze settles on yours with a smirk. “I don’t even understand how that vote was even cast.” You grumble, sipping your coffee. “Seriously, out of all the other athletes, Jungkook? Gross.” 

Jimin laughs. “Well, who do you think would have been #1 then?” 

You groan, cringing. “To be honest, you or Seokjin.” 

All of you laugh as Seokjin pumps his fist, “Yes!” He cries out, food flying out of his mouth again, to Hoseok’s horror. “I knew it. Y/n think’s I’m hotter than Jeon Jungkook!” 

“Shut up!” you hiss, laughing as you try to get him to sit down, but it’s too late. At the sound of his name, Jeon Jungkook is drawn to your table like a fly to a light and grins as he walks over. “Incoming,” Irene hisses as she smiles up fakely at Jungkook. 

“I heard my name, are you guys talking about me?” He drawls, grinning as he perches a hand on the back of your chair. You ignore him and eat your yogurt. 

Jimin laughs, lifting a hand to shake hands with Jungkook. “’Sup dude, it’s been a while. Lookin’ good.” He smiles and you watch in disgust as Jungkook laughs, tainting Jimin’s innocent and beautiful presence with an entire bucketful of gross cocky frat-boy confidence. 

“I’ve been cutting a little bit, trying to not bulk too much these days,” Jungkook shrugs, flexing his arm a little to the delight of the gymnasts a few tables over. “I started getting a little less air once I started bulking up. But you’re lookin’ better bro, you guys training a lot?” 

Jimin nods, clapping the teammate next to him on a shoulder lightheartedly. He grins his charming smile again, his eyes crinkling on the sides. “Yeah, our couch has been pushing us real hard these days, but it’s been working. We’re all at our best weights of the season, and feeling real good for the upcoming games.” He smiles at you, glancing sadly at your poor little salad. “Y/n, you must be having a hard time recently too, right? Coach has us on a strict diet, but yours is probably stricter, isn’t it?”

You sigh, pushing around your cold chicken breast around on the plate for both guys to see. “I eat less than a thousand calories per day, all divided into six tiny meals. Helps keep off the weight so that I can jump higher. I can’t remember the last time I had an all-you-can-eat korean barbeque dinner. Maybe it was when I was in elementary school? Legit over a decade ago.” You shake your head as you picture the cold piece of meat as a sizzling hunk of delicious pork. 

It doesn’t help. 

Jungkook laughs, inviting himself to take the empty seat next to yours, his arm draped over the back. “Well, I for one, think you have an amazing body.” He winks at you and you pretend to gag as everyone chuckles at the table. 

“Gross!” you exclaim, pointing your fork menacingly at him. “Don’t you have some other girls to flirt with besides me? I’ve had enough fratboy for a day.” 

He grins, hand splaying across your back, warm against your skin. “Trust me, y/n, you’ll never have enough of me.” He winks and bids everyone a dumb cocky drawled “Later guys,” and walks off with his boy band team. 

Hoseok grins at you, “Was I high off my painkillers for a second or did Jeon Jungkook actually flirt with you and basically imply that he wanted to bang?” 

You choke on a piece of lettuce as everyone around the table nods, Irene and Seokjin chiming in with a simultaneous, “Totally.” Before turning to eachother with wide eyes and high-fiving. 

“Gross!” You exclaim again for the second time that morning, washing it down with a swig of water. “Me with Jeon Jungkook? I feel my ovaries shriveling up at the thought of sleeping with that frat-boy pig.” Jimin just watches you carefully.

Hoseok shrugs, “I bet if you sleep with him, it won’t just be your ovaries shriveling up. I hear he’s great in bed.” 

“Ugh! God Hoseok! Can you like not?” You cringe, and he laughs. 

“I can’t help it! He’s cute!! If he swung this way, I’d jump on that even before he could even know he was gay.” 

Everyone laughs and shakes their head at Hoseok’s blunt gayness, and you just grin uncomfortably as you turn back to your salad. You look up to see Jimin just watching you with a shy smile as he continues eating without a word. 

After breakfast, it was time to stretch a little more and actually start skating. You say bye to the rest of the crew and make your way to the gym again with Irene. You cringe, massaging your shoulder as you walk over. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, kneading the sore muscles. “My shoulder is all messed up...” 

Irene turns with a worried expression. “Oh shoot, I knew that not sleeping with a neck pillow would mess with your trap muscles. Did you bring your muscle cream with you?” 

Rummaging through your pack, you frown, “No...shit it really hurts though.” 

She pushes you towards the dorms. “Go and get it before we get on the rink, Coach’ll kill you if she finds out you didn’t treat it before getting on the ice. You know how she is. One little painful thing and she’ll go crazy on you and make sure you get it treated and ban you from the ice until it’s better.” 

You nod, biting your lip. “Don’t wait up for me!” You jog in the direction of the dorms. 

It’s a bit chilly, but the cardio helps a little as you make your way up the lavish road towards the towering buildings. The olympic villages...were always nice on the outside, but pretty dumb on the inside. 

Athletes were organized into country teams and shoved into tiny little apartments by gender, provided with college dormitory-style like rooms with two or three beds shoved into them with skinny little closets for your coats and stuff. You sigh as the dorm doors open to a rush of cold air, and scan your nametag before jogging over to the elevator, staring at your phone and logging your breakfast calories. 

The elevator opens and you nonchalantly walk inside, but right before the doors close, a hand comes in and slams the door crevice, forcing the doors to open automatically. You frown at the noise and look up to see who it is, and your jaw drops as you see Jungkook smirking at you as he steps in the elevator. You roll your eyes and drop your neck back to your phone as your typing fingers become a little harsher at the screen of your phone.

He grins at you, “Whatcha doin’?” 

“Trying to have some alone time,” you grumble, rolling your eyes at nothing in particular. He grins and somehow in his brain interprets it as an invitation to move closer and peer at your phone screen. “Sexting?” 

“No, god Jungkook,” you yelp, twisting the screen away from him, “You’re still super gross.” 

He laughs as the doors open and he trails after you. “This isn’t even your floor.” You grumble, walking down the hall towards your room anyway. 

“This isn’t even my building, but you knew that already.” He shrugs, grinning at you. He knew you too well, and he knew that too. God, you just wanted to strangle him in that pretty little neck of his. You unlock your door and he hovers, watching you rummage around your room for the bright blue container of your muscle cream.

“So, you have a thing with the hockey player?” He leans against your door, eyeing you with a cocky smirk.

You huff and drop your duffel, giving up on finding the muscle cream you were positive you packed. Hands on your hips, you face him with a glare.

“Just because I exchanged a couple of words with Jimin doesn’t mean I’m dating him, Jungkook. I’m not like you, fucking the first thing he sees.”

He hisses between his teeth, throwing his head back as he chuckles. “Oooo that burned. Straight from the ice princess. You really chose your sport didn’t ya? Double meaning and all.”

Glaring, you roll your eyes and turn back to digging through the drawers. “Why the hell are you here? I need to apply my muscle cream.”

Grinning, he produces a condom packet from his pocket. “Guess what? These are Olympic grade. I would hate to waste them when they’re giving ‘em away so freely.” Shrugging, he gestures between the both of you. “We can see if they work as well as they’re supposed to?”

When you don’t reply, he grins again, letting the door shut behind him and lock as he saunters over to you.

“So whaddyou say, for old times sake?” 

You groan, whirling around and facing him head on with a glare. 

“Jungkook,” you grit, “we slept together twice. Four years ago. There is no old time’s sake.” You wave your arms dramatically. 

He laughs, leaning back comfortably on your bed, and you groan. ��Yeah it was four years ago, but equally as good. I mean,” he wonders, flipping the condom around in his fingers, “who knew that the goody little ice princess was actually such a freak in bed?” 

You finally find the annoying little blue container and spin at him with hands on your hips. “Stop talking about that night. It never happened, okay? No one can know.” You twist open the container and unzip your jacket to reveal your sports bra and turn away from Jungkook to apply it. 

He watches you struggle to reach the spot near your shoulder blade. “Need help?” 

You glare at him over your shoulder. “No.” 

He shrugs, “Your legs are flexible, but you know your arms not flexible enough to reach it and everyone’s out for training now. I’ll do it, no funny business.” He stands, and you glare at him but let him draw nearer as he takes the container from you. 

“Turn around,” he says gently, and begins to slather on the cream into your shoulder and neck, rubbing it in so that the stickiness is absorbed completely into your skin. You wince as he rubs too hard and he apologizes, setting the container down and concentrating on not rubbing too hard. 

“It wasn’t only four, you know,” he mutters, and you pause, frowning. “What?” 

“We slept together twice four years ago during the games, but we also slept together a couple more times after that. Just not at the games.” He stops rubbing, and you jerk your jacket onto your shoulder again, standing up from the bed with a glare as you pack your backpack. 

“Dont,” you warn, teeth gritted, “talk about that in front of anyone, ever. It could jeopardize our careers. Do you understand?! A few drunken nights together doesn’t mean anything! No matter how hot you think you are!” You storm off, jamming your shoes on and stomping outside. 

The only thing you hear before the door slams shut is his cocky voice calling out, “So you think I’m hot?!” 

Turn, Triple toe loop, land, Bielmann spin, stop, smile, turn again blade change.

You chant the routines in your head as you glide over the ice with the music. Although there were still 2 weeks left ahead of your actual performance, it was still crucial that you skated your program more than 10 times a day so that it was completely muscle memory by the time you stepped onto Olympic ice. 

Your teammates watch carefully from the sidelines with your coach, who’s carefully scrutinizing your every move. You finish with a flourish, chest heaving as the swell of music ends. 

Irene claps happily and Hoseok also joins her, cheering your name as you crumble over, hands on your knees as you heave with the effort of skating heavily for so long. Your coach steps onto the ice, patting your back as you put on your skate guards and take a seat. 

