#best programme of theirs anyway

[totowlff]

chapter two — fighting vainly the old ennui

➝ cassie is determined to have a child on her own. but something tells her she needs an opinion on this.

➝ word count: 4,1k

➝ warnings: none

Cassie woke up the next morning without much of a hangover to speak of, which surprised her, given how much wine she’d had — two glasses at dinner and an entire bottle after she’d gotten home.

She stretched and yawned a little before checking her phone, remembering she’d left herself a reminder in her Notes app before she’d gone to sleep.

She opened it, trying to remember what had been so important. 

“Look into the IVF process/doctors in Oxford”.

“A baby? How silly”, she thought.

As she went about her normal Sunday, though, little reminders kept popping up, almost as if the universe was trying to tell her something. Logically, she knew it was some sort of frequency illusion — she had been thinking about babies, so of course she had started noticing them more. There was an episode of a programme on the BBC that featured a pregnant woman going to the doctor. Her Instagram feed had, yet another pregnancy announcement, just posted that morning, from the wife of someone she knew that worked at Williams. On her way out of her building, she saw an infant-sized mitten lying on the sidewalk. Her neighbors on the ground floor of her building had welcomed a child a few months ago, so it was very likely theirs. She picked it up and put it in her coat  pocket, with the intention of returning it to them later on. 

But, what truly broke down her resolve was her trip to Sainsbury’s. As she was trying to find the best bunch of bananas — she liked them to be ripe, but still with a little bit of green left in them, and no brown spots — in the produce section, she felt someone tug on the hem of her jacket. She looked down to see a toddler-aged girl goggling up at her. Her hat was askew, and she had the arm of a stuffed bunny clenched in her little fist. Cassie was speechless.

— Hi! — the little girl said, looking expectantly up at Cassie. 

Cassie was dumbstruck. The little girl was adorable — she had a matching pink coat and hat, purple tights with small shearling winter boots, wisps of curly blonde hair poking out from under her hat, and enormous green eyes. She was possibly one of the most adorable children that Cassie had ever seen.

Cassie was about to respond until she was interrupted by the girl’s mother frantically running up to her, scooping the toddler up into her arms. 

— Ada! I told you to stay by mummy and not bother the nice lady.

She lifted the girl — Ada, apparently — into the seat of her shopping trolley and turned to Cassie.

— I’m so sorry, I’m trying to teach her not to do that, but she just loves to talk to anyone she can find.

— Oh, that’s okay, it’s no bother, really. It’s nice to meet you, Ada — she said to the small girl. Ada giggled and waved “bye bye” with her adorably small hand as her mother pushed her trolley away from the banana section. 

Before leaving the shop, Cassie stopped by the pharmacy section and bought a bottle of pregnancy vitamins. She’d read that women that were even considering pregnancy should start taking folic acid supplements, and even if she didn’t end up going through with the IVF process, it would apparently be good for her hair and nails. 

After returning home from her errands, Cassie set herself up with her laptop on the couch and set to work doing research. She’d considered adoption, but a cursory glance indicated that she was not likely to be approved. Sure, her career was stable and she had the financial means, but as a single woman with a full-time job, she was not an ideal candidate, at least for an infant. She might be a good candidate for a school-aged child, but that wasn’t what she wanted. It was possible, but it looked like the process would be long and expensive, and if she was going to go through a long, difficult, and expensive process anyway, she quite liked the idea of raising her own child from birth. 

She spent the rest of her day reading. She read about the examinations she’d need to undergo — an overall health screening, genetic testing, ovarian and uterine examinations, the cycle of drugs she’d need to take to stimulate egg production and regulate her cycle, the ultrasounds, the dozens of blood draws and injections she’d need.

“At least I’m not afraid of needles”, she thought. 

All of it needed to be meticulously timed in a window of two to three weeks, and it was not likely to work the first time around, necessitating additional attempts if — or rather, when, it failed. Somehow, though, none of that dissuaded her, and the next day, she called her normal doctor to schedule an appointment to get a consultation and a referral for a fertility clinic. Her appointment wasn’t for another week, and she found herself growing increasingly nervous about the idea. She wanted to talk to someone about it, but she wasn’t quite that close to many of her coworkers. She thought her friends would insist she was crazy. This was the one of the rare situations that made her wish she and her mother were close and had the kind of relationship where they could discuss this sort of thing. 

While she wasn’t close with her mother, there was someone in her family that she could have a talk with to possibly get the reassurance and encouragement she was after — her Aunt Sybil. 

And so, the next weekend, Cassie made the two-hour drive down the M34 to Chichester - her hometown, and where her parents still lived. Sybil lived there as well, in a grand old Georgian house in St. Martin’s Square, practically in the dead center of Chichester, almost a stone’s throw from the infamous Chichester Cathedral.  

Sybil had always been Cassie’s favorite relative, aside from her little sister. Sybil was the fellow black sheep of Cassie’s family, never caring much to uphold the social mores she’d been raised in. Sybil’s parents — Cassie’s grandparents, never minded, though, as they were rather secure in their position in the hierarchy of well-to-do British society. The strictness that Cassie had dealt with growing up had more to do with Albert, her father, than it did Andromeda, her mother. As Cassie had gotten older, she’d realized that Andromeda was someone who was easily shaped by her situation, using adaptation as some sort of coping mechanism. That, and Cassie had long suspected that her father had a… Physical way of imposing his views on his wife. As much as he considered himself to be a proper English gentleman, he was a brute when nobody else was around.

Cassie’s parents had always referred to Sybil, when they were feeling charitable, as “eccentric”. Behind closed doors, though, Sybil was “absolutely barmy” or “stark-raving mad”. She was Andromeda’s sister, and the eldest of the three Percy sisters, and the only one of the three that never married, apparently content to remain single. However, everyone in the family suspected that her longtime housekeeper, a French woman named Sabine, was much more than merely household staff.

Cassie parked as close as she could get to Lion Street and walked to Sybil’s house, getting a bit nervous as she pressed the button for the doorbell. It wasn’t as if she was dropping by unannounced, or that Sybil disliked her, but dealing with her family always set Cassie at least a little on edge. After what seemed like too long, Sabine opened the door.

— Ah, bonjour, Cassandra! — she said in a barely-detectable French accent, enveloping Cassie in a hug as she stepped into the entryway — It’s so nice to see you. It has been a while, I hope you’ve been keeping well.

— Ah, yes, it’s good to see you too, Sabine. It’s been too long. I think I was last down here for Goodwood, right? — Cassie said, shedding her coat and scarf. Sabine took them immediately to hang up in the house’s coat closet.

West Sussex was the home of the Goodwood Festival of Speed, which took place in the summer, at the Goodwood House, just north of Chichester. It was a hill climb competition primarily, but the event always featured lots of Formula 1 cars, vintage and modern. Most of the teams in F1 also usually participated in some capacity, including Mercedes. Cassie had traveled down this past summer to work on Mercedes’ marketing for the event, and had stayed with Sybil and Sabine for the weekend. Her boss, Toto, had participated, driving a 1957 Mercedes-Benz 300 SLS on loan from the Mercedes-Benz museum, in some show runs.

— Your aunt is in the sitting room. She’s expecting you. I’ve prepared some tea with scones, jam, and clotted cream. Normally I would join you, but Sybil said this was a family matter, so I will be in the kitchen if either of you need me — Sabine said as she escorted Cassie through the entryway. Cassie glanced around at the walls as she walked, to see what new pieces Sybil had added to her art collection since she’d last visited. 

