#out of this world 1991

[lightmotif139]

How has a game this good been around this long and I never knew about it???

You guys. I just discovered this (apparently classic) game called Another World, also known as Out of This World. It's from 1991 (remastered 20 years later), and I wasn't sure if I would like it or not since it's pretty old.

I LOVED EVERY MOMENT OF IT. This game is SO good and just hit so many right points for me. Yes it's simple in some ways, but surprisingly complex in others, and it's easily on my favorites list now!

It's not a game about stats and points and power-ups and maxing your skills. It's a game about taking you through a story and making you FEEL that story and its environments. It has a few basic controls, no meters or other interfaces, no dialogue, no music (just very effective ambient audio) -- yet every scene is different and it quickly drew me in to the world and the characters.

I love this game's ability to build drama with no words. It's got a crazy amount of narrow escapes (and a crazy amount of different deaths if you miss those escapes -- which you will). It's got a section that inspires way more claustrophobia than a 2d platformer should be able to. It's got character animations that are surprisingly lifelike for how simple they are. It's got a button to instantly switch between the original and the remastered graphics. It's got a really cool gun. It's got a super dramatic final stage. It's got an alien culture that you see just enough glimpses into to realized there must have been a lot more going on in the creator's mind.

Oh and did I mention the protagonist gets an alien friend and they keep rescuing each other?

Seriously people, go play this game. It's sooooo good.

[cinematicplatformerjourney]

OMG it's Another World fanart 😮😮😮😍😍😍

also siri can you tell my mom to pickup my ferrari i dont think i’ll be back for awhile

[itsamenickname]

Hot take: I would've enjoyed Super Mario Sunshine a lot more if Nintendo incorporated the following two changes:

Have Luigi be in the game (whether playable or not playable)

AND MORE IMPORTANTLY

2. Have Bowser tell Jr. that Luigi was his mama instead of Peach.

This concludes my Bowuigi hot take, good night everyone.

[bigbuxbolds]

was going thru the pics on my phone n came across the second to last twins game I went to back in 2021. this was in august, a month after the twins traded Nelson cruz and this was his first game back. before the game, he went out to chat w some of our guys, and his bestie miguel sano came up to give him the biggest hug that I managed to capture w these pics. nellie really was the heart of the team for a little while, so I really loved being able to see his homecoming and reunion live

also helped that the twins absolutely crushed the rays 12-0 this game

and as an extra treat heres one of the "fun facts" they showed for one of sanos at bats

[dreamy625]

This rockstar life - 4.1 Travelin' Band

So this is where the timeline really splits from reality, with Steve still in the band for the Adrenalize tour. Don’t worry about Viv, he'll be perfectly happy playing with Thin Lizzy or someone for a few years :)

Words: 4025 (sorry)

Content: Some mentions of alcohol

This rockstar life master list

----------------------------------------

== April 15th 1992 - Dublin ==

Dear Diary. Ah, I suddenly feel thirteen again! Kevin Peterson smiled at me in Geography, but I have three new spots and am totally gross so he must be blind. Blondie on Top of the Pops again…

Anyway, enough nostalgia. This will be my attempt to record for posterity our tour adventures April 1992 to… as yet undecided. Either for the biography I’m always threatening Steve I’m going to write about him, or just so that, when I’m an old lady, I can prove that I was once a cool rock chick (ha ha ha).

So I guess you’d call this the warm-up stage, although one club and then a massive stadium is a pretty weird warm-up! We're leaving for soundcheck in an hour or so, then they’re due on stage at 9pm. I’ve got to go and find Steve and try and make him eat something, but I’m rating my chances of success with that at about 1%. He’s been walking in circles round Joe’s garden since about 7am. I don’t think he’ll be hard to find, just follow the trail of cigarette butts. ----------------------------------------

McGonagles is surprisingly scruffy for such a famous venue. And small - Stevie looked like a tiger in a cage, pacing back and forth. I’ve seen the ‘In the round’ video of course, and a few bootlegs that Joe has a secret stash of, and the boy likes to move! Sav says in the early days he used to gallop around without looking and he had to take evasive action to avoid getting knocked off the stage! Happily no one went flying tonight though, and everything worked, and Joe only forgot the words once, and the crowd were insanely enthusiastic. So it was great. Surreal, but great!

And now I really must try and go to sleep, our flight’s pretty early in the morning. Sweetiepie’s already spark out and snoring - two nights of anxiety dreams and half a bottle of brandy will do that to a person.

Next stop, Wembley!

== 18th April - London, Wembley Stadium!! ==

Am I dreaming? I’ve dropped into a whole different world! I’ve just seen Elton John in a tracksuit!

== 19th April - London, Mookie Manor ==

I thought roller coasters usually warmed you up with a couple of gentle undulations before the ride got wild, but no, this one has gone straight for the big drop. I knew he got stagefright, and he was pretty twitchy at McGonagles, but this was a whole other level. He was okay yesterday - quiet, but you could see he was just concentrating really hard on remembering where he was supposed to be when, and getting the songs right obviously, but he could do that in his sleep.

Today though… I think it was seeing Robert Plant casually chatting with David Bowie and Roger Daltrey… he just went white, then grey, and rushed out of the marquee. Phil managed to haul him out of the gents loo in time for their stage runthrough, which went fine as far as I could tell, but then he vanished again and I couldn’t track him down. Backstage is crazy - there are dressing rooms and suchlike but, because there’s so many people, they’ve also brought in tents and portakabins and buses and there’s trucks and catering vans and flight cases all over - he could have been anywhere, so eventually I gave up looking because I was just getting in everyone’s way and went and watched the soundchecks from the press pit. Then Stacy appeared looking frantic and said ‘I think you’d better come, Steve’s…’. She didn’t even need to finish the sentence, I could guess and just asked where.

When I got to the hospitality tent, one of the roadies, Malcolm maybe, had him pinned up against a pillar. He’d drunk, I don’t know how much, presumably a lot, and apparently had started punching the wall, which had minimal effect since it was canvas, and then started on a table, and then taken a perfunctory swing at one of the bar staff when they’d tried to grab him. At which point Rick had run for Joe, and Stacy had found me. He was struggling against the arms holding him back, but went limp and hung his head when he saw me, instantly remorseful. I got him out of the marquee while everyone stared at us (you’d think this crowd, of all people, would be blasé about rockstar excess, but apparently we were still the afternoon’s entertainment) and into a taxi. All he said on the way back was ‘I can’t’ over and over. I’ve given him one of the pills he makes me look after so he won’t take a whole handful and he’s sleeping now.

Pretty scared about tomorrow. And it’s all going to be down to Joe and the boys - no hangers-on allowed backstage for the main event.

== 20th April - London, Mookie Manor ==

Wow. That was just. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place before! I don’t think I’ve seen so many people before full stop! They said 70,0000. And millions more watching on television apparently. To go from a few hundred people in that sweaty old club to this! Yesterday’s freakout looks like a pretty reasonable reaction now. And of course he was fine, better than fine. Like Joe said, the second he steps on the stage, he’s 100% rockstar. It’s just getting him on the stage that’s the struggle. Really, I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know how any of them do it. I would be so completely paralysed with terror at the mere suggestion of going out in front of that crowd. I guess that’s why I’m not a musician! Well that and a total lack of talent.