“Good job Y/N,” she nods, stepping aside to let other skaters take to the ice. “Why don’t you go home today and stretch a little? You’re looking a little stiff.” 

You nod, and on the corner of your eye, you see Jennie Kim step onto the ice. “Sure thing, coach, but let me stay behind and watch this one.” Coach Kim follows your gaze and softens. “Y/N,” she urges, “I don’t know if it’ll help you to watch her program.” 

“It’s fine!” You reassure her with a smile and join Hoseok and Irene on the benches as the music begins. 

Jennie was a phenomenal skater, everyone agreed. She was beautiful and thin and charming and knew exactly how to flirt on the ice. What you lacked in with performance skills, she excelled in with expressions and smiles, and what she lacked in technical jumps and clean cut programs, she excelled in making it look even more effortless and flirting with the audience enough to grant standing ovations and performing with a lot of emotion. 

As the three of you watch her run through her program, she completes jumps and spins that you never expected her to be able to complete. “How the hell did she learn to do the triple lutz triple toe loop combo?! I thought last show she had to cut it out of her program because she couldn’t land it properly!” You hiss, and Irene shrugs, her jaw hanging open too. “I don’t know...” she says lowly, watching Jennie glide over the ice as if she were weightless. “That...that’s impossible to do within what...six weeks? Even Rose couldn’t do it like that.” 

Hoseok gasps, “Oh my god, she faked that she couldn’t do it so she’d lower your expectations.” 

You frown and watch her finish her routine, one she stops and gets claps from other people also watching from the stands. Your coach pats you on the shoulder. “Although her routine is a lot more complex than we thought it would be, if you execute ours perfectly, you’re bound to get a hell of a lot more points than she can. Your training is gonna pay off, don’t worry about it.” 

Chewing on your lip, you nod, crossing your arms and worriedly walking out of the rink. 

Your steps are heavy as you head towards the gym. Jennie and you had once been peers, two young girls who began skating together for fun and ended up enjoying it and being actually good at it. But then, somehow, somewhere within all the competition, you both had stopped doing eachother’s makeup and hair between performances, and instead had resorted to smirks and jeers as you challenged eachother. 

Your gold medal or championship trophies matched the number of ones she had, and the both of you were neck to neck during every single match you could ever think of since you both became teenagers. 

This was probably going to be your final or second to last Olympics, and then you would end up doing promotions for companies or becoming a trainer for the rest of your life. If you wanted to live comfortably, you would have to skate like your life depended on it, and Jennie did too. Whatever medals the both of you won today would go down in history and determine the next years to come. If you didn’t win that gold medal this year, you were determined to just retire before it became even more embarrassing. 

The gym is full, with the sun high up in the air at 2pm. You can see a group of hockey players fiddling with the weights alongside the swimmers who were working the machines. The gymnasts and the female swimmers were already stretching in the padded room, and the running machines full of all types of athletes. Immediately, when you enter, the white shirt stretched over Jungkook’s back muscles is the first thing you see. 

Ignoring the clenching feeling of anxiety in your gut, you head over to the stretching area to begin cooling off. 

Feet out, leg as high up as you can, you coax yourself, mimicking what your coach would be telling you as of now. You can feel the stiffness, all the way back to your calves and the muscle cream from yesterday wasn’t helping all that much. Facing the mirror, you balance a hand on the beam and lean forward, lifting your leg up high far above your head as you balance on one foot, preparing for one of your spins. 

Through the mirror, you see him come in, his head swiveling as he surveys the myriad of other girls stretching and then smiling wide as he jogs over to you, throwing his sweaty towel around his neck. Gross. 

“So,” he says, leaning against the bar with a greasy smile. “Did you think about what I said?” 

You roll your eyes and continue stretching. “How many times did I tell you that there’s absolutely nothing to talk about?” 

“How many times after that night did you even have sex at all?” He scoffs, moving around to face you when you turn to switch sides.

“Did you like, even go out after that?” He prods, watching you stretch through the mirror. He wipes his sweat with the small hand towel, spraying some water from his bottle into his mouth and shaking out his sweaty bangs.

You switch legs, making another face when it strains a little. He notices, “oh, uh, do you need some help with that?”

You finally acknowledge him after twenty minutes of ignoring him. He was persistent, you had to give him that. Rolling your eyes you nod, “Do you remember how?”

“No,” he scoffs, but steps forward anyway, cradling your ankle in his larger hands. He’s hot, the cool temperature of the stretching area doing nothing to cool off his skin. He steps forward so the both of you are almost a hand width apart and places your ankle daintily on his broad shoulder. He then steps even closer, supporting your lower back with his hands and slowly pressing in to help stretch the calves and hamstrings.

You wimper a little because he’s almost an entire head and a half taller than your petite size and the leg on his shoulder is pressed almost to your chest. Squeezing your eyes shut you breathe in and out, the both of your bodies rocking slightly to accommodate the inflation of your lungs into your chest.

You can feel the heat emanating off his chest as he stands there looking down at you with the hardness of his body pressed up against the back of your thigh. It’s hard to not let your mind wander at that, flashbacks of drunken irresponsible high school days when you’d go to bed with him fucking you from behind and wake up to him kissing between your legs. And then you’d finish off with a nice hot bath and some good food. Back when you had no responsibilities, no worries, and no burdens on your shoulders.

The moment causes your mind to go a little hazy and in the fleeting few seconds of feeling vulnerable and the flood of hormones at the familIr feeling of his body against yours you whisper, “I haven’t” in response to his questions before. It’s too quiet to be heard over the high quality air conditioner whirring almost silently in the corner, but nonetheless his proximity lets him hear the two words.

He doesn’t say anything though, and lets your leg down from his shoulder and helps you get the other one onto his right shoulder. Rinse and repeat. But just as you open your mouth to say something more, a hand on the small of your back smooths over the curve of your hip and up your thigh and over to your ankle. Holding it delicately there, his hand grips it wth a firm and warm grasp, as he angles his head down to meet your questioning gaze.

“Me neither.” He whispers, and steps forward to press himself tightly against you. Your back presses against the bar and your hands flutter up from it to grip his forearms. You distinctly feel his hardness pressed against your belly. 

“Seriously? Don’t lie to me Jeon Jungkook. The last time we slept together was months ago.”

“I’m serious!” You give him a glare. 

“Do you…?” He trails off, and begins blinking like he does when he gets nervous.

The question lingers heavily over the hum of the running machines and air purifiers lining the training area.

His hands release your ankle and sets it gingerly on the ground, and he steps back, the warmth of his body and his chest and his hands and his breath leaving you all at once. You stumble a little back, your back resting on the bar.

Space, he was giving you space to decide.

You sigh, flexing your hands that are beginning to sweat. Your performance wasn’t for another two weeks. What did you have to lose?

Thinking about the way Jennie glided over that triple-toe-triple-lutz combination with no effort at all made you rage all the way inside, insides glowing hot from the annoyance of being fooled by her again. What was just one night of sex going to do? Your coach told you to relax and make sure you weren’t too stressed out and anxious...this...this was just an interesting way of doing it. What she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.

“Fine,” you huff, stepping forward, gathering your things and heading out, as he jogs after you with a surprised look. “But on one condition, Jeon Jungkook. You cannot tell anyone. Are we clear?” 

He smirks, running a hand through his hair. “Clear as ice.” 

“Fuck,” you wimper as the the door slams shut behind you and Jungkook crowds your personal space. He’s breathing heavily, yanking harshly at your jacket zipper until it falls to the ground and your sports bra is all you’re wearing on top. He unzips that too and lets it fall to the ground, kissing you senselessly, lips moving against yours and drawing out your breaths and moans. 

“God I missed this,” he breathes, grabbing your waist and hoisting you up. Wrapping your legs around his waist you tongue at his neck as he sets you on his bed and strips off his jacket. “Did you miss me too?” He smirks as he sucks on your nipple crewdly and you moan in response, hips bucking up into his. 

“No--oh my god” you keen when he yanks down your legging and rubs at you through your underwear. Your hand flies down to grip his wrist, eyes squeezing shut at the sensation. “Oh-- fuck, please don’t stop.” 

He just chuckles and yanks your underwear band aside to reveal your dripping core, sliding his fingers in you with no obstruction at all. “Oh shit, Y/N, you’re so fucking wet,” he grumbles, nipping at your breast as you mewl and twist under the onslaught of sensations. 

“Take your pants off,” you breathe, panting harshly as he kneels up to peel his shirt off, revealing white milky skin, textured with taught lines and lean muscle. You help him untie the strings on his sweatpants, nimble fingers working desperately at the waistband until Jungkook gets impatient and just yanks it down his hips along with his boxers. 

While he grabs a condom, you yank off your panties, pushing him to sit up against the headboard of the bed. You straddle him, throwing a thigh over his hips and resting your hands on his shoulders for leverage. 

Were his shoulders always this broad? 

You shake away the thought as he grips himself and guides himself to your center, rubbing his sensitive tip against your wetness and smearing it around to make it more comfortable. You busy yourself with sucking a hickey against his collarbone, licking and biting until the clean flesh becomes red and inflamed and shiny with your spit. 

“Ready?” He breathes out, pupils blown out as he pants up at you. You nod and lower yourself on him slowly, and Jungkook moves his hand from gripping himself to settle and help you guide your hips down onto him. The both of you moan when you bottom out, panting and gripping each other desperately. When the stretch isn’t so bad, you rock your hips slowly back and forth, not yet bouncing up and down on him yet. 

The movement stimulates your clit against his pelvis and you moan, throwing your head back and looping your arms around his neck as you continue to swivel your hips on him. Jungkook sits there, eyes heavy lidded as he watches you with a slight smile on his lips. His hand raises to curl your hair over your shoulder, his hand following and resting on your neck as he leans down to kiss against your neck, tongue laving heavily, hot and wet against your skin as  you cling to him. 