Like most women of Sybil’s social standing, she didn’t have a regular job per se. She filled her days with ostensibly philanthropic activities, and most of Sybil’s interests were in the arts community. As far as Cassie knew, she was on the board of several museums and galleries. She and Sabine regularly attended openings and showings, where she would buy paintings to add to her extensive collection. The works that were hanging on the walls of her house were only a portion of the artwork she’d purchased over the years. Her tastes were varied — she had classic works, as well as newer works from younger, contemporary artists as well. 

As Cassie and Sabine rounded the corner out of the enormous entryway, turning right into the downstairs sitting room, Sybil arose from the wing chair she’d been sitting on, stepping forward to give her niece a hug. 

— Hello, ma petite étoile! — she said, embracing her — So good of you to come and see me!

— It’s good to see you too, Auntie — Cassie said, her voice strained by the way Sybil was squeezing her. 

— How are you doing? Are you doing well? Your mother doesn’t ever talk about you when she comes by to visit — Sybil said, placing her hands on her niece’s shoulders and looking at her from arm’s length — Please, sit down, relax, and tell me everything that’s been going on lately.

— Well, that’s not surprising — Cassie said, sitting down on the chair opposite of the one Sybil was sitting in — I think she and dad are still mad about… Something I did. Who is to say, really? I haven’t talked to them in ages. I figured that if they want to know how I am doing badly enough, they’d pick up the telephone. But, things are going well. Work is fine, mostly just preparations for pre-season testing. It will be another month or so until things really start picking up.

— I’m glad to hear it. And, as far as your mother goes, I wouldn’t fault my sister too much — Sybil said, picking up a teacup and a saucer from the serving tray on the table. She poured a cup, putting in a little milk and a little sugar, and passing it to Cassie. Cassie accepted, thanking her aunt, who said — You know how your father can be.

The two of them glanced knowingly at each other, and it gave Cassie a chance to take a good look at her aunt. It had been a few months since she’d seen Sybil, but she never really seemed to change much. She kept her gray hair long, and it flowed past her shoulders. While most women Sybil’s age preferred to crop their hair short and color it, Sybil refused, leaving it as long as she could stand it. “Aging is a gift that few are given, and I am choosing to embrace it”, she always said, whenever one of her sisters or her society friends suggested covering her grays with dye or having some “work done” on her face.

She was wearing a colorful, flowing, gauzy top that draped elegantly to her knees, and a pair of matching solid-color palazzo pants that Cassie would have thought was a skirt had Sybil not crossed her legs as she sat back down. She had an impressive stack of various jingling bangles on her wrist, along with a beaded necklace that matched her enormous dangling earrings. She was wearing a pair of beaded sandals that showed off her toes, which were immaculately manicured, same with her fingernails. She may have been a bit odd by the standards of most of her social circle, but she still put a great amount of work into her appearance. 

— So, what did you want to talk to me about? — Sybil asked, smiling kindly at her niece, leaning forward a bit. 

— Ah, well — Cassie said, setting her teacup down on the small tea table — There’s not really any easy way to say this, because I am afraid it sounds entirely crazy, but… I am thinking about having a baby.

Sybil almost dropped her teacup in surprise. She did drop the saucer, but luckily, it managed to land with a soft thump on the elaborate Persian rug that covered the sitting area. 

— My word — her aunt said, bending over a bit to fetch the saucer. 

— I’m… Sure you have a lot of questions — Cassie said, looking down at the teacup in her hands — I’m sure it sounds completely bonkers…

— I do have a few questions, yes. First of all, do you have a secret husband that I’m not aware of?

— No…

— How would that work then? As far as I know, it takes two people to make a baby, doesn’t it? Unless you intend to carry the reborn baby Jesus…

— No, of course not! It would be with a — Cassie cleared her throat. The nerves were starting to set back in, and she willed her voice to not waver — A donor. There’s clinics that specialize in this sort of thing. You pick the… Father, I suppose, out of a catalog, they have his, um, material frozen and banked, and then, they fertilize one of…

— Ah, yes. That. I’ve seen things about that — Sybil said abruptly — And you intend to raise a child on your own? I thought you never wanted to have children!

— I’ve been thinking about that. I think that, deep down, I always did want to have children, but not necessarily a husband. Most of all, I think, I just didn’t want to give mum and dad something they were expecting of me, but lately, seeing everyone my age with their little families makes coming home to my empty flat every night seem incredibly depressing. I know I could just get a cat or a dog, but it’s not quite the same thing. Plus, I am getting to an age where even if I do find the elusive man of my dreams, my time, biologically speaking, is running short.

Sybil scratched at her chin, in deep thought, just like her sister always did. 

— Again, you’re planning on doing this alone?

— Well… Why not? I have a good job that I’ve been with for going on a decade now, I have good benefits and a generous maternity leave, childcare benefits, all of it. I’ve looked at my finances, and everything works on paper, at least — Cassie, needing something to do with her hands, picked up a scone from the tray and splitting it open, spreading some jam on the inside of it.

— Isn’t it better to have a… A partner? I know there are plenty of single mothers, but surely that would just make things more difficult?

Cassie sighed. 

— Well, from what I know of everyone I know that has children with their partners, really, is that sometimes when you have one, it’s like having a second baby.

Sybil smirked, knowing exactly to whom she was referring. Both Jason, Cassie’s brother, and Jack, her brother-in-law, had grown up in similar environments, which did not do much in the way of fostering independence in boys. Their households had staff to take care of most things, as did their residences in their boarding school days.

 As part of their education and upbringing, Cassie and her sister had both learned the essentials of running a household — cooking, cleaning, childcare, and other sundry tasks — but boys were not taught such things with the expectation that they would be the providers of the household, working while their wives took care of hearth and home. However, the end result was more of a case of a sort of learned helplessness; Jason and Jack would be absolutely hopeless without their wives doing everything for them, god forbid anything should happen to either of them. 

 — I cannot disagree with you there. I don’t even think that brother of yours could manage to make a sandwich on his own. With written instructions! Diagrams, even!

Cassie laughed.

— I mean, I know it sounds completely crazy, but it feels like something that’s a bit of a now or never sort of thing. Even if I got pregnant tomorrow, I’d be in my forties by the time the child would be starting school, and if I’m waiting for a serious relationship, like I had with Callum, I think I’ll be waiting for a while.

— There’s really no prospects at all? I would think there would be quite a few nice, educated men in Oxford…

Cassie laughed, a hearty “hah” coming out, almost reflexively. 

— The last few dates, especially the last date I went on, have been absolute nightmares. It’s like they’re all competing for who can be the biggest knob — she crossed her arms, recalling her hellish evening with Peter — The last one… He took me to a French place, which was fine. But then, he ordered both the appetizers and the main course before I’d even set foot in the restaurant. Escargots for the appetizer, and you know how I feel about that.

Sybil nodded. The entire family was familiar with the escargot incident.

 — The main course was a passable loup de mer, which wouldn’t have been my first choice, but he chose it because he assumed that I didn’t know anything about French cuisine. The food wasn’t even the worst part. No, on the first date, this man tells me that, should we get together, he expects me to leave my job, because my working environment is far too — Cassie made air-quotes with her fingers — masculine for me, and that his prospective partner loving him meant nothing. He needed commitment, which, the way he explained it, sounded like he is looking for a servant more than a partner. So, I told him off and stormed out in the middle of dinner service.

Sybil laughed, doubtlessly imagining the scene her niece caused.

— But, every date I’ve been on since breaking up with Callum has felt like that. All of them want the same thing, and it’s something that I would rather not be party to. It’s not the 19th century any more, or even the mid 20th century. I want a partner with whom I can have an equitable, loving relationship, but if that’s what I am waiting for, I think I will be waiting a while. So, if I want a child, so I can have my own little family, I’ll just have to do it myself.