Joe, I think, had the best day of his life! Prancing around in front of a massive crowd in those union jack jeans (I don’t know where he finds these things), and then sharing a stage with Bowie, Ronno, and Ian Hunter - basically all his fanboy dreams come true. He acts so cool and confident most of the time and then suddenly his inner geeky little kid breaks through. He was bouncing up and down so much he was practically levitating with excitement! Stevie was not quite so exuberant but, once the adrenaline wore off, he was pretty mellow, just sitting quietly in the bar with a big grin on his face.

We’ve got a couple of days off now, and then he’s back to rehearsals and I’ve got a big pile of work I’ve been ignoring. This rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle is not quite as glamorous as I had been led to expect!

== 19th May - Madrid ==

So here we are, first night of the proper tour. I was going to start before and record the pre-tour prep. But it was just like packing for a holiday really. All the instruments go with the stage set-up, so you don’t have to worry about that. And even Steve’s stage clothes go in travel cases and are looked after by the wardrobe assistant - this one is called Susie, and Steve has already nicknamed her Susie Sew. She seems lovely, but she’s about seven feet tall and six inches wide, so I hate her! If I looked like that I’d be a model, not washing a load of sweaty t-shirts every night!

These are supposed to be more warm-up gigs, so small clubs with minimal publicity. It sold out the day it was announced though, so that’s good. The club is apparently known as ‘El templo del heavy’ - The Metal Temple - so I don’t know how Joe squares that with his ‘we’re not heavy metal’ claims!

== 20th May - Paris ==

I was too tired to write anything after the show last night, and then we had to get up early for the flight to Paris, but today’s a rest day so we can be tourists. I haven’t been here since the occasional weekend trip on le TGV in my TEFL days, but of course Steve and Phil lived here on and off for years. They reckon it hasn’t changed - I don’t think the Parisians would allow it to! We went to le Centre Pompidou, and we’re doing the Louvre tomorrow if there’s time before soundcheck.

Lunch was hilarious. I ordered for us en français without even thinking about it, and then noticed Stevie staring at me with his mouth open. He went ‘You speak French?!’ and I’m like duh, I’m a translator, you know that! Apparently it had never occurred to him that that meant I could speak in French as well! Actually my conversational French isn’t that good - I’m more used to formal French and it makes me sound like someone’s snooty grandma to real French people. But he looked genuinely impressed. Even after living in Paris for three years, all he’d learned to do was ask for beer and cigarettes, and he insisted on me teaching him. Which was fine to start with - he’s a good mimic and can do the accent way better than me - but then the more wine we drank, the louder and more animated he got, and other diners started to stare and mutter. Then, when the waiter was bringing us dessert, Steve jumped up and intercepted him and decided he was the waiter now, with the whole folded napkin over the arm thing and everything, then he started waving menus at the customers at nearby tables and gabbling at them in exaggerated franglais - think Manuel* but French instead of Spanish. Honestly I thought they were going to throw us out! I had to lure him back to the table with tarte au citron, which was delicious of course. And then we left a REALLY big tip.

== 24th May - Munich ==

Another night, another disreputable little club. Look at me, so nonchalant already! Not really, not even slightly bored of this yet. I get to watch Def Leppard every night, how cool is that! They still look weird to me on tiny little stages, but they sound great. And Steve’s doing pretty good. Remembering Joe’s only comment on the Wembley freak out - ‘He does this’ - I was worried we were going to have a repeat performance every night, but actually he’s been okay. He goes quiet an hour or two before showtime, and he can’t eat anything, and I think the temptation to break his vow not to drink before they go on is always there, but there’s enough bustle in the dressing room to distract him and, now they’re into a routine, he’s definitely steadier.

== 26th May - Milan ==

The boys head back to Germany today, but I’m going home because I’ve got project meetings. I’m trying to get everything set up before we go further afield - it’s one thing to make a hop back across the channel to meet clients, quite a different matter when you’re on a whole different continent! I hope Stevie’s going to be okay on his own. He’s a bit pouty but trying to be stoic about it. And Phil, bless him, is going to keep an eye on him. Also hope I’m going to be okay on my own! I’ve never flown by myself before. Also faintly terrified about the client meeting. Never done one where it’s my project, there’s always been a proper grown-up in charge before. What if I say something stupid? What if I open my mouth and all that comes out is one of those anxiety squeaks? No one's ever going to book me again :/

I know people tend to think of me as Steve's nursemaid, but they don't see how he has to look after me too. There's things he's totally cool about, like travelling, that freak me out, and having him with me makes it much less stressful. Also just emotionally, he's just the only person who calms me down. He finds that strange, that he could be calming to anyone. I don’t really know how to explain it; somehow, because he’s as messed up as I am, I feel safer with him than I ever have with anyone else? I'm trying not to stress, and hoping that medication and meditation will be enough, in the absence of soothing Steve hugs, to not dissolve into a puddle of anxiety. It’s only a week and then we’ll be back together. And in Sweden, which is cool. I’ve never been there. I asked him what it’s like but all he could remember was pickled fish and Abba. He’s got a thing for Frida - another redhead, surprise surprise!

== 5th June - Copenhagen ==

Forgot to document the other Scandinavian dates, oops. Basically another two good gigs with happy shouty audiences and not too many wrong notes. And pickled herring is disgusting! Anyway, we’re in Denmark now, which is very clean and tidy, and everyone speaks English. I have learned two words in Danish - tak, which means thank you, and puttemus, which means cuddle-mouse and is Steve’s new nickname (especially because he wrinkles his nose in disgust when I call him that!).

I’m writing this at tonight’s venue, which is really tiny - I think my school hall was bigger than this! Steve always says that touring isn’t really travelling - you just see a hotel, a stage, and a bar, and could be anywhere. I definitely see the truth in that now. I thought we’d have at least some spare time in the places we’re in for two or three days, but he has to do interviews and radio spots and photoshoots everywhere and barely gets a minute to himself. I’ve been getting to know some of the other wives/girlfriends a bit better though, and today we all went on a little excursion to Tivoli Gardens, which is an old-timey amusement park. Took some pictures of the old classic rides and pretty buildings, but didn’t really fancy going on a wooden rollercoaster.

== 6th June - Roskilde airport ==

Oh god, so hungover. After the show we ended up going to a strip club as they stay open later than the bars. I have limited experience of such things, but it seemed kind of wholesome compared with the only one I’ve been in before, in London. Feel like maybe I should disapprove on feminist principle, but really if women want to make a bunch of money off men by writhing around on a stage in their knickers, that’s their own business. Also I was secretly thrilled to finally see some of this rock ‘n’ roll debauchery I’ve heard so much about! There’s this Danish liqueur made from cherries that they make cocktails with. It tastes like jam. And fun fact, when you drink too much of it, you throw up pink. Not looking forward to getting on this plane one little bit.

One more of these small club gigs then we’re back to Blighty and start getting into bigger places, arenas and such like. The boys are all very excited that they will finally get to play with their new in-the-round stage. This time the drum riser literally rises, ten feet in the air, as well as spinning round, which totally doesn’t sound like a deathtrap, honest!