He’s marking you too, focusing on the area right where your jawline meets your ear and nibbling against it, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, making you moan. “Jungkook,” you whine, and he seems to understand what you’re asking for when his hand settles on your hips again and he begins to guide you up and down his length. 

The extra stimulation gets him going and he cringes. “Fuck, Y/N,” he grits his teeth and his hairline begins to dot with sweat at the effort. “I...I’m gonna cum s-soon.” 

“Already?” You gasp, opening your eyes to ask him. He nods, biting his lip as he groans, his jaw falling open. “I-it’s been a r-really long t-time. And you feel s-so fucking good. Hngh.” He groans as you squeeze around him in response to his praise. 

“Okay,” you breathe, “Just wait for me, hold on.” You reach down and rub your clit in wide circles, gathering the wetness from where you and Jungkook meet, and pressing into your clit with the pads of your fingers. Jungkook just buries his face into your neck, panting harshly against your collarbone as you continue to swivel your hips, moaning and rubbing like your life depended on it. 

With the feeling of Jungkooks lips on your nipples and his hands roaming your body, and his dick reaching parts of you that your fingers can’t even think of stimulating, and along with the 7-month-long hiatus from sex with him, you find yourself reaching the edge fairly quickly. 

“O-oh shit, Jungkook,” you whisper, letting him take over in rubbing circles on your clit, “I-I’m gonna---” You bite down on his shoulder, dampening the moans that tumble out of your mouth as you topple over the edge. At the sensation, Jungkook cums almost simultaenously as he finally lets himself go, and his moans spur you on as you quake over him and both your hips stutter at the overwhelming rush of pleasure. 

You pant and tremble as the sensations run through your entire body, your eyes rolling back as you moan and mewl and say whatever the fuck is coming out of your mouth right now at the feelings. But apparently it’s not completely and utterly horseshit that you’re muttering right now because Jungkook rocks up into you, riding out his own high and groaning your name loudly as his orgasm subsides. 

He laughs a little when he finishes, and the action makes him move a bit inside of you and you cringe, muttering a “ew you’re so sticky,” as you climb off of him. He stands after you, following you into the shower and flushing down the condom. Grinning and leaning against the doorway, he watches you climb into the shower and hose down your body. 

“How the hell were you hooked up with your own room? And bathroom?” You mutter, using the body wash there to clean off all the sweat. 

When he doesn’t respond, you turn, but a hand snakes around your waist. “Let me,” he murmurs, grabbing the soap from you and running along your back, his warm hands scratching over your skin. You let your head fall back at the sensation as he focuses a little too much on your breasts, swirling over the nipple with circular motions and gentle hands. “Again?” 

“Let’s save water,” he grins and you let him. 

You don’t save any water that day. It was 44 minutes too long. 

“Let’s go get some food,” Jungkook whines, as you both finish, collapsing on the bed with panting breathes as you come down from your high. His hands cradle your waist as you take a moment to gather yourself before you prop yourself up. 

“Huh?” You wrinkle your nose down at him, propping your arms on his chest. 

He laughs, sitting up and grabbing his shirt. “You said you were hungrier earlier. And we barely ate today, after gymming in the morning. I’m starving,” he whines, pouting at you and  you laugh, rolling off of his bed to grab your clothes. 

“I can’t,” you whine, pouting at your belly and poking the skin there. “If coach finds out I’m eating anything other than the diet we’re limited to, she’ll kill me.” 

He rolls his eyes, shrugging on a hoodie. “Oh god,” he groans, pulling on his baggy pants with easy. “You’re literally skinnier than some models that I’ve slept with.” 

You glare at him when he mentions the models and he laughs guiltily. “Sorry,” he grins, “But it’s true. You can afford to eat whatever you like. C’mon, just one meal won’t hurt.” 

You sigh, pulling on your leggings and a clean pair of underwear. Somehow...you ended up having a stash of underwear hidden deep within Jungkook’s drawers. 

“Fine,” you grumble, but the grin on your face says otherwise. It’d been ages since you ate anything other than the planned dietary foods prepared for you by your coach and  parents. This...this time wouldn’t be too bad. No one would notice. 

“Where’s my phone?” You grumble, digging through the bedsheets and your bag as you search for it. 

Jungkook shrugs, shaking out his hair. “I’ll meet you outside, gonna pee before we go.” 

You shrug him off and he leaves, and you finally find the device and slip it into your pocket. You also grab Jungkook’s really baggy hoodie and pull it over your thin workout spandex long sleeve and leggings, relishing in the way his smell floods your senses as the warm and soft fabric tumbles down your body all the way to your mid-thigh. Grinning, you turn to open the door, calling out, “Jungkook I--” 

Standing down the hall, with a packet of yogurt hanging from his lips and eyes as wide as yours, is Seokjin. His hand lingers on his doorknob, and he balks at you as you stand in Jungkook’s single room, in his clothes, and takes one glance at the messy room full of your stuff and mussed up bedsheets, and connects the dots immediately. 

“Seokjin...” you breathe, eyes darting to the main entrance. 

“What the fuck?” He sputters, pulling out the plastic packet from his mouth and stomping up to you. “You’re the girl that Jungkook’s been fucking?”

You bite your lip, trying to rack up any excuse, but you come up blank. “Oh my god, Seokjin, you can’t tell anyone! Not even Irene, if coach finds out she’ll kill me---” 

He whisper-yells at you. “Have you even met our coach? He’ll rip our balls off one by one if he knew Jungkook was slacking off in any way.” 

“Also,” he adds, frowning, “How dare you?! I thought you said he was gross.” 

You grin sheepishly. “It just happened...the stress and all, and there’s a lot of time in 3 weeks for 24 hours...” 

He shakes his head trying to get the image of you out of his head. “God,” he hisses, “I’ve been trying to set the two of you up for years! And all you two did was give me shit for it. Little did I know you two were already getting it on,” he glances behind him, to the vicinity of his room, whipping back around to you furiously. “And right next to my room?!” 

You sigh, gripping his arm. “C’mon Seokjin I know you won’t tell, but I need you to say it out loud. Please, promise me you won’t tell.” 

He sighs, groaning at you before relenting. “Alright, fine. But only because you gave me really yummy vitamins next week and medicine for my constipation.” 

You grin, reaching up to hug him. When he leaves for his room, Jungkook finally emerges from the restroom, grinning. “Whatcha two talkin’ about?” He grins, cocking his chin at Seokjin’s door. 

You march up to him, punching him hard. He doubles over, winded. “What the fuck Jungkook?!” you hiss, “I thought you said no one’s home before 3!” 

He winces, groaning and clutching his stomach. “Jeez woman,” he croaks, “Who the fuck taught you how to punch?” 

You smirk, “Get up. I’m hungry now.” He grins as he leads you to the front door. He reaches down and pulls the hood of his sweater up and around your head, bunching it low over your eyes. “Good,” he comments, doing the same to his own. “We can’t get caught sneaking out. I know of a way.” He winks and leads you down the elevator and towards the edge of the campus. 

“Where?” You hiss, jogging after him. 

He grins at you, pulling you alongside him with a warm hand that curls around yours. “Just trust me.” He walks straight for where the trash deposits are, and you wrinkle your nose at the smell of rotting food and boxes of cardboard strewn messily in the garage. But in the corner, you can clearly see a door marked with a red EXIT sign. 

“That’s the only one that doesn’t lock, all around campus,” he explains, slowly and gently opening it and glancing around to make sure the coast is clear before jogging out with you. “The others have cameras or guards, but this one I guess was forgotten with all the other construction that was going on.” 

You hmm in agreement and relish in the way Jungkook’s hand feels against yours. It’s a lot bigger, and his long fingers curl all the way to the middle of your palm, where his thumb strokes gently and warmly against your smooth skin. Feeling the way your hand is freezing cold, he pockets both your hands in his jacket pockets, nesting both your hands in the warm comforts of his down jacket. 

After a bit of walking, you make it to a decently crowded pedestrian area where he leads you to a corner of the street, where a tiny snack shop sits. Your mouth waters at the sight of a couple people inside, drinking hot soups and chowing down on instant ddukbokki’s and kimbap’s and ramen bowls that made your stomach churn with anticipation. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, as Jungkook grins at you and leads you up to the stands, taking a seat in the corner. He still doesn’t let go, letting your intertwined hands rest on the plastic foldable table. “How did you find this place?” you whisper, after he orders a heaping pile of food for the both of you. 

“It’s a secret passed down through the snowboarding team for generations,” he winks, grinning when the cook brings over a steaming pile of rice cakes and korean pancakes and kimbap for you both to start on. You use the skewer to grab a piece and pop it into your mouth, humming and grinning at the wonderful taste of spicy and sweet that bursts within your mouth. Moaning at the sensation, you skewer a few more pieces into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he explains. 

“The hyungs would sneak out every chance we get. Our coach is a little...stiff and strict, but he lets us do this sort of in an apology for how strict he usually is.” 

You nod, chewing and washing it down with a sip of hot soup. “And does he come with you?” 

Jungkook shakes his head, using his free hand to grab a kimbap and chew on it. “Nope, he lets us have our thing. It’s like a tradition. I think this year, the team plans to come back here at least a few more times before we have to go back.” 

You grin, happily finishing up the plate of rice cakes. Staring at the empty bottom in horror you gulp. “Oh shit, when did I finish this whole thing?” You frown, trying to count the calories in your head. “Fuck, I’m screwed.” Dropping your skewer, you feel tears of shame brimming in your eyes.

Jungkook just frowns and shakes his head. He calls out for another order and you protest, but he just retorts, “Even the people with the best bodies let themselves have cheat days for goodness sake. You need this, Y/N. Don’t just de-stress with sex, rejuvenate with some food too.” 