— Well, ma étoile, if there’s one thing you’ve always been consistent on, it’s following your heart, and following something through once you’ve decided on it — Sybil said, scratching at her chin once again — So even if I didn’t support this venture, which, I do, considering you seem to have given a lot of thought, I don’t think I’d be able to change your mind, regardless.

— Thank you, Auntie — Cassie said, softly. 

— But, don’t completely write off finding someone just yet. The man you’re waiting for might still be out there, somewhere. Maybe where you’re not expecting to find him. I know there are still good men out there. At least, I think so, Lord knows that I’ve never looked — Sybil said, with a knowing wink. 

After they chatted about other things for a while, Cassie said goodbye to her aunt and Sabine and drove home. She spent the entire drive back thinking about their conversation.

She had some more research to do, mostly into the costs of the procedure itself. She was well aware that it wasn’t cheap. She had some savings, and there was also some money she had in a trust that had been set up when her Grandmother Percy had passed, and that would more than cover it.

For the rest of the weekend, she continued reading and researching in an attempt to try and calm her nerves about the process. She was reassured when she found an online community of women who had also opted to go through IVF without a partner. She spent what felt like hours combing through various posts, reading as many stories as she could. It was helpful — she found answers to a lot of questions she’d had, and some things she hadn’t considered, like legal parenthood status of a partner in the event she did get married to someone after using donor sperm, and needing someone to accompany her to certain visits to the clinic because they involved sedation, like the visit for her egg retrieval. She realized that once she had a schedule confirmed, she would need to let the HR department know which days she needed to take off, and find out the details of how maternity leave worked. 

Sunday night, she got curious, and searched a few websites for donor databases in the UK. They had fairly limited information, and did not show any pictures, but they had physical characteristics listed, along with staff impressions of the donors’ personalities, what sort of education the donors had, and some other data, like what kind of genetic screenings they’d had, or their nationality and ancestry. Cassie spent a few hours browsing through the pages, trying to narrow down what she wanted the father-to-be to look like.

She purposefully avoided potential donors with light hair and blue eyes — Callum had ruined that particular combination of features for her. The rest of her family all had fair-colored features as well, so she opted for donors with darker hair and darker eyes. She considered looking for other redheads to maximize her chances of her child ending up with red hair as well, but, as expected, there were no donors with red hair. The fact that she ended up with red hair and brown eyes amongst a family of people with mostly blue eyes and dark blonde hair was a mystery. Her older brother, Jason, used to joke that she was adopted, or left in the yard by faeries as a baby. 

— One step at a time, Cassie — she told herself, closing her laptop.

She only had a few days until her appointment with her doctor, and hopefully she wouldn’t have to wait too long afterwards to visit the clinic.

Sunday night, she went about her usual routine. When she was standing at the sink, brushing her teeth, she looked at herself in the mirror, imagining how she would look with a round, pregnant belly. 

After she laid in bed, she tried to imagine what her baby would look like, given the selection of donors out there. For some reason, she envisioned herself having a little girl. She imagined trips to the zoo, to the park, to the family day picnic at work, playing with some of her coworkers’ children. She imagined sending her daughter off for her first day of school, going to her plays and concerts. Just as she was dropping off to sleep, she imagined herself sitting in a rocking chair, in a nursery, holding the swaddled baby in her arms as she sang it to sleep — a lullaby she’d learned in a Modern Greek class in University that always touched something in her.

As many stars as they are in the sky, my pearl,

And they sparkle one by one, and they sparkle one by one

So many times my eyes, my pearl,

Cried for you, cried for you,

Come on, dear mother, love me too,

Rock, dear mother, the child for me.

It was a strange feeling. Cassie had never wanted children before, not even when she and Callum were discussing engagement and marriage. Part of her felt that children were the next natural step, but then, she didn’t even want to consider it.

 But now, it was everything she wanted.

[kyejuns]

reaction ; 둘

✎ᝰ┆r : having an idol s/o

✎ᝰ┆fluff ; warnings : none

thank you to the kind soul who helped me out by requesting since i have no ideas 😭😭 I LOVE YOU 😭😭

also these gifs looks more coordinated i think ill start using these instead 🤩

+ i kinda got overboard with baekseung for some reason?? 😨

wish.

i feel like you two would meet via a mutual friend

like a mutual idol friend would introduce the two of you to each other and you'd hit it off and start talking

okay anyways, he would be so proud of you ngl

but as proud as he is he'll be so worried about you because he knows your competitive the industry is

he'll call you or text you during meal times to check up on you to see if you're eating

even if you're dieting he'd make sure you had enough so you won't faint while performing

anyways let's say you have to keep your relationship a secret

it'd absolutely pain him not to be able to hang out in public with you

but at the same time it's for both your career so sacrifices have to be made

so while you have private dates he'd try to lay off anything else he has to do for you and just company you

sigh tbh it would pain him not to wear couple items with you

but once y'all go public 🤩

he'd start wearing all those couple matchy things

and he'd also tweet stuff like ' please support us ' etc.

but overall i do think that he'd prefer getting a girlfriend that isn't a celebrity

keum.

keumdong 🤩

i feel like y'all would meet at like a dance sort of content (like dancing high or 1million dance studio)

so like if you're a singer uhh 😨

like i see him with an idol that's like a main dancer

someone who shares the same passion and interest as him

anyways keumdong

i feel like he'd know all your schedules and would text you after just to ask how it went

he would also send you many dance videos and you would do the same

you two would just help each other even if you're not face to face

tbh he wouldn't mind and would wear subtle matching items like earrings

like he wouldn't care at all 💀

anyways if you're dating in secret

he'd definitely try his best to keep the relationship but like compared to wish he would have his dates outside during night time where there isn't as many people

once your relationship goes public

he'd just bring you anywhere and he'd stop caring tbh

even if you're idols you deserve your own life

so he'd just stop caring and go out with you

he'd be super protective of you when someone says something about your relationship

sigh he's just be more protective about you if you're an idol

but overall he'd definitely prefer a non-celeb s/o

mu.

omg tbh i don't see mu with an idol s/o?

like i really don't see it

but okay let's imagine

i think you'd two be friends prior to debut

so you'd like kinda be known to be friends (like moonbin and sinb)

so like tbh fans who kinda speculate some shit is going on but you'll just play it off as you're just close friends 🤩

anyways he would watch your performance,, like literally every single one even if he's busy

and he'd compliment you on how pretty you were and how well you've done

and he'd tell you to rest and not to overwork yourself 😭

he would also promote your new song on his solo vlives and tbh it'd be so cute

anyways i think the both of you would have many chances to interact

like variety shows 🤩

and he'd be extra caring towards you but you know say it's because of your friendship 🤩

anyways you'd just date privately but like it's just so out there but people just brush it off as best friends 💀

once it's public i think many people will support it since you were previous friends even before debut

kinda expected

but anyways he can finally show more skinship towards you and talk about how much he loves you openly 🤩

but overall still would prefer a non-celeb s/o

a-min.

i heard some idols uses like the inkigayo sandwich to exchange phone numbers

yes i think he'll stuff his phone number in there and get a staff to hand it to you just because you were pretty 🤩

and tbh it'd be smart because it'll attract your attention and you'll begin to start talking and end up as a couple

anyways man's would promote you better than your company

he'd be like ' the song im currently obsessed with is (...) you should check it out! '

it'll be so subtle no one suspected a thing

and ngl he'll probably have a fan acc for you 💀

and he'll probably end up being known as your fanboy after 💀

he'll compliment you a lot public or not 🤩

anyways despite doing so much and hinting so much your relationship would still be private

like fans would be pretty sus of the both of you but it's your lives not theirs 🤩

anyways once you go public i think you would go on variety shows together quite often

it'd be cute

ngl i do see him with an idol s/o like compared to a non-celeb

since he can relate to them and stuff and just talk about their stresses together 🤩

baekseung.