== 15th June - Dublin ==

Back in the Emerald Isle and chez Joe. We’ve come over a few days early so the boys can, in the eternal quest to produce an album in less than three years, record some demos in Joe’s studio. I’m not sure how much actual music-making is happening, they seem to be using the majority of the time to play golf (mostly Joe and Sav), run up hills (mostly Phil), reacquaint themselves with obscure Irish brands of cigarettes (mostly Steve), and of course drink Guinness (everyone except Phil, and me because it is disgusting - yes, I am a traitor to my Irish ancestry!). There has also been a lot of reminiscing about when they lived here after the Pyromania tour, including visits to Booterstown and Belville House, where Steve, Phil, and Rick used to live (and which is now painted pink and looks like a birthday cake and about as un-rock ‘n’ roll as you could possibly get).

== 20th June - a plane somewhere over the Irish sea ==

Brilliant gig! Everyone sounded great, the stage and lighting looked amazing, and everything worked - all the fancy moving bits did what they were supposed to, and no one got flung off the drum riser! We couldn’t sleep at all last night, we were so hyper, bouncing around Joe’s kitchen at 4am until he came down and shouted at us to shut up! I think he’s happy his role as a hotelier is over - this morning he was muttering about it being like having raccoons living in his house!

== 21st June - Glasgow ==

Fucking freezing! It’s June! It’s meant to be summer?! How do people live here? Steve likes it. Must be his Northern upbringing. Freak.

== 24th June - Sheffield ==

Hometown gigs! Bit of a weird part of the tour actually. Most of the boys are thrilled to see their families and old friends - they had to make a VIP section twice the size of normal to fit them all in - but it’s been difficult for Steve. He hadn’t seen his parents since that horrible Christmas two years ago, but he couldn’t not invite them to the gig, so it was pretty awkward. Of course everyone was perfectly polite, we were in public afterall, but you could see the distance between them. I think Barry’s still angry, and Beryl obviously just misses him. She hugged him so tight, and didn’t want to let go. I know they all used to be so close, well, the boys and Beryl and the two grandmas anyway, so I’d hope they can get that back. But Steve doesn’t even look like part of his family anymore, and you can really hear how his accent has softened when he’s surrounded by proper working class Yorkshiremen. Not exactly a peacock among pigeons, but maybe a dove. He feels it too and it makes him really sad. He blames himself, but I’m not sure how you could stay tied to your roots while living such a vastly different life to the people you’ve left behind?

He doesn’t really even like being back in the city; he feels watched, like everyone knows him and is judging him for having ideas above his station. That period when they first got their record deal and people called them sell-outs and actually spat at them in the street has left deep wounds. There were a lot of problems with the sound last night, which was unfortunate, but it has provided Steve with an excuse not to see people or do local media - Joe and Sav are doing the interviews (wearing their team shirts of course - thank gods it’s the off-season or they’d be bickering about it endlessly!) - while he and Phil are here ostensibly helping to get the sound sorted out. Actually they’re just drinking a lot of tea and taking the piss out of Malvin, but it’s keeping him distracted from brooding which is the main thing. To be honest, I’ll be glad when this is done and we head back down south.

== 25th June - London, Mookie Manor ==

Back home again for a few days. Very convenient having Earl’s Court Arena basically just down the road from our house. Phil, Jacki, and Rory are staying over. We had to spend the evening building their bed as it had been sat in bits in boxes ever since Steve bought the house. Had to borrow spanners off the neighbours.

Rory has got so big and is into everything. It must be over a year since we saw him and Jacki as they mostly stayed in America while the boys were recording. I have no idea what to do with kids - they’re just loud and sticky agents of chaos to me - but Steve is really good with him. They’ve been playing hide and seek, and driving matchbox cars round the living room, and now Steve’s upstairs reading him a story. It’s really sweet. I wish… no I don’t wish, because we just couldn’t, for everyone’s sake. But in some ways, he really would make a great dad.

== 26th June - London, Earl’s Court ==

Very proud of the boys today - they won the Silver Clef award for outstanding contribution to British music! We had to go to the presentation lunch at the InterContinental Hotel on Park Lane. It’s super-fancy, inside at least, but unfortunately was built in the 1970’s so is a hideous concrete box. Kind of terrifying - they took pictures of all of us when we arrived and I did not know what to do with my face, I was trying to hide behind Stevie as much as possible. And he ate most of my lunch so the waiters wouldn’t look at me funny.

Really looking forward to the gig tonight. This is the biggest one so far, I think the biggest one until we get to America? Phil’s mum is coming and we’re going to sit together. She’s such a sweetheart - you can tell where he gets his golden retriever personality from!

== 30th June - Birmingham, NEC ==

Second of three nights here as the ticket sales have been so good. Not the most glamorous of venues though! And I’m so glad we have drivers to ferry us around - I would die if I had to navigate Birmingham’s road system! One thing in the NEC’s favour though is that it has got really good business facilities. I have a mountain of work to get finished before we go to Australia, ugh. Steve was a little bit sulky when I said I had to work the whole time, but he does understand really. Phil has taken him to the gym today, so I’ll look forward to hearing how that went :)

The bigger venues they’ve been doing on this leg do make such a difference to the experience, now I'm seeing Leppard as I know them from videos. And Steve is unleashed! He runs around like a greyhound, doing all his signature moves. It's really… I feel ridiculous writing this, but really sexy! Not that I didn't fancy him like mad already, but ‘Stage Steve’ is a very different animal. I think it's the confidence, even a little bit of arrogance, and the power he has over the audience. He’s just… magnificent! I haven't worked out yet if it's entirely put on, just a performance, or if it's tapping into a part of his personality that's usually buried. I'm not sure he knows himself. Either way it’s really quite something! And I knew the tight jeans were an essential component of that outfit…

Argh, stop thinking about that! Got to concentrate on the blasted book! Les deadlines ne sont pas optionnels!

== 3rd July - Belfast ==

So King’s Hall is the last UK gig. It’s a really cool building - Art Deco with an arched roof over the main hall. It’s not all that big though, so there was a lot of worrying about whether the in-the-round set-up would fit. It does, and it should be a great show for the audience because most of them will be so close to the stage. I’m going to watch from up on the balcony to get the full experience (I’ve always been in the VIP section or the press pit, which of course is amazing, but they’ve always said this show is designed for the people in the cheap seats at the back!).

After this, we've got a few days back at home, time to do laundry and repack for hot weather, then we fly out to Australia on the 7th. Another new place and the longest flight I’ve ever done - well, flights plural as you have to do it in two hops. Steve’s really excited, which is so cute. And I think he’s even excited about going on a tour bus again, although he grumbles about it; he keeps telling me stories of their escapades on the High ‘n’ Dry tour. This all still doesn’t seem fully real to me; I feel like I'm inside an MTV rockumentary!

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*Fawlty Towers reference

[ashuribbon]

[ WIP! ]

Yes we're back at it again with the Lumiere slugcat

[lostbabybunno]

this and a walk in the humid rain

[countingnothings]

today i read a whole collection of essays on the solidarity economy from 2010 and i am feeling. like maybe this phd was a good idea.