You melt under his worried words and grin, sheepishly nodding when he hands you a new skewer. 

“Thanks Jungkook,” you whisper, taking another sip of the delicious ramen. “I love this place.” 

He grins, his hand curling around yours tighter. 

Once the both of you finish eating, he takes you around a bit more to explore, and then the both of you stumble back into his dorm. 

“Oh my god,” He mumbles into your neck as you unbuckle his jeans and slip a hand down his boxers. “Your hands are freezing,” he grits, licking and kissing at your neck as you pump him tightly in your fist. 

You giggle, letting him undo the zipper of your jacket and slide your jumper off of your torso. His hands fall heavily on your breasts, cradling them and letting their weight fall into his palms as he presses you into his warm bed. “Yours too,” you pant, the end of your declaration hitching up into a moan as he moves his mouth down to suck harshly at your nipple before tenderly running his warm tongue over it. 

“Let me warm you up,” he moans, and you remove your hand from his pants as he gets busy getting rid of yours. Once completely off and your leggings and panties thrown haphazardly over his shoulder, he hikes your thighs up over his shoulders and licks a warm stripe up your slit. 

Your head falls back onto the pillows, abs tensing as Jungkook gets to work, his warm mouth and tongue laving all over your lips and slit, maneuvering in patterns that make you twist and turn like putty under his hands. Your own hands are gripping at his forearms crossed over your belly, anchoring you to the bed, nails digging into his cold skin and scratching at the nape of his neck where you hold the strands of his hair tightly. 

“F-fuck,” you moan, hips jostling against his arms, “I-I can’t...Jungkook, just put it in...” you beg, core clenching as he boldly pushes you right up against the point of tipping over. But no matter how good you taste and how beautiful you sound and look right now, Jungkook also agrees that the best way to watch you cum is when you’re writhing underneath him. 

“Fine,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. 

So he licks one last cheeky stripe up against your clit, the rough pad of his tongue stimulating you enough to make you jump before he gets up, carding off his shirt and pants as he climbs up your body and meets you in the middle with a sloppy kiss. 

He hastily puts on the condom and slides into you with no intrusion, settling his warm weight on yours, chest against yours and hips gently rocking into your core. You moan and clutch at him desperately, throwing your arms around his neck and curling your legs around him like a vice. 

Jungkook lets out a strangled moan of your name, stuttering, “Sh-shit, don’t clench, y-you’re so fucking tight,” he grits, and when you see the way his jaw tenses in the effort to not cum too fast, you can’t help but lean up and nip teasingly at his ear and scrape your teeth against the sharp jawline. 

“C’mon,” you whisper, whining as he begins rutting into you faster, “Hurry,” you moan, and Jungkook leans up, detaching from your neck to sit up a bit better and piston his hips into you, angling himself just enough so the tip of his cock slides and taps right against the spot that has your toes curling and your eyes rolling into the back of your skull. You moan and pant and whine like an animal in heat as Jungkook wipes the sweat off his brow, and gets this steely look on his face as he drives home. 

The both of you finish, eachother’s names on the tip of your tongues and moans as you huskily whine and pant, bodies trembling with the overexertion of so much sex and the overwhelming pleasure of both your climaxes. 

Jungkook collapses on you, breathing heavily, and you let him stay there, kissing small innocent, apologetic kisses into the soft flesh of your chest as he comes down from his high. 

You begin giggling, as he does so, cringing a bit from the oversensitivity of the orgasm and laughing at the tickling feeling of his lips smoothing so softly over your skin. 

“One more time?” He asks, and he instantly feels the way your breath hitches and shudders at the suggestion. 

You smirk down at him, bringing him in for a kiss. 

“Of course,” you whisper against his lips, smiling as he grins and meets you halfway again. 

You didn’t go home at all that night. 

tbd! 

[lighthouseroleplay]

HADLEY MARIE LIND-CARTER

                          ( 20 ,  trans woman , she/her )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  do you remember by chance the rapper

chlorine’s tang in long hair, the rosy blush of cheeks too long in the sun. faded flowers pressed between the pages of old books, walls covered in polaroid pictures, an infectious smile that comes easily to soft lips. avocado toast topped with a perfectly poached egg, tangled headphones still echoing with music, long-wilted wildflower crowns.

    •  burke met you in your freshman year, talking your way into the junior honors biology olympic national forest camping trip with an enthusiasm that impressed him. sure, your interest lay more in taking photos of the various bits of nature than it did in any actual science, but nonetheless, you became friends. sure, you had your own friends in your own grade, and sure, the two of you argued a lot. (you had a lot of ideas about ‘planning’ for a ‘future’ — he was a lot more interested in lazing around under a tree all day) but, in the end, you were good influences for the other, and while you talked him into going to university and doing something with his life, he taught you how to embrace relaxation wholeheartedly, instead of filling every spare moment with a hobby. it hurt to see him go away to school, and it felt a little like he was abandoning you, a little like your heart was breaking, but you knew he’d come back. you knew you had more than a little to say to him when he did.

    •  carter is the sibling you’d always dreamed of. when you came back from boarding school at the end of seventh grade to find out that your mother had finally gotten together with the handsome man who ran the starlight theater, you’d been thrilled. you’d never known his child well, the few years separating you enough to keep you apart even in such a small town, so it was unsurprising that it took a few years for you to bond with them properly. they took well to the role of protective older sibling, and you fought, and you loved them, and they helped you apply to your first job, and it was truly, truly what you’d always wanted as a lonely only child. you were certain it had something to do with their ex, your math tutor, whose soft smiles still had them wrapped around her finger, and you would always be grateful for that, even if they got on your nerves on more than one occasion.

taken by bee ⧸⧸   hunter schafer

                                               AN INTRODUCTION

who are you ?

( an innocent question. )                           

                                            who are you ?

                    ( your breath catches in your throat. )               

who. are. you ?

( there is self-realization that sometimes you don’t know. )       

it starts when you are small — your fascination with everything around you, that is. you look at the world ( up the slopes of mountains, to the skies and to the stars ! ) and you wonder what’s out there. you wonder who is out there. you wonder what your role is meant to be in the universe, despite feeling so infinitesimally small at times, like nothing you could ever do would leave a smudge of a mark on history. still, there is so much to do and so much to see, and you want to do it all. what if you can’t ? you wonder that a lot. 

surely, you are nothing but your experiences. 

you exist, truthfully, but sometimes you wonder if you are living.

what does it mean to be living ?

you dream of radium girls. perhaps, in another life, you were one of them. isn’t that a dreamy idea ? you think of yourself, long-limbed and lithe, dancing down the street after you’ve finished work. radium is sprinkled in your hair and painted on your nails, and you glow, on the inside and out.. you spin, your dress swirling out in layers around you, and you spin. you see yourself in mirrors and you grin at your reflection. you are a part of the change coming to the world. a new class of working women ! it’s remarkable.

you die young. radium, however pretty, is poison.

it kills you before you realize something is wrong.

still, people know you existed. they remember. that counts for something, you think.

instead, though, or at least in this life, you are only hadley. you are a girl living in tenebrin port, never drifting too far from the place you’ve always called home. you are working on that being enough for you. you find yourself imagining daily yourself living elsewhere. you imagine yourself living so many lives that aren’t you.

( who are you today, hadley ? )

you smile up at your mother, gap-toothed grin wide, six years old, waving your drawing wildly. she took in from your hand and smiles. you are in space, the moon underfoot. the sky is dark and surrounds you. stars and planets twinkle ( courtesy of a lot of glitter glue ) and you are smiling.

that’s something that is continuous in all of your drawings. whether you are a princess or a president, a fisherman or pianist, you are smiling in all of these possibilities. never once does your mother discourage you from any of these things. she just asks you how you’ll become them. you always shrug, saying time will show you the way.

you are an odd little thing. you are never too sure where your ambitions lie, but god, are you ambitious. you will become something, that is certain.

what is — however — unknown is when you will become something and just what you will be. you’ve got time. even though desire burns at your core, you have time.

THE STORY

life starts on a summer day. it’s late august and the high heat is just starting to dissipate. you cry all day and all night. your mother rocks and soothes you until you fall back to sleep. you’re her little star. she loves you more than anything else. more than anyone else. this includes her good-for-nothing husband. he leaves in the winter. a cold day for a cold man. he says he never signed up for this life — for a wife, for a baby — and he leaves without second guessing himself. your mother fights for custody. he signs his life away. your surname becomes lind, like your mother’s once was, and the two of you settle into life. you never miss him. your life is that for two and that is more than enough.

the two of you live above the bakery in the center of town, in main street. it’s a tiny apartment, always too warm and always smelling of yeast and sugar. your mother owns the bakery. she has owned it since her parents died in a car accident that took them too young. she never had question that it would be hers. she was a natural baker. she breathed life into flour, water, and salt, kneading dough with a natural pulse.

you grow up with flour specked on your nose when you go anywhere. to swim lessons, to piano, to t-ball. 

where you’re mother never questioned that the bakery would be hers, you knew that it never could be yours. you were too rough-handed. you never had the patience needed. and that was okay. your mother wasn’t disappointed. instead, she wanted you to find yourself. if that was in all your hobbies, remnants of them in boxes in closets, in all the teams and clubs you joined and left, so be it.

life is fine.

and then things change.

your mother meets a man and she comes home at night with stars in her eyes. over the dinner table, you let her talk and tell her about her dates. it’s dreamy. you listen and you smile, and oh, you are so happy your mother is happy. when he asks you for permission to marry your mother, you don’t say no. you are excited.

they get married and the four of you all move in together.