i think you'd be going to the same school, in the same class and that's how met

maybe you've already debuted when you met or maybe you're just trainees then but idk man whatever it is y'all would be friends

and then yes relationship

anyways mans would be so proud of you and always bragging about you to the other members

the other members would end up being so sick of hearing him brag about you and tell you about it just so you could reprimand him and have it keep it on the low 💀

he would keep up with your variety show and especially aegyos so he can tease you about it 💀

just do the same to him so he would stop doing it once he realizes how shitty that feels

anyways like i said in the boyfriend series y'all would gossip together and it will be the same

except you have a lot more to gossip about 🤩

you'll talk about the entertainment industry, idols and your companies etc.

i would think that he would prefer to keep your relationship private and intimate so he'd prefer not to publicize it + do his best to keep the relationship a secret

even if it's made public, he'd act as if he doesn't know you during events that will make some fans think that you're having a fight but in reality you're doing well

he just prefers to do all the couple things in private you know

but like i think he'd prefer a non-celeb s/o too

ayden.

i have a feeling that if ayden was to fall for an idol, it would be an idol from his own company aka c9

like you'd probably meet when you guys were still trainees and have probably trained with each other before debut

and like so you'd become friends and eventually develop feelings for each other and you know date

to be honest i feel like as an idol he'd be a lot more low-key in front of everyone even his own members

to the point that sometimes they're wondering if you guys have broken up but no he was just low-key

he'd just quietly sit before he has to perform watching your performance as a source of motivation which is kinda cute💀

like he would work harder because of you and like there'll be a friendly competition between the two of you just to see who's better

since your relationship is so low-key no one would know about your relationship except for members 🤩

tbh the only time they'd find out would be when you personally decide to announce it yourself

like it'd be as unexpected as the daniel × jihyo pairing

overall i feel like he wouldn't mind if his s/o is an idol or not, as long as they have a mutual liking and understanding then it's fine

yewang.

i think you guys would meet by like a singing programme

like a duet special stage 🤩

anyways he would be extremely polite when you first met and you'd take a liking towards him

then you'd end up hanging out outside of your schedule and eventually end up dating

anyways he would stare at you a lot during like programmes where you meet each other

like he wouldn't care and just stare at you 🤩

during like award shows he'll text you and be like ' you look beautiful today '

tbh he would stare at you do much that fans would start to speculate something is going on between the both of you

like he wants to talk to you so bad but the fans just makes it hard

so he ends up publicizing your relationship to go out freely with you 🤩

but to be honest he would prefer an idol s/o

since he'd prefer sharing the same passion + having more common topics to talk about

jeff.

FINALLY JEFFF

alright to be honest he's another one i don't see having an idol s/o💀

like you two were probably friends before you were trainees and ended up debuting

and like somewhere in between you fell for each other and got into a romantic relationship

kinda like mu except you keep your friendship low-key so not many people knew you two were friends

till like past photos resurfaced

anyways i think he'd just be extra caring knowing that you're an idol

since there are many risk factors of being an idol

like wish tbh he'd text you a lot checking if you've eaten and if you're feeling okay in case you overwork yourself

and he'll restrain himself from looking at you too much just in case dating rumors end up surfacing

after all your career is more important considering how hard you've worked to be an idol

he'd only publicize it once dispatch catch you guys

but i doubt that'll happen💀

anyways he would have a personal vlive after telling fans to continue supporting the both of you despite the news

overall, he'd prefer a non-celeb s/o

wow this reaction took long to complete HAHAH

[natromanxoff]

Queen live at Birmingham National Arena in Birmingham, UK - December 6, 1980

(x)

The band skip out on Jailhouse Rock for the first time on the tour, one of many changes to the setlist tonight.

Freddie, before Save Me: "I'm gonna relax for once from the piano and let Brian do some stuff. Let him work a little. He gets paid the same as I do."

The second night in Birmingham sees the first live airing of Flash, which features Brian playing the ostinato rhythm on guitar - the only time it was performed in this fashion. The band then decided it was best to have him on the keyboards instead, to be closer to the studio version. For a few nights this would be part of a medley - Battle Theme, Flash, The Hero, and the coda of Brighton Rock. Flash would remain in the set through 1981, and would later be used as the taped introduction music on the Hot Space tour.

Queen tried out a different ending to the show a few nights on this tour. We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions were the end of the set proper, the first encore was Another One Bites The Dust and Sheer Heart Attack, and the second encore was Tie Your Mother Down. It definitely removed the predictability of the encores, which is something most bands with mammoth hit songs have trouble escaping. They would swap the encores a few more times over the next week.

December 25th is creeping near, so Brian plays a verse of We Wish You A Merry Christmas during Love Of My Life.

(x)

Fan Stories

“This was the first time for me, I had managed to buy from somewhere a copy of the tour programme from the "Crazy Tour" the year before and was determined the next time they played in the U.K I would be there! (never really thinking it would happen). I managed to persuade my dad to give me and a friend a lift to the N.E.C which was a couple of hours from where I lived. I remember forming an orderly queue or queues outside along with thousands of other eager fans. When we got to the front, the steward told us we couldn't wear our Queen badges because they could be used to injure other people (!) and confiscated them! When we got to the stalls selling programmes/t-shirts etc. they were also selling bloddy badges! The word gutted sprang to mind. Anyway, after what seemed forever the support band (Straight Eight) came on. I can't remember much about them apart from the fact that their drummer had his kit set up in front of Roger's which made theirs look like a kids toy. At about 8'oclock the house light dimmed and a strange noise began to get louder and louder from the stage direction, the crowd were up on their feet screaming much to the stewards dislike but sod them, then in one split second the whole arena seemed to explode with smoke, lights and an ear bursting noise. All of a sudden all those posters on my bedroom wall and "Live Killers" made sense, I was really watching Queen!!! I think from memory they opened with the fast version of "We Will Rock You" (and not Jailhouse Rock but I could be wrong) and the whole building seemed to be rocking. By now I was beyond help and was jumping and singing like a mad man! Great versions of Let Me Entertain you, Play The Game and a medley not too different to that one "Live Killers" followed. Freddie was in great form taking the mickey out of the audience and the band in a way only he could. A wonderful version of Save Me was a highlight as it was a firm favorite at the time and the crowd seemed to take over. Strangest sight of the night went to Freddie with a guitar! I never really thought he played it live and only did it for "show" but he did and it sounded great! Now I could be wrong but I don't think the Flash Gordon sountrack album had been released at the time of this show or if it had I didn't have it so when half way through the show they played The Battle Theme and The Hero I looked around at other people who looked just as confused as me! I remember thinking they must be a couple of old songs that the band liked and decided to play live! Love Of My Life was one of those moments I will never forget - being part of the crowd just like on "Live Killers"... wonderful. After Bo-Rhap a blistering Tie Your Mother Down and Sheer Heart Attack, the sound of Roger beating out the slow We Will Rock came booming out across the arena and you knew it was nearing the end. We Are The Champions followed with everyone singing and swaying in time. Freddie said his goodnights to the sound of God Save The Queen and it was over, the crowd screaming and stomping hoping for ONE more encore but it wasn't to be. We made our way to the exit and I turned to my friend who was grinning like an idiot from ear to ear and trying to say something to me but I was completly deaf for a while after the sheer power of the last 2 hours. This was as I said my first Queen show but luckily not my last but some of the memories of this one are just as strong as Knebworth or Wembley in '86. I was very very fortunate to have wittnessed the GREATEST band in the world live and as they say - "Fairytales of yesterday will grow but never die" - only these memories are not fairytales but a reality that will stay with me forever!” - whiteman

[sole-cuore-amore-e-droga]

Belgium brings their ex-vocalist back to Rotterdam 2021

Here we chop chop boys like we chop chop wood

This review space would’ve been reserved for Belarus. Unfortunately, their broadcaster was not ready to make nice, and ultimately refused to serve EBU with anything but not-even-so-thinly-veiled propaganda, so much so that EBU, after all they’ve given the time for them for to snap out of it, finally had to be like “bye bitch” (- Lizzo) with enough push from the fandom, and informed everyone that Belarus will miss this year’s contest <3

Which means that I don’t have to deal with 41, but with 39 writeups to do overall, if my timing permits! The Roop could’ve always used a little less competition, anyway /j

Speaking of The Roop’s competition, time to aim at another one of their semifinal folk with a review. Come forth, Belgium!