[flyking-data-bank]

LIVE UNDER THE SKY '91

OUT OF THE WORLD

This text would have actually fitted well on the cover, if the original "Sonic The Hedgehog Band" idea had been included in the game.

But the band did not appear in Sonic 1. So the text is:

THE MOST FAMOUS HEDGEHOG

IN THE WORLD

I wonder how Sonic suddenly became the most famous hedgehog? It was his first game!

Ah yes, because he is the fastest.

[demenior]

Forgot I was on the piss on the poor webbed site and saw someone say with their whole chest that rojo aka author of the wheel of time series, was a misogynist

[heejamas]

──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him. 

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up. 

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying. 

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time. 

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat. 

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either. 

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him. 

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding. 

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary.  his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe. 

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred. 

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

​​he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.” 

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak.  “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter. 

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door. 

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew’s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage. 

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap. 

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and  you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

taglist: @iyoonjh @jakesimfromstatefarm @blushingkoo @povjin @7789995323567322 @wtfisgoingright @dearestdreamies @fateismoonstruck @skzaurora @mora134340 @wonuziex @htrhng

[lightmotif139]

Video game compare and contrast time!

Another World vs. INSIDE

Ok so I just played the classic 1991 game Another World (also known as Out of This World), and it reminded me a LOT of the 2016 game INSIDE which I played about a year ago -- so much that I'm guessing the creators of INSIDE must have taken some inspiration from Another World.

Apparently I really love whatever type of game this is! And I just felt like doing a compare and contrast of the two games.

SIMILARITIES:

Minimalist gameplay style: 2d action-puzzle platformer with just a few basic controls.

No stats, points, levels, meters, inventories, or other interfaces of any kind.

Fairly short but not too short; can be completed in a few play sessions.

Little to no music, just very effective ambient sounds.

Aesthetically beautiful, with a strong sense of setting, mood, and the feel of the environments.

A protagonist who's surprisingly lifelike, despite not even having facial expressions.

Manages to tell a really immersive story without any dialogue.

The story is open to interpretation, but clear enough to make you WANT to interpret it.

A lot of variety in the puzzles; every stage is different and you wonder what will come next.

Does a good job of building tension and drama.

Lots of narrow escapes.

Trial-and-error gameplay where you're going to die a LOT, but you always get to try again, and it's kind of part of the point to discover how many crazy ways you can die.

A lot of creative worldbuilding that's just ambiguous enough to let you know there's even more going on that you don't see.

A dramatic, surprising, and open ending.

DIFFERENCES:

INSIDE is dark and depressing, heavily dystopian, and maybe-sort-of horror depending on how you define horror. It's really beautiful in its own way, but it also made me cry (and not in a happy way). The deaths are also more realistic and might bother some people, especially since the protagonist is a child. The ending is a lot more sad (and strange).

Another World is an upbeat and colorful sci-fi action adventure. It does have a few survival-horror elements (i.e. everything on the planet wants to kill you), but not in a way that's depressing or disturbing. It's also less realistic and a little more wacky; I wouldn't call it silly but it's got much more of a fun vibe. The ending is not 100% happy but not too sad either, and definitely hopeful.

INSIDE is the sort of story that lends itself toward symbolic and metaphorical interpretations.

Another World is more of just a fun story to take at face value. (Although I'm sure you could still find metaphors in it if you want to, and knowing me I probably will sooner or later. 😂)

INSIDE relies heavily on stealth; the protagonist is small and helpless and the game does an excellent job of making you feel that.

Another World has some stealth elements, but you're also able to fight. You get a weapon and learn how to use it (and it's a very cool one).

While both games are primarily linear storylines, INSIDE has an alternate path with a secret ending.

Another World is one storyline with one ending (but it's engaging enough that I didn't find this to be a problem!)

In INSIDE your character is very alone in his quest (well, except for one possible event, but I won't spoil).

In Another World you make a friend and you get to rescue each other!

Conclusion: If you've played either one of these games, and you liked the gameplay style and story presentation method, I recommend you try the other because you will probably like it too! But if you played one and liked it for the vibe, you might or might not like the other, because the two vibes are very different. Either way, I would consider both games to be masterpieces.

[trogort]

Speaking My Truth: A Public Apology

Hello. It is with no joy that I feel as though I must publicly apologize for a deep betrayal of my community's trust. The man you see in the image below is not, in fact, me.

The person pictured above is, in actuality, a man named Sergei Anduicci Portelli, amateur trapeze artist and part-time Zara closing shift assistant manager, and I have been repurposing his images for my own personal gain. To begin, I admit that this is wrong. It is wrong to deceive not only the people and fans who have come to anticipate, appreciate, and perhaps even envy these candid selfie photos, but also myself. The truth is I was scared. Scared of what the world might think. But it is now, with a heavy heart, that I must make the truth apparent to the world. I wish it was under better circumstances, but the unfortunate truth is that Sergei has sadly passed recently, and as such I will no longer be able to utilize his photos for my own personal gain. It's only a small condolence, knowing that Sergei passed doing what he loved, hanging out and inventing new colors of fireworks. In his honor, I will be releasing 20 limited edition NFTs of some of his most beloved poses, and I will be directly donating 8% of the proceeds of these sales to his family estate in Sicily.

REST IN PEACE SERGEI, THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES 1991-2025

[tec-a0l]

movies referenced by dylan & eric

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2 days in the valley (1996)

a nightmare on elm street 3: dream warriors (1987)

ace ventura: pet detective (1994)

alien (1979)

alien: resurrection (1997)

dark city (1998)

die hard: with a vengeance (1995)

enemy gold (1993)

event horizon (1997)

from dusk till dawn (1996)

hercules (1997)

independence day (1996)

invasion USA (1995)

natural born killers (1994)

out of sight (1998)

predator (1987)

pulp fiction (1994)

reservoir dogs (1992)

starship troopers (1997)

tales from the crypt: demon knight (1995)

terminator (1984)

terminator 2: judgement day (1991)

the fifth element (1997)

the lion king (1994)

the lost highway (1997)

the lost world: jurassic park (1997)

the rock (1996)

the stand (1994)

tremors ii: aftershocks (1996)

warriors of virtue (1997)

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along with these, eric also wrote out a list of movies in dylan’s 1998 yearbook, though it’s unclear exactly what the purpose of doing so was.

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notable standouts

the lost highway — eric listed this movie as his favorite in a survey, and dylan mentioned it frequently in his journal—including repeatedly drawing a road stretching into the distance with street signs with “5” (a meaningful number to him) “666” or the everlasting contrast on them. additionally, he would add vanishing lines & the everlasting contrast to some of the heart drawings he did, in reference to the movie.

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natural born killers — besides the obvious use of “NBK” by the two, some of dylan’s fashion seems to be inspired by mickey knox’s style—specifically the round glasses and single earring-combo. eric also referenced the line “do you believe in fate?” from the movie in dylan’s ‘98 yearbook.

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the matrix — according to devon adams, she and dylan were supposed to go see the matrix in theaters on april 21, 1999. obviously, that didn’t end up occurring.

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pulp fiction — dylan recreated a scene from the movie in a video made with eric jackson and dustin gorton, along with listening to the soundtrack (specifically flowers on the wall by the statler brothers and surf rider by the lively ones) in the “breakfast run” video filmed with nate.