you aren’t expecting a father, but you get one anyways. he’s nice and he makes sure you’re doing okay in school and in your clubs. you roll your eyes when he asks if you’ve done your homework, but secretly you get butterflies in your stomach every time. you love being cared for. you love the sense of knowing someone cares. and, even better, you also get a sibling out of the deal ! you’ve always dreamed of having a sibling. you know you’d make a good older sister, but you’ll take being a younger sibling if that’s all you’re offered. it takes time, though, more than you’d like for carter and you to really start to form a relationship.

but it happens. it happens and suddenly the two of you are so close. you tell them your secrets and sometimes you feel so small in the great big world, but they seem to know exactly what to say and you feel better. sometimes, it isn’t always great, you share a bathroom in the new house, and sometimes it feels like you’re on top of each other and you argue and fight. it’s all little spats, childish things, and when it all comes to, though, you love each other. blood doesn’t matter. you’re siblings through and through, and you would die for each other. you’d never say it for fear of jinxing it, but you think carter very well may be your best friend. you’re not upset at that. 

come high school, which you’ve watched carter go through first, you thrive. classes seem to come second to everything you do, but that’s not particularly important to you. you still draw ideas of your future, this time in graphite and ink instead of crayon. these doodles and sketches can be found in the margins of your math homework and english essays. this time your ideas are a little more … grounded. you sketch a camera. maybe you’ll be a world-renowned photographer. there are doodles of typewriters and butterflies and there are still so many options for you. 

still, you don’t know. 

that’s why you’re captain of the swim team. you volunteer at the nursing home. you do this and you do that and someone asks you once, “ hadley, do you ever breathe ? ” quick as a whip, you say, “ only every other day. ” it’s a joke, really. no one can ever doubt you are sure about what you do and how you do it. 

tenebrin port is an oyster and you are its pearl. you walk around with smiles, easy-going and knowing everyone. you are at home and you are comfortable. you wish this time could last forever. except it can’t. you know that. time moves on and you are tugged along with it, caught in the net of the one thing humans can never escape. 

you watch carter grow older, your friends, too. some leave, some stay, but each passing beat of a day shows you that things are different. it hasn’t quite touched you yet, but you know it will. you know it will.

you knew andy had been interested in the lighthouse and the water. when you weren’t actually studying math, she talked about it all the time. you never minded too much, you hated math so it was no loss, but you watch her dive deeper and deeper into it. you’re curious, too, it seems, but you’re not as invested as she is. you wonder how far she’ll take it, or if she’ll just forget.

the latter would have been, oh so nice.

but suddenly, something happens. something not so unexpected, given everything andy had been doing. 

sometimes your mind still says it’s not real. you wish it weren’t. 

you’re at the beach, with andy, with carter and burke, with everyone, it seems. you don’t know all of them. well, you know them by name. you don’t know their thoughts or secrets or their hearts. that doesn’t matter. you’re standing by burke, but your eyes are on andy. you see what she’s doing but you don’t understand. you know better, she should know better. every time you close your eyes, you see her face in her swan dive.

you don’t speak of it. 

your mother tries to get you to open up, to not dwell in your grief, but externally, it’s like it hasn’t affected you at all. of course, you wear black and you cry at the funeral, but it doesn’t touch you. you don’t cry at home where your mother and stepfather can hear you. you don’t get angry and you don’t lash out. instead, you lie awake all night, eyes fastened on the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling. you wonder why. 

knowing you might never get an answer tastes sour on your tongue.

days pass and you still know the andy existed. still, time presses on, and it’s like the world is forgetting, and you just can’t. you remember her face on posters for homecoming queen, though. you remember the way she smiled and the whole world lit up. it all seems a little darker now, the world, tenebrin. it seems silly, that one person from a small town could unravel the threads of it so easily. but andy was andy. if anyone could, surely it must be her.

is this moving on ? or are you still grieving ? it’s certainly the latter.

your mother sends you away. she says you need a distraction because, for all you try to play fine, she knows you too well. you go to a cousin’s house you haven’t seen in years. you sleep in a room that smells like fabric softener, and you wander a town that could be tenebrin but isn’t. you spend your days at the community pool, the chlorine tinging your hair green. you go see movies and you eat lunch at the same cafe every day. it’s not where you want to be but it pulls you away from your grief. without tenebrin being your backdrop, you’re able to move on, just a little. you begin to laugh again. you smile with rosy cheeks. 

hadley, you’re back, even though you never realized you disappeared.

but where you were once screaming technicolor, you’ve been misted with gray. a reminder that grief fades, but it leaves a stain.

soon, the leaves are changing colors, and it’s as rainy as it ever is. you come back to tenebrin and fall back into your normal routine. it feels like nothing has changed, but you almost wish that it did.

AN EPILOGUE

you cry when you leave tenebrin port. your mother rubs your shoulder consolingly, saying you’re not that far, but it doesn’t help. you’ll miss your home. this should be exciting, though, and below all of your anguish, you know it is. you leave with your sticker-covered suitcase and a camera bag slung over your shoulder. 

you pin photos to your dorm room wall, a chaotic collage. alongside it are dried flowers and ribbons you can’t bear to throw out. it’s bright and it’s beautiful. your homesickness doesn’t last long. you settle into your new life with ease. you go out at night, you find friends like you always do. you throw yourself into collegiate organizations. a sorority, the newspaper, the literary magazine. you’re always busy. you love it.

you are studying photography, perhaps that should have been said earlier. you’ve got an eye for it, and everyone says it. you capture things no one else would bother to look at. you see the light in the darkness, the dark in the light. it doesn’t seem quite like the sort of thing that could change a life, but you always find yourself startled when someone looks at your photos and become wordless. 

every summer after that first year, you go home to tenebrin. 

you catch up with your sibling, you catch up with old friends. 

time passes in a blur, somehow faster than you can imagine. freshman year, sophomore, than junior. where has the time gone ? you have done shows and galleries in seattle, little spotlights for local students. you go to nyu for a semester. the big city isn’t your thing, and you are relieved when you return to washington. you pick up a journalism minor. it seems relevant. oh, and a french one, too. it’s too pretty to pass up. life seems to be passing and flying by. you can’t always keep up.

finally, finally, it’s your last year before your senior year. so many of your friends have graduated from university already, starting their lives, and you can’t quite explain how you’re feeling. you’re eager for something, but you are turning the page to a new chapter. that's … frightening. maybe not scary, that’s not quite it, but unnerving. you are unnerved. nothing before has ever seemed so tenuous, so ungraspable. you think that you will worry about everything … later. this last summer must be good for you. you are willing it to be. if the universe has ever been listening to you, you hope it’s now.

[ecoorganic]

Déjà Vu All Over Again: Tokyo and Another Lost Olympics

Long before the 2020 Summer Games were postponed by a deadly pandemic, Japan was chosen as the first Asian host nation—then the 1940 Tokyo Olympics went up in smoke. Eight decades later, approaching what should have been the closing ceremonies, here we are again.

Picture a faraway land. A nation with a long and rich history—a history much longer and much richer than our own. Here the people yearn to demystify their culture and traditions, and share them with the West. More than that, they need to. They have recently been scarred by tragedy. Devastated by a natural disaster and still reeling from a blow to their self-esteem, they’re finally on the road to recovery, but the economy could use an injection of tourism dollars and a shot of national pride. By opening its arms to the world and hosting the Olympic Games, this country sees an opportunity to show its resilience, and to make its own citizens believe in their greatness once again, through sports.

In case you hadn’t guessed, that faraway land is Japan. Or it was Japan. In the fall of 2013, just two years removed from a horrific level-seven accident at three nuclear reactors in Fukushima—which itself was triggered by the Old Testament, perfect-storm double whammy of an earthquake followed by a tsunami—the International Olympic Committee held a press conference to announce that Tokyo had edged out Istanbul and Madrid to host the XXXII Olympiad, planned for July 24 through August 9 of 2020. But that description of a reeling, faraway land bolstered by the promise of Olympic uplift, only to see it all slip away, could just as easily apply to Japan in the decade leading up to the 1940 Tokyo Summer Games.

While the 2020 Games have not (yet) been canceled outright, merely postponed until next summer in response to the global COVID-19 outbreak, Japan in 1940 would not be so lucky. In the years leading up to those Games, before a second World War seemed like a possibility, the Japanese empire found itself in a situation eerily familiar to the run-up to 2020, with skeptical eyes trained on its every move. Still recovering from the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923, which had measured 7.9 on the Richter scale and killed more than 140,000 people around Tokyo, Japan desperately needed economic life support and a spiritual balm. A reason for people to lift their heads up high again. And hosting the Olympics seemed like a panacea for all of the country’s ills—proof that the Land of the Rising Sun had reemerged from the ashes.

***

In the 1930s, the upper echelon of Japanese society was torn between two rivaling ideologies. On one side were the intellectuals, academics and sports enthusiasts who were convinced that the relatively new Olympic Games shared their ideals—that sports could bring people and nations together, binding them with a common cause. That belief was only bolstered after the ’32 Summer Games in L.A., where Japan won 18 medals, including seven golds.

On the other side, though, was a deeply entrenched military government rooted in the country’s glorious Samurai past, whose members believed the path to global legitimacy laid in the might of Japanese imperialism.

The former set believed that if the IOC could be persuaded to make Japan the first non-Western Olympic host, the prestige would push them to the forefront of the world’s stage. Says Roy Tomizawa, who writes about Japan and the Olympics: “The mayor of Tokyo was proud of the shiny, modern metropolis the city had become, and he wanted the world to know.” What better way to show that off?

Japan's haul in L.A., at the 1932 Summer Games: 18 total medals (fifth-best in the world), including gold in the triple jump for Chuhei Nambu.

Unfortunately, in the 1930s, the military held more sway.