ARTIST & ENTRY INFO

Hooverphonic, eventhough they’re not as big of a name as Flo Rida, is the biggest act to compete in this year’s Eurovision, and even had lasted longer as a thing than Flo Rida. He barely even got his proper famous kickstart around in the 2000s. Hoover have been around at least for 5 years more than him, if “Years active” section on Wikipedia is anything to go by. And back then they were just known as Hoover, correct. Their lineup of singers has changed for quite some time, but otherwise the band since its inception is rooted in basically two men: Alex Callier and Raymond Geerts. They used to have a keyboardist too but was he a part of their glory years in 2000? No? Thought so, he’s irrelevant then. In fact, their first vocalist wasn’t even present on their first album, so they went to have another one, who did just one album with them before 2000 and left. Now I’m only constantly and consistently bringing up 2000 because that’s when they had their break out moment in relevancy - after they changed their singer once more before they found someone called Geike Arnaert - the woman you’re seeing on the MV’s thumbnail right now, and not someone certain for whom there was a public outcry for she is the only Hooverphonic component that’s not coming back from 2020 to 2021. But more on that later. I’m here to present you the break-out hit, for those who just don’t know:

I used to like to think of Hoovers as trip-hop sensations, well not in the style of Massive Attack because they have their trip-hop sound with actual hip hop thrown in, Hooverphonic’s style is that but with a tinge of symphonic.

Well, “Mad About You” wasn’t really the only hit they had, before that they got a bunch of minor and domestic hits, and their music was used for soundtracks. So it’s a little bit cheating still to think of “Mad About You” as their breakout hit, but that’s still the biggest song of the band. If I were to recommend you stuff from them that aren’t necessarily the biggest hits but still, “The Night Before” with yet another one of their vocalists is pretty good.

So when I tell you that Hooverphonic is a band of a very long career. Well some bands do survive a lot without having their lineup change for 10+ years, but Hooverphonic vocalistes come and go sometimes, and for 2020 forray, when they were first announced, they came in to that talk show studio where they were guests in with a promising little starlet Alex Callier found at The Voice Belgium (for the Flanders region) and was her mentor there, Luka Cruysberghs, as their current vocalist.

Is it just me or her and Stefania Liberakakis look like they could be cousins?

All went smooth and dandy, until Alex started spouting stuff about Eurovision the fans found not amusing, such as calling Eurovision a circus or something, later begging and pleading to medias that his statement was “lost in translation” - now I would say it happens to the best of us, like for Tornike, but deep inside I think I know Alex meant what he meant, inside or outside context. Because everything just went even more sour when everyone found out Hooverphonic were missing from the common song “Love Shine a Light” for the 2020 consolation programme in place of Eurovision, and when they were forced to explain, Alex just straight up said he didn’t like the song, so he decided to not do it. Fuck, I myself don��t adore the 1997 winning song, but I like it, and would’ve still done a piece of that song out of respect. Take it or leave it, god damn. Also they were noted to be the only people plugging in their other material in the time when Eurovision 2020 artists on the consolation programme were either saying inspirational stuff or “hope to see you soon!” or a combo of both, once again, courtesy of mostly Alex. Now I’m not saying his ego is bigger than Kirkorov’s... of fucking course not, no one has an ego bigger than Kirkorov’s. The only thing that can beat him in that regard is if someone booked Kanye West for Eurovision last minute.

Following 2021, they were very excited to jump on the “leave 2020 songs behind” train, while a few artists like VICTORIA and The Roop rallied for to keep their entries in tact if they were allowed to. And with that, in late 2020, they went ahead and celebrated the 20 years of “Mad About You” by getting rid of Luka as a vocalist and bringing back the aforementioned Geike to reprise her part. Seems pretty reasonable, but for the Eurofandom it was simply seen as a dick move, and mostly for the reason that all 2020 artists deserve a 2021 chance, even if they’re band members. What felt more dickish is that Luka was straight up told “byeeee u’re no longer our bandmate xo” on a Zoom call between band members. Like, it’s fine to be told you’re fired in person, even if still humiliating, because what’s the other better way? What’s equally worse is to be told this via email, but the email you were sent was sent like a few months ago and you only read it NOW. At least I guess that proves we know what the “sad and losing game” was that Luka asked to be released from now, heh.

Not to worry Luka-stans, as Alex will still have her, just as not the part of the band anymore. But instead give her a solo career. Yeah well we’ll see how long that lasts.

With the 2000 glory heydays lineup of Hooverphonic we have their entry be “The Wrong Place”, as the completely quite different song they promised (or didn’t) when saying that they will certainly and absolutely get rid of their old one for the 2021 if they had a choice. What they didn’t get rid of is the theme of the worse part of relationships - “Release Me” is about probably wanting to be let go of and released rather than kept by the side when it’s probably not working out. “The Wrong Place” is one of those episodes that probably happened during then - they had a house conflict, she chose to have a smoke to forget about it, the man’s after her Johnny Cash T-Shirt. Not much else to say about the song’s technicality fortunately than I’ve already said so much about the band, so how does it fare in the Hoover-lore, for me?

REVIEW

See, I would like to root for Luka ever having her chance to get to experience Eurovision if she wishes, but maybe it’s lowkey for her own benefit she wasn’t the chosen vocalist for the song, as Geike could do “Release Me”, but Luka wouldn’t be able to do “The Wrong Place”.

“The Wrong Place” is well-suited to the first vocaliste’s melancholic blend-in timbre, and a singer like Luka would sound a little too light on this with her soft-spoken sound of her voice. Besides, I don’t think she could be old enough to relate to the lyrical subject’s domestic struggle issue. Not to say 20 year olds don’t smoke and drink, it’s just that “The Wrong Place” feels a little bit too much mature enough.

Although I think that both of them could absolutely rock the music video visuals.

The song itself is very Hooverphonic. They used to do this kind of standout triphoppy sound back in the days, but as of lately they kind of grew out of the label to do more of the music that kinda sounds like movie soundtrack music. Idek the exact label I could give it to their music so move soundtrack music it is I guess. It has a decently paced structure (could’ve done without the overly repetitive ending where they repeat “you’re in the wrong place” over and over, like ffs I know where I am!!), and interesting lyrical choices. Such as “organic cup of... tea”, as in, WOW! HOOVERPHONIC HAS ENOUGH WITH THE TEABAGS FULL OF GROUND AND GRINDED TEA! THEY WILL ONLY MAKE TEA FROM PURE HERBS AND FLOWERS, AS IT WAS USED TO BE DONE! and acting like her Johnny Cash T-Shirt is the kind of prized possession her man is not allowed to wear to rub it in her face. Imagine if it was something more mundane. “Don’t you ever dare to wear my... pink polka-dot T-shirt”? Damn right it doesn’t seem to suit the mood lol.