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resevoir dogs — dylan owned a shirt featuring characters from this film with the words “serial killer” on it. he’s seen wearing it in his 11th grade yearbook photo and in radioactive clothing.

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this subject was requested by @z0mb1eeg1rll! if there’s a topic y’all want me to cover, feel free to send an ask my way :-)

[communistkenobi]

Would you be willing to dunk on speak more on mainstream feminist theory you're reading? And/or share some of the non-juvenile feminist theory you've read?

(Note: I will try to link to open access versions of articles as much as possible, but some of them are paywalled. if the links dont work just type the titles into google and add pdf at the end, i found them all that way)

If there’s any one singular issue with mainstream feminist thought that can be generalized to "The Problem With Mainstream Feminism" (and by mainstream I mean white, cishet, bourgeois feminism, the “canonical feminism” that is taught in western universities) it’s that gender is treated as something that can stand by itself, by which I mean, “gender” is a complete unit of analysis from which to understand social inequality. You can “add” race, class, ability, national origin, religion, sexuality, and so on to your analysis (each likewise treated as full, discrete categories of the social world), but that gender itself provides a comprehensive (or at the very least “good enough”) view of a given social problem. (RW Connell, who wrote the canonical text Masculinities (1995) and is one of the feminist scholars who coined/popularized the term hegemonic masculinity, is a fantastic example of this.)

Black feminists have for many decades pointed out how fucking ridiculous this is, especially vis a vis race and class, because Black women do not experience misogyny and racism as two discrete forms of oppression in their lives, they are inextricably linked. The separation of gender and race is not merely an analytical error on the part of white feminists - it is a continuation of the long white supremacist tradition of bounding gender in exclusively white terms. Patricia Hill Collins in Black Feminist Thought (2000) engages with this via a speech by Sojourner Truth, the most famous line from her speech being “ain’t I a woman?” as she describes all the aspects of womanhood she experiences but is still denied the position of woman by white women because she is Black. Lugones in Coloniality of Gender (2008) likewise brings up the example of segregationist movements in the USAmerican South, where towns would put up banners saying things like “Protect Southern Women” as a rationale for segregation, making it very clear who they viewed as women. Sylvia Wynter in 1492: A New World View likewise points out that colonized women and men were treated like cattle by Spanish colonizers in South America, often counted in population measures as "heads of Indian men and women," as in heads of cattle. They were treated as colonial resources, not as gendered subjects capable of rational thought.

To treat the category of “woman” as something that stands by itself is a white supremacist understanding of gender, because “woman” always just means white woman - the fact that white is left implied is part of white supremacy, because who is granted subjecthood, the ability to be seen as human and therefore a gendered subject, is a function of race (see Quijano, 2000). Crenshaw (1991) operationalizes this through the term intersectionality, pointing out that law treats gender and race as separate social sites of discrimination, and the practical effect of this is that Black women have limited/no legal recourse when they face discrimination because they experience it as misogynoir, as the multiplicative effect of their position as Black women, not as sexism on the one hand and racism on the other.

Transfeminist theory has further problematized the category of gender by pointing out that "woman" always just means cis woman (and more often than not also means heterosexual woman). The most famous of these critiques comes from Judith Butler - I’m less familiar with their work, but there is a great example in the beginning of Bodies That Matter (1993) where they demonstrate that personhood itself is a gendered social position. They ask (and I’m paraphrasing) “when does a fetus stop becoming an ‘it’? When its gender is declared by a doctor or nurse via ultrasound.” Sex assignment is not merely a social practice of patriarchal division, it is the medium through which the human subject is created (and recall that gender is fundamentally racialized & race is fundamentally gendered, which I will come back to).

And the work of transfeminists demonstrate this by showing transgender people are treated as non-human, non-citizens. Heath Fogg Davis in Sex-Classification Policies as Transgender Discrimination (2014) recounts the story of an African American transgender woman in Pennsylvania being denied use of public transit, because her bus pass had an F gender marker on it (as all buss passes in the state required gender markers until 2013) and the bus driver refused her service because she “didn’t look like a woman.” She was denied access to transit again when she got her marker changed to M, as she “didn’t look like a man.” Transgender people are thus denied access to basic public services by being constructed as “administratively impossible” - gender markers are a component of citizenship because they appear on all citizenship documents, as well as a variety of civil and public documents (such as a bus pass). Gender markers, even when changed by trans people (an arduous, difficult process in most places on earth, if not outright impossible), are seen as fraudulent & used as a basis to deny us citizenship rights. Toby Beauchamp in Going Stealth: Transgender Politics & US Surveillance Practices (2019) talks about anti-trans bathroom bills as a form of citizenship denial to trans people - anti-trans bathroom laws are impossible to actually enforce because nobody is doing genital inspections of everyone who enters bathrooms (and genitals are not proof of transgenderism!), but that’s actually not the point. The point of these bills is to embolden members of the cissexual public to deputize themselves on behalf of the state to police access to public space, directing their cissexual gaze towards anyone who “looks transgender.” Beauchamp points out that transvestigators don’t need to be accurate most of the time, because again, the point is terrorizing transgender people out of public life. He connects this with racial segregation, and argues that we shouldn’t view gender segregation as “a new form of” racial segregation (this is a duplication of white supremacist feminism) but a continuation of it, because public access is a citizenship right and citizenship is fundamentally racially mediated (see Glenn's (2002) Unequal Freedom)

Susan Stryker & Nikki Sullivan further drives this home in The King’s Member, The Queen’s Body, where they explain the history of the crime of mayhem. Originating in feudal Europe (I don’t remember off the dome the exact time/place so forgive the generalization lol), mayhem is the crime of self-mutilation for the purposes of avoiding military conscription, but what is interesting is that its not actually legally treated as “self” mutilation, but a mutilation of the state and its capacity to exercise its own power. They link the concept of mayhem to the contemporary hysteria around transgender people receiving bottom surgery - we are not in fact self mutilating, we are mutilating the state’s ability to reproduce its own population by permanently destroying (in the eyes of the cissexual public) our capacity to form the foundational social unit of the nuclear family. Our bodies are not our own, they are a component of the state. Situating this in the context of reproductive rights makes this even clearer. Abortion access is not actually about the individual, it is the state mediating its own reproductive capacity via the restriction of abortion (premised on the cissexual logic of binary reproductive capacity systematized through sex assignment). Returning to Hill Collins, she points out that in the US, white cis women are restricted access to abortion while Black and Indigenous cis women are routinely forcibly sterilized, their children aborted, and pumped with birth control by the state. This is not a contradiction or point of “hypocrisy” on the part of conservatives, this is a fully comprehensive plan of white supremacist population management.

To treat "gender" as its own category, as much of mainstream feminism does (see Acker (1990) and England (2010) for two hilarious examples of this, both widely cited feminists), is to forward a white supremacist notion of gender. That white supremacy is fundamentally cissexual and heterosexual is not an accident - it is a central organizing logic that allows for the systematization of the fear of declining white birthrates (the conspiracy of "white genocide" is illegible without the base belief that there are two kinds of bodies, one that gets pregnant and one that does the impregnating, and that these two types of bodies are universal sources of evidence of the superiority of men over women - and im using those terms in the most loaded possible sense).