The IOC, which at the time was a clubby, backslapping gentleman’s club made up exclusively of rich, white males—the father of the modern Games, an eccentric French aristocrat named Charles Pierre de Frédy, Baron de Coubertin, considered women's sports to be “the most unaesthetic sight human eyes could contemplate”—was slow to take the new applicants seriously when in 1932 Japan officially entered a bid to stage the XII Olympiad. The aspiring hosts were especially focused on the ’40 Games because that year would, according to their calendar, mark the 2,600th anniversary of their founding as a nation. But after their army invaded Manchuria in ’31 and pulled out of the League of Nations in ’33, their Olympic ambitions took on a new urgency.

Among potential hosts, Tokyo started as a distant third choice behind Rome and Helsinki. That is, until Japan sent its own IOC delegate, Sugimura Yotaro, on a stealth mission to Italy in 1935, where he lobbied Prime Minister Benito Mussolini to withdraw the Rome bid. Says Sandra Collins, author of The 1940 Tokyo Games: The Missing Olympics: “Japan basically said, ‘If you could do this for us, we’ll owe you a favor.’ ”

Surprising as it may seem, the quid pro quo actually worked … with one small condition: Japan had to promise to back Rome’s bid for the 1944 Games. Japan’s promise to stop selling arms to Ethiopia, which Italy was looking to colonize, also sweetened the deal. (When the IOC learned of the secret pact, shortly after it was made, its members were furious.)

With one rival down, Japan whipped out its checkbook and quickly put up $100,000 for a cannily crafted charm offensive. The goal: to wine, dine and shamelessly woo the IOC and its president, the Belgian Count Henri de Baillet-Latour, with an all-expenses-paid, 20-day trip to Tokyo. Going in, some of the touring members of that delegation were deeply cynical about Tokyo’s having the requisite facilities for the Games. More to the point, they believed the proposed locale was simply too far away from the rest of the world, making travel too expensive for any number of countries mired in economic depression. But Japan, hell-bent on softening its image as a military aggressor in Manchuria, proved particularly persuasive, volunteering to reach into the government’s own pockets to a degree uncommon for a host nation. “Basically, they pitched the IOC by saying, ‘We’ll pay for everything,’ ” says Olympic historian David Wallechinsky. “Most of the Europeans in the IOC had pretty racist views of Asians, and they didn’t really care about spreading the Games there. But after they were toured and fed, they thought: This is good; they’re going to pay for everything.”

By the end of that Tokyo boondoggle, the members of the IOC contingent were sufficiently convinced that Japan wasn’t just some inscrutable, backward country. They were sold. (Or bought, if you happened to be from Finland.) And in July 1936, it finally became official: Tokyo had won the vote to host the 1940 Summer Olympics, 37–26, over Helsinki. As gravy, the IOC would also hand Japan that year’s Winter Games, to be held in Sapporo, on the northern island of Hokkaido.

The news was a shot in the arm for Japan. The world would finally be coming to them. “The Japanese felt they’d never gotten the recognition from the West they deserved,” says Collins. “They were finally being seen as equal, and the Olympic Games were going to be their coming-out party.”

Of course, all parties end—but no one could have predicted just how quickly this one would be over. One month after the Japan announcement, the 1936 Summer Games kicked off in Berlin, where the German capital had been transformed into a sort of monument to Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich. In the three short years since his appointment as chancellor, Hitler had already begun imprisoning political opponents, homosexuals and others classified as “dangerous.” He had also implemented the Nuremberg Race Laws, setting the legal framework for the persecution of Jews. And as the Games approached, Gypsies were suddenly cleared from the streets of Berlin and relocated to God-knows-where. Swastika flags hung from the rafters of every sporting venue. At the opening ceremony, German athletes gave the Nazi salute as they marched past the Führer’s box. Initially conceived as a testament to worldwide brotherhood, diversity and inclusiveness, the Olympics had been hijacked by Hitler’s minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, and turned into the most garish Nazi rally yet.

Owens (top) took gold in the 100-meter final in Berlin, in 1936, overshadowing for a moment what amounted to a Nazi rally.

The Games themselves, meanwhile, took a backseat to Germany’s Triumph of the Aryan will cavalcade of Nazi self-mythologizing, and while Jesse Owens stole the klieg light away from Hitler during his four gold-medal victories (including three world records), the IOC would end up leaving Berlin feeling like duped political stooges. They also began to wonder whether a newly militaristic Japan might try to pull off a similar stunt four summers later.

Meanwhile, back in Tokyo, the time had come to pry open the national war chest and begin construction of athletic facilities, Western-style hotels and urban infrastructure in preparation for the 1940 Games. That prep, though, had barely begun before Japan’s government stepped in. Says Wallechinsky: “The military started going, ‘No, we can’t spend money to pay for these Olympics; we have something more important going on.’ ”

That more-important something was an all-out invasion of China.

Japanese troops in the summer of 1938 pushed through the Chinese mainland, toward Hankou (or what is now Wuhan).

By early 1938, with the Sino-Japanese War in full swing, a growing faction of the IOC began calling for the ’40 Summer Games to be taken away from Tokyo. Baillet-Latour met secretly with a Finnish delegation to see whether they would be willing to take over. Naturally, they were more than happy to step in. The Japanese knew nothing of this contingency plan, but by then even they were beginning to wonder whether they shouldn’t just give up the approaching Olympics. The only question was: How? How do you take this great acknowledgement from the world community—this public statement that you’ve finally made it—and give it back?

Finally, on July 16, 1938, Japan’s minister of health and welfare, Koichi Kido, confirmed what many people had already sensed was coming. His announcement, forfeiting the 1940 Tokyo Summer Olympics, was a mere formality for a country so deeply committed to a costly military adventure in China. Kido closed his speech by saying, “When peace reigns again in the Far East, we can then invite the Games to Tokyo and take that opportunity to prove to the people of the world the true Japanese spirit.” (It would take two and a half decades before that hope was finally realized, when the IOC finally awarded the 1964 Summer Games to Tokyo.)

Helsinki, eager to fill this new void, sprang into action, preparing sporting venues and accommodations for the world’s visiting athletes right away. But it quickly became clear that the 1940 Games were not to be. After Germany invaded Poland on Sept. 1, 1939, there was no way the Olympics could possibly move forward—in Helsinki or anywhere else. The threat of a second World War had become too serious for the bread and circuses of sports. Finland would officially cancel the Summer Games the following March, just three months before they were slated to begin. For the first time since ’16, and only the second time in the modern era, there would be no Olympics. For a brief moment, Japan held out hope that its war in China would be over in time to host the ’44 Games. But those, ultimately, would never happen either.

Mired in combat, the world would not see another Olympic Games until 1948, with St. Moritz, Switzerland (which had largely stayed out of the global conflict), hosting in the winter and London (still in the midst of rationing and post-war austerity) in the summer. Japan and Germany were banned from participating in either Games.

More than half a century later, compared with the millions of lives lost in World War II, it can seem trivial to consider all the wasted human potential and all the gifted athletes who never got to compete during that 12-year Olympic gap, between ’36 and ’48. Still, like Joe DiMaggio’s and Ted Williams’s losing years to military enlistment, those canceled Games inspire speculation about what might have been in Tokyo. American greats such as pole vaulter Cornelius Warmerdam and sprinters Mack Robinson (the older brother of Jackie, who finished second in the 200 meters in Berlin) and Jesse Owens (who beat Robinson for that Berlin gold) all remain huge what-ifs.

Jacques Rogge, then the IOC president, unveiled the Tokyo win in 2013.

Fast-forward eight decades from those canceled 1940 Summer Olympics and we find ourselves at another what-if moment. Once again, the setting is Tokyo—but the world, of course, is different. We are at war again, but it’s a new kind of war, against an invisible enemy, with casualties topping 700,000. No one knows how long the coronavirus pandemic will last.

It could very well be that a year from now the 2021 Tokyo Games become the ’22 Tokyo Games. Or maybe they’ll be scrapped all together, an un-fun-house mirror version of 1940. “People keep asking me, What would that do to the Olympic movement?,” says Wallechinsky. “But, believe me: The Olympic movement has survived a lot worse than this.”

We can only hope he’s right.

Read more of SI's Daily Covers stories here from Blogger https://ift.tt/30C9Ezx

[blockheadbrands]

Woodstock Wasn’t The Beginning: A Brief History of Music Festivals

Tom Cohen of High Times Reports:

How we’ve been dropping the bass and lighting up for thousands of years.

Humans are born alone, but we get together to listen to music and party. You might even say that the history of humans is the history of music and festivals. Parties have been popping long before Coachella’s lineup was announced because we’re social creatures and even the most introverted people still get FOMO. Throughout history, people all over the world have been getting together to play music and rage like college sophomores at festivals.

We have early proof of festival and party culture thanks to something that makes every party special: the music. Before humans ever settled into farming around 6,000 years ago, when we still were migratory hunters and gatherers, people were already getting together in sacred places to eat, paint, and have jam seshes. Hunting and gathering required teamwork and planning, so early humans were already getting together to create surpluses of food, which allowed for leisure time and creative expression like music and cave paintings. 

Most importantly, the archaeological record shows that paleolithic humans were enjoying crunchy beats at least 35,000 years ago. In modern Germany, flutes have been discovered in regions where people were gathering to paint caves of animals and carve small female forms. The weather wasn’t the only thing that made the Ice Age pretty cool. 

When people began farming, civilizations formed along with a new reason to party: the harvest. Harvests allowed humans to enjoy the fruits of their labor with bountiful food for feasts. Learning how to garden also gave party people nature’s greatest gift—hemp—along with grains and grapes, which people quickly figured out how to ferment into beer and wine. The word festival actually comes from the Latin festum or feast. These early civilizations even had music. Ancient groups celebrating with weed, beer, wine, and music can’t have been too far off from our modern festivals. The earliest archaeological evidence of wine has been dated to 7000 BCE in China, and beer has been dated at archaeological sites to 11000 BCE in Israel. Hemp and marijuana have been grown and utilized for millenia. These early festivals often had the same ethos as Woodstock and Coachella. Take Mehregan, for example. It was a Zoroastrian festival in 5th century BCE in ancient Persia that celebrated friendship, love, and affection.