It’s not what I exactly wanted from Hooverphonic, but probably what I subconsciously needed from them anyway, ever since they were announced for 2020. I only got into “Release Me” sometime AFTER the contest, “The Wrong Place” is a bit more instant to stand behind. So well done to them to commit to their craft.

Approval factor: I guess I do have to stamp this with my stamp of approval. It’s nice and all. Follow-up factor: “The Wrong Place” follows up as a more of a Hooverphonic discography track after the fairly average and overlookable “Release Me” (eventhough the latter has the tinge of theirs as well because it’s a more symphonic ballad, and they do have symphonic stuff on their discog afterall). As a Eurovision entry, it comes across as even better somewhat, and even slightly more standout, but that might not necessarily work in their favour. Qualification factor: And that’s because they’re absolutely stranded in the semi with too many qualification choices to name. Belgium gets to be a bit quasi-obvious, but they’ve failed with a Hooverphonic-penned song before, plus, the pop girlies of this semi are more likely to eat out a band like this alive, but I wouldn’t exactly say Belgium is doomed to fail either, because I am positive Hooverphonic will think of something. I’m just saying that shocking things can happen every now and then.

INTERNAL CORNER

Well, considering Alex Callier is not running his mouth this time as much as he did so last year’s season, I think it’s safe to say that Hooverphonic have had nothing to write home about.

No, wait...

Well I did mention that Luka got replaced as one of the events that happened to Hooverphonic’s lifetime, but thank God that Alex promised her a solo career, right? Right?

Well, apparently, we’re getting towards it.

And the first lyrics of her first solo forray post-Hooverphonic-vocalist-duties features the lyrics about possibly her making someone “regret it”. Lol now watch this song to be a karma kick into Hooverphonic’s ass if Belgium happens to not qualify this year. Luka forewarned y’all with sharp precision.

Annnnnd that’s pretty much it, besides the band jumping on the trend of turning their entries into a Festivali i Këngës 59 acoustic night European version by presenting their own acoustic version of this track. I did not have the kind of courage to link to the Azerbaijan’s “slow version” on their review in fear of overruning my post even longer than they would usually be for these reviews, but at least it moves people to a certain degree

Well, my question of the days is, does “The Wrong Place” in acoustic make you sad twerk?

ANY LAST WORDS?

Belgium’s big weakness is when it comes to stage their entries, notably for the last two years where the Eurovision actually happened. Sennek was awkwardly put in the middle and succumbed to the curse of Lucie Jones of grimmacing too much and therefore ruining her score in the process, possibly. Eliot was just simply upstaged by the decision to include big drums on stage. Alex Callier acknowledges all that sort of thing, so if anything goes absolutely right and Hooverphonic manage to make it to Rotterdam (which I think they can do because Belgium and Netherlands are neighbours lol? unless their lockdown rules get super strict in May), he should get on to mending all the flaws that Belgium had in the past for staging, and have a spectacular vision. Because it’d be sadly hilariously ironic if Hoovers miss out on the final due to the staging again. Can’t just constantly blame the vocalist - Geike would be flawless live, if Hooverphonic trusted in her for so many years. Can’t blame the song - it’s not too bad. So staging, I guess.

Good luck Hooverphonic, you’ll certainly need it. Also can RTBF consider that they could send anything else from the Wallonian music scene other than The Voice Belgique acts~

[normal-thoughts-official]

I think both Magnus and Alec have a big part of their lifes that have nothing to do with eachother. Okey, they are happily married and the live together but anyway... What about their hobbies? What about their own personal projects? Friends/queerplatonic relationships? I want to know who they are, besides of great politic leaders or someone's husband

i mean, i agree. i hate it when ppl reduce magnus and alec to malec or just generally care more about the romantic relationships than the other ones, nevermind bothering to develop other aspects of their lives that are just... theirs

to be fair i feel like we got a reasonable amount of that for them (for shadowhunter’s standarts of giving us content anyway). i mean, less for alec but that kinda makes sense considering that he’s spent most of his life avoiding any kind of close relationships that weren’t with his siblings like the plague and generally being, like, raised in a military based society with the weight of the world on his shoulders and also gay. but i totally agree that we should have gotten more of him getting out of his shell and finding hobbies and friends beyond just a romantic relationship. and for magnus, well, we know that he likes physics and science and studying magic as a whole, and dancing, and we know about his friends aka catarina and ragnor and raphael and dot, we know about his found family and his club and that he likes parties and good food and drinks, travelling, and meeting new people and cultures. you know?

but anyway, other headcanons with little things about their lives:

alec is totally the workout gay who likes fucking, idk jogging every morning and shit, and for some reason i can see him being into mountain climbing???? and magnus is like No Thank You. I Will Do Literally Anything Else because yikes the amount of effort and sweat and it’s just generally unpleasant. magnus is far from being sedentary, but also, no. yikes

he’s more into taking long walks in nice places and admiring the view and shit like that and he’s all like “isn’t it great? :)” and alec is like “haha yeah how far are we” because he’s just... goal-oriented and when he’s doing sports he likes to have a clear goal, something to achieve, or to push himself to his limits and all that bullcrap. while magnus likes to do it for the sake of doing it and enjoying himself and getting in contact with his own body & mind & soul and shit. they find some sort of enjoyment in it with the way alec always makes magnus laugh with his grumpiness + inability to truly understand what this whole thing is about + just general himboness, but as a whole, magnus likes to take his walks alone, so he can get that space for himself. and he’s definitely not joining in when alec is doing his weird sportsman training gimmick whatever-thing, either

same with tai-chi! magnus tried to get alec into it (altho somewhat awkwardly since magnus does magical tai chi and alec very much does not have magic) but it just, didn’t work out. one second into it and alec was already making that painfully concentrated face and he’s stiff as a board and it’s the opposite of what it’s supposed to be and magnus breaks down laughing and alec is all offended and they just can’t get past a few seconds and end up giving up. alec is the bitch who sits down to medidate and is immediately like BOY I AM GONNA GET IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER SELF SO FAST AND HARD FUCKING WATCH ME I’M GONNA BE THE BEST MEDIDATOR THIS SIDE OF THE PACIFIC FUCKING OOHMMM BITCH. introspective arts are just not for him

i like to think that alec gets closer to aline, and i can see him and helen hitting it off, too. like seriously guys let alec have friends who aren’t just magnus’ friends (and let magnus have friends that are HIS friends, too)

i know underhill is implied to become his friend but also, like..... he’s so boring i just can’t have any hcs for them as friends daoijsdaiouja i think they have more of a solidarity, nodding when walking past each other in the halls thing than actual friendship you know

obviously there’s alec’s siblings as he will always be the one izzy loves the most and she will always be one of the most important people for him, and even as magnus and izzy totally are friends too, she is still alec’s sister and they make it a point to see each other, just the two of them, at least once a week. izzy always smiles and loops her arm through his and alec’s immediately huffing but he loves it and she knows that he loves it. she was like, his only source of physical contact for so long, and god he really needed it and he loved her for giving it to him even as he pretended it was something he hated. neither of them want to shake that habit, so it stays

but there’s also a particular brand of friendship magnus has with her that alec doesn’t. like when they get all weird about dead bodies or go shopping? alec’s out 

magnus does a lot of studying (mostly languages, physics, and chemistry, as well as magic) so he has his own study room (plus the apothecary) that’s a whole damn mess filled with books and notes scattered around and shit and alec is not allowed in because he always wants to organize it and GOD FUCKING DAMN IT IT’S NOT DISORGANIZED I KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING’S SUPPOSED TO BE and if alec moves a single pen, magnus Will Know About It