I realize that most of these readings are US centric, which is an unfortunate limitation of my own education. I have been really trying to branch into literature outside the Global North, but doctoral degree constraints + time constraints + my own research requires continual engagement with it. I also realize that most of the transfeminist readings I've cited are by white scholars! This is a continual systemic problem in academic literature and I'm not exempt from it, even as I sit here and lay out the problem. Which is to say, this is nowhere near the final word on this subject, and having to devote so much time to reading mainstream feminist theory as someone who is in western academia is part of my own limited education + perspective on this topic

[fantastic-nonsense]

Charting out Shiva's "backstories" (or rather, vaguely implied backstories) throughout the years and how Tate Brombal's new History of Shiva in Batgirl 2024 impacts Shiva, Cass, and their relationship moving forward:

After Batgirl #8's publication today, I thought I'd take a look at what pieces of Shiva's history were previously depicted before now and how Tate Brombal has changed things (or kept them the same)...just to see what he did and didn't do in context of Shiva and Cassandra's history. I have a lot of thoughts on how he's approached this given what little we actually knew about Shiva going in and how messed up Cassandra's own history still is, so let's dive right in!

1975: Denny O'Neil writes Shiva in Richard Dragon as someone who has no backstory. She's here to kick ass, take names, and avenge her sister; her backstory, where and how long she trained for, etc. is irrelevant. Sandra's sister Carolyn is killed by the Swiss in a getaway chase between Richard Dragon and the Swiss, and Shiva comes after Richard because the guy who hired the Swiss convinced her Richard was responsible for it.

The two shreds of Woosan Sisters backstory we do get: 1) Carolyn has an uncle named 'Shiruto', a weapons developer who kills himself rather than reveal his secrets to the Swiss within two pages of his first appearance, and 2) Carolyn goes to school in New York City and is O-Sensei's goddaughter:

"I am Carolyn Woosan...the O-Sensei is my godfather!" -Richard Dragon, Kung-Fu Fighter (1975) #2

This is never elaborated on at any point after this comment and Shiva seemingly does not know who O-Sensei is when she and Richard track him down later in the series. Shiva has several adventures with Richard and Ben Turner within this book but is not mentioned again in the pre-Crisis universe after it ends. Within the actual source material, this is all we get of Shiva.

Then we start getting into the additional information and various changes that occurred post-Crisis:

1987: In the Who's Who in the DC Universe 1987 Update, after Denny O'Neil reintroduced Shiva in The Question, we get a Shiva write-up seemingly indicating that the entirety of Richard Dragon is still canon while also providing a few new shreds of Shiva backstory:

"After being convinced by criminal industrialist Guano Cravat that her sister Carolyn had been slain by Richard Dragon, Sandra Woosan swore to slay her sister's killer. She studied and prepared, taking the name Lady Shiva." ".....before transforming herself into Lady Shiva, Sandra had a basic knowledge of the martial arts. These skills were then honed to near perfection and she is now one of the deadliest fighters in the world." -Who's Who: Update '87

1991: the next Who's Who write-up of Shiva further implies that Richard Dragon is still canon and somewhat explicitly says that Shiva did not start studying martial arts until Carolyn was killed:

"Life presents many different paths and opportunities to a person. Sandra Woosan's life took a destructive path when Guano Cravat, a criminal industrialist, convinced her that martial artist/spy Richard Dragon killed her sister Carolyn. Motivated by revenge, Sandra dedicated her life to mastering the martial arts, hoping one day she could beat Dragon at his own game. Sandra became a master of many forms of combat and confronted Dragon." -Who's Who in the DC Universe (1990) #10

Both the 1987 and 1991 write-ups are extra-canonical material that are not, to my knowledge, mentioned anywhere in-text, and neither were written or directed to be written by Denny O'Neil. But like. They're there and ambiguously canon.

2004: Chuck Dixon writes Richard Dragon, a maxiseries that de-canonizes all previous information in favor of saying that Shiva met Richard at a fighting tournament in Japan while scouting for students. Richard, Ben, and Shiva's histories are all massively fucked up as a result of this maxi. While nothing is explicitly stated about Shiva's history, she mentions offhand near the beginning of the book that she has "unfinished business in Detroit," which leads us to...

2006: Andersen Gabrych writes Shiva in Batgirl as a girl who grew up with her sister Carolyn in Detroit. This is first mentioned in Batgirl #65 and then slightly elaborated on in Batgirl #73, in the process of retconning Shiva to be Cassandra's mother:

"We all knew each other. But there was one time...[Cain and Shiva walk away from a fight. He seems to be telling or asking her something. She shoves him and walks off]...never asked her about it. Me and Sandy weren't tight like that." "Wait. Sandy?" "Oh. Haha! Well, before she annointed herself Lady Shiva, she was just plain old Sandra Wu-San from Detroit." -Batgirl (2000) #65

Sandra and Carolyn are now both martial arts prodigies who trained constantly, fought together, and either a) trounced people on the competition circuit or b) put on fighting exhibitions that everyone came to see, depending on how you read and extrapolate from the two pages of story we get, which is how Cain found her:

"Long ago and far away...in the land of Detroit, lived two sisters. Though as different as night and day, they loved each other deeply. And more than that—they loved to dance. Every moment of the day was spent in lessons. They danced all through the night. They danced so much it became the secret language of sisters. The world had never seen anything like it. People would come from near and far to watch the sisters perform. People like the lonely hunter, Cain." -Batgirl (2000) #73

Cain kills Carolyn to "unleash Sandra's potential." Sandra goes after him in revenge and fails to kill him. Explicit sexual coercion happens (Cain gave her a 'give me a child or die' proposition with a gun to her head), Sandra trains with Cain until she has Cass, and then she goes off to "be reborn" as Shiva.

Batgirl is the first time we get any actual substantive Shiva background in-text post-Crisis. Her time working with Richard and Ben as part of the Kung-Fu Fighter Crew is now extra definitively non-canon, as even beyond Dixon's book there is no way to reconcile Cain killing Carolyn in Detroit with the events of KFF. O-Sensei is similarly not mentioned in any capacity. Carolyn has been slightly revamped from helpless damsel to someone who was theoretically capable but "got in the way." We still see none of it beyond a 7 page fairy tale-esque sequence that does a lot of victim-blaming of Sandra for taking Cain's deal to save her life. Moving on.

2007: Gail Simone writes Shiva in Birds of Prey as someone who may or may not have grown up in an unidentified, purposefully hidden "Southeast Asian village." Regardless of whether she grew up there, that's certainly where she "became Shiva," training under the brutal woman known only as "Mother." Carolyn is not mentioned. Simone implies that the Detroit backstory established in Batgirl is also somewhat true:

"This is the agreement we made. To trade life experiences." ... "Why here, Shiva? I'd heard you grew up in Detroit." "That is only part of the story." -Birds of Prey (1999) #93

However, Simone's new backstory (if taken as true, which is not necessarily the case, because nothing is definitively stated at any point) completely contradicts Gabrych's backstory, as Mother implies that Shiva was raised in the village on multiple occasions:

"Just so you are aware, Tag...at four years of age, she cried out less than you did just now." -Birds of Prey #92

There is also an implied "there must always be a Shiva" element to this backstory, as Sin Lance was being groomed to become Shiva's successor before Dinah dropped in.