The first recorded contemporary-style festival took place in ancient Greece. Every four years, the Greeks held athletic and artistic competitions at the Pythian Games (a precursor to the original Olympics). Musicians would play stringed instruments like the cithara (which is where we get the word guitar) and aulos (an ancient pipe), and the best players were rewarded with a crown of laurels not unlike the flower crowns that have become compulsory at Coachella. Cities would send their best to compete, and people from all around the Greek world would travel to see the festivities. 

While the Pythia (in whose honor the games were held) was not a teetotaler, the festival itself lacked the more recreational aspects we seek at modern festivals. However, the ancient Greeks were also known to party in other ways. And, while the Greeks may not have invented drug-fueled ragers, they may have perfected them as an art. Some Greeks and Romans worshipped Dionysus, the god of wine and partying, whose followers would congregate, get wasted, and have group sex. These followers would get so high they would become enthusiastic the Greek word for “possessed by god.” Allegedly, these parties (called bacchanalia) were originally women-only orgies, but later versions were open to everyone from every social class.

Around the world, it is common for festivals to take place around the winter and summer solstices and fall and spring equinoxes. Saturnalia (the pagan version of Christmas) was an all-out rager where slaves and masters traded  places, exchanged gifts, and had sex with everybody. Or, as the Roman poet Catullus said of Saturnalia. “the festival day of Saturnalia, the best of days!” 

In India, the Holi festival occurs around the spring equinox and celebrates color, love, and forgiveness. Like many spring festivals, it asks us to celebrate the new spring and to forgive and forget the past. Holi is also known for its dramatic throwing of colored pigments into the air. And, of course, some groups celebrating Holi consume bhang, an powdered form of cannabis put in drinks or on food. A celebrant of Holi stated to a Western researcher: “Holi, he said with a beatific sigh, is the Festival of Love!”

In fall, many east-Asian countries celebrate the Mid-Autumn or Harvest Festival (中秋節 Zhōngqiū Jié in Chinese) where attendees worship the harvest moon, light lanterns, and celebrate marriages. Mooncakes, a special sweet pastry, are eaten in celebration of the harvest moon and autumn’s bounty. 

What are the equinoxes and solstices? I’d be remiss if I didn’t mark a day or two on the calendar. You may think the calendar is just an ever-shortening stack of daily jokes on your desk at work, but it is actually an ancient calculation (later updated in modern times) of the earth’s wobbly trip around the sun. The four seasons are defined by the earth’s tilt and we often celebrate festivals when the earth is balanced or fully tilted. We live our ordinary lives most days of the year, working and wobbling through weeks and months. It is on special days, the days when the earth’s tilt becomes balanced or changes direction, that time itself changes. 

Now, the difference between a festival and kickback is more than the number of people who show up. It’s about that special time in which we celebrate. Because, as much fun as a kickback can be, we all know it lacks the je ne sais quoi that Coachella or a Holi have. When we attend a festival, whether it is a Harvest Festival in China or EDC in Las Vegas, we remove ourselves from the normal passage of time. Just as a holiday (which comes from the Old English for “Holy Day”) is distinct from the normal work week, a festival exists outside of ordinary time.

Our lives don’t stop but we are freed from our normal constraints and can live fully in this time-outside-of-time. Normal, chronological or linear time ceases its too persistent tick-tock where we plan our retirements and wait for 5 o’clock. Special time, or what the Greeks called kairos, allows us to live in the moment, to make love to strangers and consume drugs with impunity and without fear of repercussions. Festival time is part of the magic that keeps us coming back summer after summer and gives relief form the tedium and grind of everyday life. 

The importance of time is also found in music. Musical time is the heartbeat of life and one we take part in through dance. Before mosh pits or twerking ever danced their way into our hearts, people were getting together en masse to dance the night away. In 12th century Persia, Sufi Muslims began a practice known as semazen or what the West calls the Whirling Dervishes. A form of meditation, a dervish wears a colorful skirt, contemplates Allah, and spins like the wash cycle, entering an ecstatic trance. In a dizzying statistic, according to the Guiness Book of Records, the most sufis spinning together was 755 in Taiwan in 2011. 

Not all of these group dance sessions are sober. In Europe, during the Middle-Ages and Renaissance, there were episodes of so-called “dancing plagues” where thousands of people would simultaneous and frantically dance for hours or days on end. Culminating in 1518 in Alsace, a dancing plague struck hundreds of people who danced for over a month, some of them dying from exhaustion. These proto-flash mobs affected everyone in a town and are well documented over hundreds of years. One explanation is that ergot, a fungi that grows on rye used for bread and is structurally related to LSD, was accidentally and simultaneously eaten by the entire city. This resulted in unbaked bread getting a whole town half-baked. 

The origin of the modern music festival is generally credited to the Monterey Pop Festival where Jimi Hendrix, the Who, Janis Joplin, the Dead, and Otis Redding jammed in June, 1967. Distinct from a simple concert that lasts for a few hours at most, the Monterey Pop Festival raged for several days with multiple headliners. Two years later, the definitive 60s music festival was held in Woodstock, New York where nearly half a million people turned out to see and hear what may be the greatest rock n roll lineup of all time including: The Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, The Who, Jefferson Airplane, The Band, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Janis Joplin, Santana, and Joan Baez. 

Woodstock as a cultural phenomenon transcended the music. It represented the peace, love, and naivete of the 1960s counterculture movement in all of its drug use and muddy sex. It showed the world that hundreds of thousands of young people were more interested in music and introspection than joining the workforce or fighting a war in Vietnam. That despite all of the rain, the bad acid, heat, and lack of facilities or conveniences, people could get together to celebrate human life in its most pure form. Or, as Joni Mitchell said, “Woodstock was a spark of beauty where half-a-million kids saw that they were part of a greater organism”.

The counterpoint to Woodstock is the infamous Altamont Free Concert in December, 1969. Advertised as the Californian Woodstock and with many of the same headliners, it became a violent riot with at least four deaths and multiple injuries including an LSD-induced drowning. While the Rolling Stones played Under My Thumb, Meredith Hunter, a teenager allegedly on methamphetamines, approached the stage with a gun before being driven off, stabbed, and killed by the Hells Angels motorcycle gang that had been hired to provide security. The dark villainy of Altamont provides chiaroscuro when compared to Woodstock’s sex and peace and together they signal the end of the innocent 60s and the beginning of the jaded 70s: a story arc that inspired Don Mclean’s immortal American Pie. 

Although music festivals continued through the 70s and 80s, notably at the Reading, Leeds, and Glastonbury Festivals in the United Kingdom as well as the Newport Folk (where Dylan first went electric and got booed) and Jazz Festivals in the United States, it wasn’t until the 90s that the large scale, recurring festivals like Lollapalooza, Warped Tour, Bonnaroo, and Coachella began. 

As a cultural phenomenon, music festivals are as mainstream today as they were countercultural in the 60s. This is less a reflection on the pop music that now permeates the lineups of Coachella and Bonnaroo, but rather that supply has met the demand of teenagers everywhere and music has become a ubiquitous part of society. By my count, there are currently at least 255 large scale music festivals that occur each year in the United States alone. Just the top 15 festivals drew over 2 million people last year. Attending one of these celebrations of life and music has become as much a rite of passage for young people as taking that first hit of a joint in high school, and playing one of these festivals has become as much a sign of ‘making it’ for bands as appearing on the cover of Rolling Stone once signalled. 

Where festivals were once folk, rock, or jazz oriented, they’ve become increasingly eclectic and integrated. This summer alone, bands and acts as diverse but complementary as Phish, Childish Gambino, Post Malone, Solange, Cardi B, Tame Impala, Courtney Barnett, Fleet Foxes, Moses Sumney, Paul Simon, and Lil Wayne will grace some of the same stages across the country. It is only the communal beauty of a festival that can bring such acts together in new blends of art and music and celebrate the diversity of the nation. 

The future of music festivals is as hazy as the smoke and trash covered fields we’ve all frequented in our teens and twenties. The cost of attending can be prohibitive, the acts trend more and more towards multimedia light shows of sensory overload, and festival organizers themselves seem driven by profit. However, we are a celebratory species and as long as people are people we will celebrate with love, drugs, music, and each other.

TO READ MORE OF THIS ARTICLE ON HIGH TIMES, CLICK HERE.

https://hightimes.com/culture/woodstock-wasnt-beginning-brief-history-music-festivals/

[jackblankhsh]

Wedding Crash

Because I did not receive an invitation to the wedding I felt a desire to attend.  I reasoned if they really didn’t want me to come, the bride and groom could’ve taken better steps to prevent me from knowing about the impending nuptials.  Seeing how they brazenly mentioned it on social media, I felt indirectly invited.  Alluding to an open bar, frankly, they might as well have told a moth about a flame. So, in the interest of saving money, with hope of kindling a chance of romance, I ventured downtown to the wedding of Jackie Sanchez and some guy.  

I met Jackie in high school.  The first time I saw her I learned an erection can swell to a painful degree – dick feeling like a rock about to explode apart.  Long licorice colored hair, caramel skin, and sneakers decorated in white out doodles, she inspired feelings I’ve never learned to properly express.  Mainly that’s because there’s no way to charmingly say, “So I was jerking off the other day, thinking of you, and…” whatever comes next is irrelevant.  For some reason most folks aren’t flattered to learn they’re in the spank bank.  Maybe it’s something everyone fears they won’t live up to.  I don’t know, I’ve never had a problem failing people.