in exchange he always keeps the door closed or spelled so alec doesn’t have to look at it

obviously there’s archery, which is something alec loves to do and practice, especially as he starts to get more into the bureaucratic parts of shadowhunting. he needs his bow and arrow to feel connected to himself and his body and safe, and he also has his own practicing room. magnus can do archery fine, but it’s not really among his interests

magnus of course has his regular meetings with the immortal squad and his breakfasts with raphael :) not that raphael isn’t part of the immortal squad but they also enjoy having a time just for the two of them. they are father and son after all, and besides, they lived together for quite a while, and the dynamics of them versus them + ragnor + cat are different

while magnus loves taking alec with him in his trips and to art galleries and out to eat in great restaurants and shit, they both know it’s something that alec, while very curious to know about, does not appreciate the same way that he does. not more or less, just, differently. if they go to an art gallery, magnus is gonna be looking at every piece and musing and maybe talking about the painters of x and y movement that he knew, and analyzing the technique or whatever. alec is less interested in the paintings themselves and more in the artists, what their life was like, what the period/place they lived in was like, how that shaped their art, you know? like he’s just not a very visual person haha me projecting never so what interests him is more outside of the paintings than inside. so even when they go to these places together, they’re just having completely different experiences? and a lot of the time they end up straying and meeting each other later, where they’ll chat and generally be ridiculous. but the both of them also enjoy going to those on their own or with their friends who Get It, you know? because again just completely different rhythms and interests and stuff

i feel like they both enjoy trashy television, but like, in completely different ways? like magnus loves him a terrible sitcom even if he’ll never admit it, where alec is more into like..... really bad and dramatic mystery shows

they both enjoy watching reality shows though. magnus wasn’t that huge on it before, but with alec? man, that’s a riot. he’ll judge absolutely everyone and make faces and just generally be fucking hilarious

ok i know that i’m talking about things they do together but my goal here is to talk about like... who they are and what their interests are individually, even if they are together, you know? and not like, As An Unit

magnus loves music and recitals and dance shows of all kinds. also, street art! i feel like that’s something him, cat, and maia have in common

speaking of cat; there are always His Cats. like sure they like alec fine but as soon as magnus is home they all immediately flock to him. it’s like alec never existed. goodbye, tall person

tbh i feel like raphael is totally an animals person and soon the dumort kind of turns into like, a sort of animal shelter? like magnus gives him the idea and all the vampires are naturally drawn to the idea of the dumort becoming a place for the strays of the world, especially if it means they get some company.... and maybe warm cuddles. anyway, my point is, magnus loves to visit the dumort and play with the cats and dogs that are there from time to time and he’s so proud of raphael and what he’s doing with the place and i just aaa :’) 

i feel like alec would have an interest in technology? like he’d be that bitch who Knows tech (probably started because of his job, but soon he found that he like, actually has an interest in it?) and who cleans his keyboard every day and only gets licensed programmes and takes care of his laptop like those guys who are weird about cars

lmao for some reason i can totally picture him and aline bonding over that? 

oh man alec would be into PUZZLES. word puzzles, jigsaw puzzles, the whole grandpa shit. he doesn’t do it often but when he does, he’s just At It. him and madzie can play with jigsaw puzzles for hours and wouldn’t remember to eat. she visits one day and is like I Got A 3D Puzzle and alec is just like neat! and they just sit down and do it until they have to be forced to bed or something. then at like precisely 6AM their eyes snap open like It’s A New Day, Puzzle Time and it just keeps being like this until they’re done

also there’s magnus’ morning routine, of course, especially since he doesn’t really have a schedule, and as sociable as he is he does enjoy some alone time to make himself some breakfast, do some tai chi, maybe read a book or comic, and all that. alec is just snoring the whole time completely passed out when it’s not a work day, tbh

okay that’s all i have actually doasdiad i hope it isn’t too much or disappointing or whatever. also, if anyone else wants to add their own headcanons for alec’s and magnus’ hobbies, feel free to do so :)

[tardis-sapphics]

24! ☀️

thank u!

24: ‘my child’

this one is perhaps a bit long but i do love this a lot. hope you enjoy! also, would recommend this absolutely gorgeous song to accompany your reading!

The end of war is a feeling as much as it is a moment, Yaz is discovering. It is a shared feeling, something so innate to a people, it is impossible to feel on your own. When the final order is given, the last papers are signed, and the last casualty breathes their final breath, there is all at once, and slowly, a burgeoning emotion.

It grows and grows. A new dawn: first comes the birds, the heralders of the new way; then the light creeps in. It will illuminate everything, even the things best thought of in shadow. But it is inevitable, and it is graceful.

When it illuminates the worst, it does not so do out of glee. It does so as an imploring—an attempt to make new a bitterly fought moment.

They all feel it, thrumming through their veins. This call of grace, this call to begin again.

In the battlefield, the four of them had held hands. They had witnessed the passing of war, and watched a new world begin.

Their tent, adjacent to the Commander General for their now-defunct role as brokers of peace, is gradually being illuminated in the same dawn light as every tent on this battlefield. And like the others, the material is not thick enough to blot it out. It creeps, but it is sure.

Yaz watches the slow brightening, the way one follows the curious journey of a single insect, focusing on every detail she can observe. For two days, her head has been full of nothing but war: the clashes, the screams, the consequences. There is something liberating about this—the chance for small things to be given equal eight once more.

The orange of the tent is lightening, from a dull and shade to something rich, vibrant. She feels her own vibrancy in it.

To her left, Ryan and Graham snoring away in their sleeping bags. The Doctor, she can hear, is in the front section, possibly fiddling with something or other. In moments of quiet, she usually is.

And Yaz is content to let the morning stay that way, to find richness in the slow, but the morning has other plans.

Outside, on the battlefield, she hears a child crying.

They must be crying loudly for the sound to reach them inside the tent. Many tents, in fact, with the way they have been clustered together. But these are soldiers, generals—not families. This kid must be lost. Her heart pangs for them.

Five minutes later, and the child’s cries have turned into weepy calls for their father. They sound young, so young, and no one is going to help.

What is this world, this new, hopefully world, if no one will help a child?

Yaz crawls through to the front section to find her shoes—and sees the Doctor doing the same. Quick fingers tie up her boots laces, and Yaz gets to work on her own.

When she looks up, finished, the Doctor is smiling at her. Two days’ worth of mud and hard work are showing on her clothes, her coat torn at the edges. But she looks as bright as ever. ‘The others?’ she wonders, her voice still a whisper.

‘Asleep,’ Yaz confirms. She nods at the Doctor’s boots. ‘You gonna look for the kid too?’

‘Of course.’ Something flashes in her eyes: sadness, but not just. ‘This is no place for a child.’

The kid is difficult to spot amongst the sea of orange; the sides of the tents dance in the whipping wind, as do their flags, and each movement is distracting. So, too, are the sentries who patrol the thin pathways between the rows of tents; most of them are in an early-morning daze, rendered almost useless by the cessation of war. There would be a perfect haze of suspension, a potent need to wait—if it were not for the child.

‘Papo!’ the child calls. Yaz grabs the Doctor’s arm. They are much closer now.

In the midst of war’s debris, they find her. Clad in what Yaz has to assume are pyjamas, she trails a blanket in the churned up mud, turning white cotton to mucky brown. Her light blue eyes are bright with tears like little crystals, her face puffy from crying, she staggers between the tents, searching.

Sniffing, unharmed, and innocent. At the sight of her, Yaz’s heart aches.