Generally, I think a reasonable explanation, given the sequence of canon events, is that you can fit this village into Shiva's post-Crisis backstory if you assume it's where Sandra at least partially trained to become Shiva after leaving Cain and Baby!Cass. So Mother credits herself as Shiva's "mother" because it is where Sandra died and Shiva was born. But that's an assumption and not anything definitively backed up by canon.

Fast forward to...

2015-2018: Cassandra is reintroduced into post-Flashpoint continuity during the events of Batman and Robin Eternal. Shiva is not mentioned. When Shiva does finally appear in Tynion's Detective Comics Rebirth run, her backstory and relationship with Cain is not elaborated on beyond the fact that she "had no idea what David Cain did with her daughter" and wanted to see if Cass was "worth her time." We get one tiny tidbit from Ra's taunting Shiva that hints that the Batgirl-era Detroit backstory is possibly canon, but that's it:

"Sandra Wu-San. Searching so hard to find what she lost back in Detroit. But instead losing more and more of herself until there was nothing left. Nothing but Shiva." -Detective Comics (2016) #956

2019: Bryan Hill writes Shiva in Batman and the Outsiders as someone who now vaguely grew up in a village in China. Apparently this village used to be full of assassins but is now a village of farmers:

"As I recall, you were born in a small Chinese village. Once a place of assassins. Now a land of farmers." -Batman and the Outsiders (2019) #12

There is no elaboration on whether it was still an assassin training ground when Shiva lived there or if it was already a farming village by the time she was born. This is a brand new backstory that completely contradicts Gabrych's Detroit backstory (which had been previously hinted at in Tynion's Tec run) and largely contradicts Simone's possible village backstory...and only Detroit is even remotely reconcilable with Cassandra's New 52 backstory. Shiva also does a complete about-face from Tynion's portrayal of her; she now thinks of Bruce as someone who "took" Cassandra from her and seemingly desperately wants to be a mother to her. This portrayal continues into Batgirls and more recent books.

2022-2023: Che Grayson explicitly names this Chinese village as 'Duoyishu Village' in Batman: Urban Legends #3:

[Location stamp stating 'Duoyishu Village, China'] -Batman: Urban Legends (2021) #3

We have no idea how long the girls lived there with their parents, what their life in the village was like, and no clue what happened in between then and now other than the tidbit that Shiva has very few memories of her childhood and loved her mother's pork belly:

"Memories...you know, I don't remember much from when I was a child." -Urban Legends #3

Grayson also continues the throughline established by Hill in Outsiders and Cloonan/Conrad in Batgirls of Shiva seeing Bruce as someone who "took Cassandra from her" in both this story and the "Memory Lane" Birds of Prey story in Urban Legends #14-16.

Then Kelly Thompson reintroduced Sin Lance in Birds of Prey (2023), largely wholesale; this means that Dinah and Shiva's "life experience swap" arc from Simone's BOP run is canon again...and implicitly, Simone's potential Shiva backstory. We also have Alyssa Wong, who wrote Spirit World (2023) and effectively re-canonized the entirety of Batgirl (2000) in the process. So both Detroit and "Asia" are both actively on the Shiva multiple choice backstory menu; any pre-2004 conceptulization of Sandra as a "normal girl" who never really knew martial arts before Carolyn died? Seemingly off the table.

By this point, the events of Richard Dragon, Kung-Fu Fighter have not been canon since (generously) at least 2004. Shiva now has four largely contradictory origin story hints, three of which are ambiguously canon and none of which have been expanded upon enough to actually say anything useful about Sandra, Carolyn, Cassandra, their relationships with each other, or their collective past. Cass's own backstory is also still a royal mess with all of the nonsense that happened with her between 2006 and 2023.

Cue Batgirl 2024 and Tate Brombal, who for the first time sat down and told Shiva's story in her own words. In this new interpretation, we get a solid mixture of old and new that's been put into a blender:

Ming-Yue and Mei-Xing's parents were a forbidden romance from rival sects, the Blood and the Unburied. They lived as nomads in China, including in Duoyishu Village, until they were killed by Wu Feng (leader of The Blood and the father's brother) in the Tibetan Himalayas. They were then raised and trained by Akhu and a group of monks, hidden away in "a small village in the Himalayas" until the Blood attacked.

After leaving the village post-Blood attack, Mei and Yue traveled the world for a few years, mastering various combat forms and martial arts, and finally landed in in Detroit, where they took the American names Carolyn and Sandra and started putting on exhibition fights. We then get the Batgirl-era backstory of them continuing to dance, fight, and perform for crowds as a travelling act and being seen by Cain.

Brombal then does some timeline shenanigans, making Sandra and Carolyn crimefighters once they meet Richard Dragon and Ben Turner, adding Carolyn to the Kung-Fu fighter team and fully re-canonizing everything from the 1975 Richard Dragon series post-Shiva's introduction (for the first time in 20 years+) so they can all work and chill together before everything goes to shit.

Cain, who has been stalking Sandra for some time, makes a creepy af proposition to her in a dark alley. She refuses. He states that he knew she would, which is why he's already removed Carolyn from the equation. She rushes home, and together with Richard and Ben finds Carolyn dead and left for her to find. And this is where we've left off, with the final part of the story (Shiva and Cain) seemingly left for the final part of this three-part arc.

So. Where does this leave us with Shiva? Well, let's start with a look at what Brombal seemingly took from Shiva's various other canon lore drops:

Shiva was born and at least partially raised in a Chinese village as a young girl before their parents' deaths (Batman and the Outsiders, Urban Legends),

Sandra and Carolyn were raised and taught by Akhu, implied to be the O-Sensei (the man who trained Richard and Ben in Kyoto, Japan), in an unidentified southeast Asian village located somewhere in the Himalayas (possibly calling back to Simone's potential backstory in Birds of Prey). They call him "practically a godfather," calling back to Carolyn's lore drop in RDKFF #2

Sandra and Carolyn lived in Detroit for some time (re: Batgirl #73),

Sandra and Carolyn danced and fought together for years, to the point of being able to work together seamlessly (Batgirl #73)

Cain finding Shiva through Sandra and Carolyn's exhibition matches in Detroit, seeing potential in Sandra and thinking Carolyn holds her back, and killing Carolyn and leaving her body for Sandra to find (Batgirl #73)

The entirety of the events of Richard Dragon, Kung-Fu Fighter (1975) post-Shiva's introduction, excepting the specifics of Carolyn's death (which he takes largely wholesale from Batgirl #73 while changing the timeline so it occurs during the time Sandra was working with Richard and Ben rather than before),

Richard Dragon's name, look, and general pre-O-Sensei backstory from Dixon's Richard Dragon run, with the caveat that all of the nonsense about Ben training Richard got thrown out the window in favor of the OG Richard Dragon interpretation of both Richard and Ben being trained by O-Sensei

……also the Richard/Shiva implications from both the 1975 Richard Dragon run (where it was mostly a couple of jokes Ben makes at Richard's expense) and Dixon's 2004 Richard Dragon maxi (which makes Richard kind of obsessed with her)

And now a look at what's new: Sandra and Carolyn Wu-San not being the girls' birth names, the family history with the Unburied and the Blood, the defined adolesence in the Himalayas, the nomadic life post-China and pre-Detroit, Carolyn being part of the Kung-Fu Fighter crew (+her relationship with Ben), and the timeline shenanigans to re-canonize RDKFF while also keeping Shiva's Batgirl-era backstory intact. Also new: Carolyn having a personality, Sandra and Carolyn's rather complex familial relationship, and Sandra's hunger for vengeance pre-dating Carolyn's murder.