Hitching a ride from my buddy Sid, I told him to head to the Art Institute.  He pulled over to the curb, put the car in park, and said, “Do not go to Jackie’s wedding.”

Struggling to put on a tux while seated passenger side, “I resent the implication of your accusation.”

He sighed, “You had four years in high school, four years to ask her out.”

I nodded, “Truth fact.  However, life is a continuous opportunity for those willing to try.  I’m not dead.  Ergo…”

“Fuck yourself,” Sid said, then for emphasis, “Error go fuck yourself.”

“Are you gonna drive me to the Art Institute?”

Shifting the car into gear Sid remarked, “Only to see you fail.”

I truly believe it’s the amount of faith we have in one another that explains why the world is the way it is.  

#

Sneaking into any kind of event is an art form.  The amount of security dictates the level of infiltration skill required to achieve a successful sneak.  For instance, breaking into an eighth grade graduation is very different from photo-bombing the President at the State of the Union.  One simply requires ice cream cake and a hammer, while the eighth grade graduation involves chloroform, white wine, peanut dust, and a child sized coffin.

I originally considered crashing the actual wedding, but since it took place in a church I could not.  God and I have an understanding, and though we clearly have little respect for one another, I abide by our agreement:  I stay out of the churches, God stays out of evolution, and the Winter Olympics.  So instead I aimed at the reception.  

Security didn’t appear to be anything other than Art Institute guards.  Instead of preventing flash photography two doorstops in blue blazers checked invites and IDs against a list on a clipboard.  Once again I felt like they left the door wide open. Out of myriad gambits, the way one guard blatantly scratched his ass, hand down the back of his pants to get at bare skin, I decided to go with the maneuver known as the Hideous Hideaway.  

I called up a video on my phone then approached the entrance.  

A guard said, “Good afternoon.  May I see your invitation?”

“Sure thing.” Smiling I fumbled in my pockets, pretending to be unsure of its location.  In the process I pulled out my cell phone which seemed to inspire my remark, “Oh, hey, have you seen this yet?”

I pressed play on the video.  It featured insects devouring a man’s penis while he writhed in agony.  The millipede scrambling down his urethra is as far as most get, missing out on the young woman who comes along to save his cock by stomping the bugs to death.  These two made it all the way to the end.  That made things easier.

As expected, one guard asked, “Where’d you get that?”

I informed her of the link’s location, and while the two hurried to share the hideous spectacle with their friends, I slipped inside.  It almost felt too easy.  Then I stepped into the banquet hall where I immediately bumped into Jackie’s brother Alvaro.  

Alvaro Sanchez Junior always impressed me until he spoke.  He possessed the regal bearing and beauty of an Aztec emperor. Unfortunately, he often spoke with a toxic tone symptomatic of silver spoon poisoning.  This stemmed from the fact Sanchez Senior held a low level, but well connected political position; and many expected Alvaro, as eldest, to assume his father’s spot; regardless of the realities of democracy that political seat belonged to him – voters be damned.  Groomed, practically from birth, to be, as Alvaro liked to say “a leader of men,” he took a method approach to his future.  Like a Strasburg disciple, he stayed in the character of king almighty every moment of the day.  

We literally bumped into one another when, as I stood perfectly still, he walked into me. For a moment I tensed, expecting him to recognize me.  Alvaro never cared for me.  I based this on the fact he often told me, “I don’t care for you.”  However, he assumed from the second rate quality of my tux that I worked as a server.  An assumption made plain when he said:

“Watch where I’m going, and get me some crab puffs, or I’ll have you fired.”  He and a buddy high fived, yet didn’t linger.  So I headed for the open bar.  

There I collected a pair of cocktails, one for each hand.  Draining the glasses steadily, I orbited the banquet hall.  Staying in one spot ran the risk of prolonged conversation, chancing the development of holes in my cover – anonymity my best camouflage.  Still I paused every so often to dance in and out of conversations, killing time saying things like:  

“Baseball is a hell of a game if you can stay drunk… I’ve never been to Guayaquil, but that iguana park sounds fascinating… well, you’d be surprised.  Tuberculosis kills all kinds of career opportunities lemme tell ya (cough, cough)… Oh, I know the best man.  We used to sell runaways to the circus… No ma’am, I don’t think the bride’s dress is too tight.  She’s having trouble sitting because the groom, well, he likes to drill that ass.”

In retrospect, I could have been milder in some regards.  Yet, no one caught on to the presence of a crasher.  I’ve been to several weddings.  They all tend to be the same affair.  A nebula of tables adorned with floral centerpieces, ringed by a smattering of guests with various degrees of connectivity.  Wedding receptions are the only occasion where it’s okay to openly rank family and friends, status defined by seating assignments. Therefore, the trick to remaining discrete involved finding a table with the least desired family and friends. There I could sit, pretending to share in the minimalist joy of having at least been invited.  

“That’s better than Aunt Frida.  No one invites her anywhere.”

“That’s because she’s dead.”

“Only on the inside.  She’s a real downer.”

Still, I occasionally chanced brief hellos with those I recognized.  Her Aunt Morena, who wrote Xicana literature, a woman with a helmet of hair redefining Chicana archetypes.  Grandpa Emilio, whom I always thought of as the old guitarist.  I saw his beloved instrument beside his chair – Ana from the alley of the kiss – and hoped I’d get a chance to hear him play once more.  Cousins Fabiana and Facundo forever locked in a debate about the realism of football.  Friend of the family and party regular Vincent Redon in the 800th retelling of the woman at her toilette he saw after the hurricane ripped her house open. Jackie’s family and friends gathered, while I snuck booze in the background – it felt like old times.  

When dinner arrived, instead of eating I slipped outside for a smoke.  Exiting the room, I jokingly asked the guards if I needed a hand stamp to get back in.

One laughed, “Nope, but you gotta watch this.”  

He showed me a video of four women explosively shitting on the floor.  They then used the excrement as finger paint to draw floral designs on one another like sewer hippies.  I made an exaggerated display of comical disgust.  Delighted, the guards waved me off, and returned to finding more revolting videos.  

Outside I felt my phone buzz.

Sid texted, “I can’t believe you’re still in there.”

“Believe it,” I typed back.

“How much longer?”

Good question, I thought.  

After high school Jackie and I didn’t keep in touch.  By then we’d gone down very different roads.  We used to be kids searching for how to be who we wanted to be, following breadcrumbs laid out by albums, films, and books.  We could agree on the significance of a song, but not the whole album; the brilliance of a line from, though not the entire film, or book.  It seemed to me we were only off by a slight degree, that one shared element would bring us into sync.  But by the time we graduated… we took comfort in dissimilar realities, that one thing never having materialized.

Over a decade later, when social media blossomed, we got back in touch; however, it rarely amounted to more than peripheral interactions.  

Post:  Look at dis cutest kittie!

“Liked” by Jackie Sanchez. 

Strolling back to the banquet area, it dawned on me my infatuation with Jackie stemmed mostly from not dating her.  We never had a romantic relationship, so it never failed; therefore it could’ve been anything.  Possibilities are endless in the absence of contrary evidence.  Because I could only imagine us together I could always imagine us perfectly.  And oddly enough, fantasies have a way of making promises.  

Promises like if I got the DJ to play Patti Smith’s “Because the Night”, the song would inspire the words I needed to say to win her heart.  Seizing one last bold chance for love go up to the head table while the song fills the air, and speak – about this time I realized I hadn’t merely been vividly imagining the scenario, but actually now stood in front of the head table, Jackie staring over her pollo relleno in wide eyed disbelief.  

“Howdy do?” I said, immediately regretting my very existence.  If nothing else, I doubt any romantic victory ever began with howdy do, although I could be wrong.

Jackie blinked, “I’m good.  How… how are you?”

“Not bad.” I put my hands in my pockets, wondering how many times I’d have to punch myself in the throat with my keys before I finally killed myself.  I said, “It’s been a while.”

“Yes it has,” she nodded, “The last time I saw you, you set my boyfriend’s car on fire.”

“This is that guy?” her husband said.  He suddenly looked desperate to call the police.  

Smiling, I said, “That is indeed me.”  

“What are you doing here?” Jackie asked.

I sincerely believe honesty is the best move.  However, on this occasion, I lied, “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m here to steal a painting, saw y’all in here, and thought I’d stop by to say congratulations.”

“Thanks?” her husband said.

“Thank you,” Jackie smiled.  She got up, hurried around the table to hug me.  She smelled amazing, the kind of aroma that cures depression.  She whispered in my ear, “You’ll go to jail if you steal a painting.  Please tell me this is some deranged romantic stunt.”

It felt like an opening, yet I oddly enough knew better.  I squeezed her gently, “Nope.”  Stepping away from her I waved to the groom, “Once again, congratulations.  I’d stay, but timing is everything.  Don’t want to miss my moment.”

Heading out, feeling several eyes on me, I texted Sid:  "be out front, engine running, backseat open.“

Minutes later, running down the steps of the Art Institute, carrying one of Monet’s “Haystacks” – I had to steal something to diminish the lie – I found myself wondering what else I needed to let go of.  Diving into the backseat of Sid’s car, we peeled out, rocketing home.  

Glancing in the rearview Sid said, “What the fuck is that?”

“One of six, 25 technically – they can spare one.”

He cracked a beer, “So how was the reception?”

“A little too clear.”  

My impression of the past would no longer be the same, but that’s just growing up.  I tapped Sid on the shoulder.  He handed me a beer.  Opening it I thought, "Here’s to you Jackie.  I’m glad you’re happy.”

Sid said, “You know alotta marriages end in divorce.”

“Yeah.” But I didn’t feel like hoping for that. I felt like finding another dream girl, only this time actually trying to hold her instead of chasing the mirage.