So. What are my thoughts on all of this?

First off, I really love the reinvention of the Kung Fu Fighter crew. It solves a lot of timeline issues, leaves the door open for someone to truly update those stories for the modern day, and fixes 3.5 characters in one go (giving Richard and Ben their proper histories and personalities back, giving Carolyn something to do outside of die in Richard's arms, and giving Shiva her crimefighting era back, inserting the moral ambiguity back into her history rather than making her a flat villain like she has been so often for the past 25 years), so I'm not mad about it at all.

I'm happy Brombal is giving Shiva a life, voice, and perspective outside of 'Shiva The Mother' and 'Shiva the Villain.' Shiva the daughter and Shiva the sister are not things that have ever been explored before! I also genuinely love the work being put in to make Carolyn an actual character, especially the page-time dedicated to showcasing Sandra and Carolyn as two women who have a complex relationship and long history outside of Carolyn's fridging and Sandra becoming Shiva in response. It gives us a real look into why Carolyn's murder was the catalyst for Sandra becoming Shiva, and I think it's a very effective one.

Mei has opinions that put her in conflict with Yue; she's more peace-loving and disciplined in general than Yue, but less willing to keep her head down and look the other way when injustice is happening. She doesn't like combat as much as Yue even though she's better at it. She clearly feels parentified by her mother's last charge to look after her younger sister. She likes boys more and wants to proactively help people and move on from her past in a way that Yue is simply incapable of thinking about. It's a really fascinating glimpse into Carolyn as a person and her relationship with Sandra.

I'm also a huge fan of Brombal seemingly doubling down on unpacking the implications of Cain's "proposition" to Sandra in Batgirl #73 when she tracks him down for revenge and fails to kill him:

"I want what you want. Perfection. To help you meet your target. The power and ability to put the world in its place...vengeance against the man who killed your parents. All I ask for is one thing. For years, I have been developing the perfect weapon, the perfect...killer. But failure after failure has only proven [he touches Sandra's stomach] the importance of good stock." -Batgirl (2024) #8)

He previously implied that Shiva hated Cain and the entire situation surrounding Cass's birth, but that one was a lot more ambiguous:

"I know what I am, and I know you hate it. But that old woman, Ba Bao, she said that there is soft and there is hard. Well, somewhere along the way, I lost my soft, and I now realize it was when I had you. You took all my soft, daughter. I held you in my arms, and I saw it. I saw my sister, too. And perhaps I hated you for it. Perhaps I wanted to hate you for it. To make it easier to leave you with that—that man." -Batgirl (2024) #4

Personally, this is a fantastic and very welcome change in my book. The only time we've ever gotten the story of Shiva and Cain was a victim-blamey 7 page sequence in the last issue of Batgirl (2000), where Shiva implies that she appreciated him "unlocking her potential" as a fighter and "setting her free" from Carolyn despite also explicitly stating that she still missed Carolyn every day. While I don't AGREE with the interpretation that Shiva actually genuinely loved Cain at all and think it's an incredible simplification of what Shiva actually told Cass, it's very easy to walk away with that vibe if you don't dig into it much, so I'm super happy to see a writer willing to actually unpack all that.

We've also never gotten any attempt to deal with the implications of Cass knowing that history, as Cass spent most of that issue fighting Shiva and leaving her for dead dangling over the Lazarus Pit and then the Evil Cass arc happened...so absolutely nothing in that last arc about Cass finding out Shiva was her mom and the origins of how she came to be got unpacked or dealt with. And then her backstory was fucked over during the New 52 (something that still hasn't actually been fixed and dealt with), so she didn't know about it all over again!

Overall I'm mixed on the various childhood stuff, specifically the inclusions of the Unburied and the Blood. It's always fun to see new cool secret warrior groups, especially ones unconnected to the League of Assassins (which modern DC loves to use as an umbrella assassin group instead of 'one among many'), and their inclusion in Shiva's backstory is very obviously a set-up for one of the things that Brombal wants to have Cass deal with moving forward. This is his way of expanding Cass's world beyond Gotham and beyond Nyssa's League of Assassins sect. I think I'm withholding full judgement until I see where he goes with it, and whether my theories that a) the groups will be used to explain Shiva's odd capacity for healing and b) Wu Lin (the Bloodmaster introduced in Batgirl #4) will be revealed to be Shiva's cousin—and Cass's second cousin—actually pan out.

What I'm not a fan of: Sandra having a hunger for vengeance prior to Carolyn's murder, having dream premonitions of Carolyn's death and becoming Shiva, and brazenly dictating all of this history to Cass via a post-mortem diary and saying she trusts her with her life and her vengeance. I do think it defeats the purpose of "Shiva" for it to be an inevitable conclusion for Sandra instead of an avoidable tragedy, and I dislike the concept of Shiva being anything other than in love with danger and in love with living life on the edge during the Kung-Fu Fighter era. While the rest of it certainly has its place in Shiva's life, the jaded perspective and Batgirl-era death wish should have come later, after Cain. I also think she trusts Cass far too much considering their history up to that point, but I'm willing to give some grace on that front since it's a plot device.

Generally speaking, I find that Brombal's Lady Shiva is a Sandra that generally follows from what we've seen of her since 2006, a Lady Shiva that's clearly couched in an attempt to deal with 50 years and three universes worth of history, and a Shiva-and-Cass relationship that encompasses basically the totality of everything that's been done with them since they first met in Batgirl (2000) #7, including the work done since the 2019 Outsiders run.

While that's not necessarily my preferred interpretation of Shiva or her relationship with Cass, it's also not one that Brombal is inventing out of thin air for the sake of a story. He's obviously very well-read on both Shiva and Cass and is trying to reconcile all of the various contradictory aspects of what's been handed to us in canon regarding Shiva's history and her behavior towards Cassandra. This is very difficult considering that 50 years and three continuities have happened since Richard Dragon #5 and Brombal clearly has his own story that he wants to tell with both Shiva and Cass.

I think just like all other previous attempts to tell both Shiva's story and Cass's story....some of it worked, some of it didn't. But overall I generally loved the issue and think it was pretty well done considering what Brombal had to work with. I'm super interested to see how he tackles Cass's reactions to all of this and what impact it has on her perspective of her mother moving forward. The whole 'Mother' arc, after all, was ultimately about Cass trying to reconcile who she thought Shiva was with who Shiva actually is in the context of her own life and history with her, and then setting up a new emotional status quo for both women. And we're finally past the set-up, so I'm really looking forward to the payoff.