They walk towards her slowly, aware of her eyes on them. The entire time, doleful but curious. Yaz smiles as she bends down in front of her, waving a quick hello. The Doctor grins at her, but she is busy scanning the immediate area for any disturbances.

‘Heya,’ Yaz starts. ‘I’m Yaz. And this is my—’ she clears her throat ‘—this is the Doctor. It’s lovely to meet you! What’s your name?’

The girl pouts at her, assessing her. Eventually, she answers. ‘Vay.’

‘I love your name; it’s beautiful,’ Yaz smiles, and Vay brightens, just a little. ‘You look a little lost. Are you trying to find your Papo?’

It upsets Vay, who sniffles again. ‘Moma said I could see him today but I dunno where he is.’

Yaz nods. ‘Would you like us to help you, Vay? We know some important people who can find your Papo for you. Only, it’s very early in the morning and no one else is awake yet. D’you want to come with us?’

Vay takes a moment to consider this, but eventually she does accept, reaching for Yaz’s hand. Yaz breathes a sigh of relief.

Vay warms to the two of them quickly. She likes the way the Doctor talks, quick and fast and silly. She appreciates Yaz picking her up and keeping her close. Yaz is warm and kind and always asks if Vay is okay with what they’re doing.

They try their hardest to make Vay feel safe, on this battlefield with countless lives lost around them.

Back at the tent, Yaz introduces their new companion to Graham and Ryan, who are barely awake. Ryan is still groggy and moody, but Graham pushes away his exhaustion to play granddad.

The Doctor pulls Yaz to one side. ‘I’ve scanned her,’ she informs her quietly. ‘She’s not using a cloaking device, or a perception filter, and she’s not a different species.’

‘So she’s a child,’ Yaz says, a brow arched.

‘She’s a child. But you never know, Yaz! Some aliens are wily like that,’ the Doctor protests. ‘Anyway, her father will definitely be in one of these tents. That’s why she’s here, or at least why she’s been close, because according to the Renshaw Law these lot passed two centuries ago, children aren’t allowed anywhere near a battlefield.’

‘Which means she’s walked a long way,’ Yaz surmises.

The Doctor nods. ‘From the timeframe we’re working on, her mum was given clearance as soon as the war ended, last night. That means they’re family to a high-ranking official; they’re always the first to see loved ones.’

She looks as if she is about to say something else. There is a curious light in her eyes.

Yaz dismisses what she was about to say, and asks, ‘What?’ instead.

The Doctor simply smiles. ‘Just—you’re amazing, Yasmin Khan. You’re bringing a family back together. I’m very proud.’

Yaz flushes.

Even though the five of them can hear the squadrons around them waking up, the four adults know that no one will be ready yet. This is peacetime, and everything here is loose. The light may be here but the morning isn’t ready yet, so they stay, and wait for the first calls of action.

It helps, too, that Vay is a little charmer. Now fully awake, Ryan has been won over in an instant—but she is staying by Yaz’s side, so he volunteers to wash Vay’s blanket and win over her affection that way. Whilst Vay waits for her blanket to return, she allows herself to be entertained by Yaz’s tickles and silly faces. The Doctor supplies her with a few custard creams from her coat pocket—‘For breakfast!’ she grins—and Vay takes an immediate liking to them.

In a free moment, when Vay has launched herself, yet again, at Graham, Yaz notices the Doctor watching her. She doesn’t feel embarrassed, just settled. She smiles back.

Ryan returns half an hour later with a sopping wet blanket, but it is clean and Vay is delighted. Light is everywhere now, indistinguishable from the world, and the morning is warming up. So, it seems, is everyone else: pots are cooking hearty breakfasts, strips of meat and boiled grains. As they leave the tent, the smell of food hits Yaz square in the stomach, and it growls impatiently.

In her arms, Vay wriggles around to poke Yaz’s belly. Crystal-blue eyes narrow and she grins a growl in response.

Yaz laughs. ‘Perfect!’

The Commander General’s tent is far larger than theirs, and already busy with personnel. Any snippets of conversation that reach Yaz’s ears tell her they are co-ordinating the extracting programme. They are going home.

The five of them are not noticed by anyone, until the Commander General himself bustles through his throng of people. He is busy asking an adviser questions when he alights on Vay—and freezes.

Vay immediately perks up. ‘Papo!’ she crows delightedly. Yaz lets her to the ground, and she runs, wet blanket in hand.

She is in his arms in an instant. He scoops her up and swings her about, beaming. This commander, always hard and unfeeling the previous week, is sobbing as he reunites with his daughter.

There are tears in his eyes. Yaz’s heart squeezes at the sight. This man could have died today—but the war is over, and here he is.

She feels a hand take hers, and looks to her side to see the Doctor beaming at her.

‘Where did you find her?’ he demands. ‘My little miracle.’ Vay giggles, recognising the phrase.

‘We found her wandering the field,’ the Doctor starts. ‘Early dawn, by herself. Very brave.’

‘She was calling for her Papo,’ Yaz adds. ‘We kept her safe until we could find her dad.’

‘S’pose that turned out to be you,’ Graham says.

‘Yes. Yes, that’s me. Thank you,’ the Commander General breathes. ‘I cannot thank you enough. My child, my child.’ He kisses the top of her head. ‘My child.’

Leaving Vay is harder than Yaz expected it to be. But Vay is curious and silly and she is safe, at last, on this battlefield, with her Papo.

Vay doesn’t want them to leave, either. But when she understands they must, she gives Yaz her blanket.

Yaz leaves with tears in her eyes. Happy.

They don’t wait around. As the day beckons, so does the TARDIS; so does the rest of their lives. They are glad, at least, to be leaving on a successful note.

It could have been much, much worse.

Before closing the doors to the TARDIS, she takes one last look at the field. So much violence, and bloodshed, and loss—but hope now, too. A new world is waking up, a good world, where a child will find their father. And she is grateful for it.

Round the TARDIS console, Ryan teases his granddad about Vay defeating him in a tickle fight. The Doctor is typing up a destination onto the screen: Sheffield, Earth, 2020.

Silently, Yaz walks up to her. In one hand, she has bundled Vay’s blanket, cold in her palm. With the other, she reaches out for the Doctor.

The Doctor looks up and smiles. And links their fingers together.

send me numbers!

[john-taylor-daily]

Full text of the article:

Want to feel really old? Oh, go on then. Duran Duran turn 40 this year: the band, that is, not the members. For them it’s worse: Simon Le Bon is 61, John and Roger Taylor, each 59, and Nick Rhodes, the baby, 57.

As you would expect of a pop group who always appeared happiest hanging off a yacht in ruffled Antony Price suits, accessorised with a supermodel and a cocktail, they intend to celebrate in style, coronavirus permitting. So the plan, announced this week, is that on July 12, exactly 40 years since their first gig at the Rum Runner in Birmingham, they will perform in Hyde Park, headlining a bill that includes Nile Rodgers & Chic and their pal Gwen Stefani. Four of the original five will be there: the guitarist Andy Taylor, 59, left the band in 1985 and, after rejoining in 2001, walked out again five years later. In the past, the guitarist Warren Cuccurullo has filled in; this time Graham Coxon from Blur will take his place.

Then in autumn Duran Duran are releasing a new album, their 15th, which they are halfway through making.

Growing up in the West Midlands, I was a Duranie; my first gig was theirs at the NEC in Birmingham. To give an idea of the level of devotion, I had house plants named after each of them. John, his initials “JT” written on the pot in nail varnish, was a begonia; Rhodes, a busy lizzie; Le Bon, a rubber plant; Roger and Andy Taylor were cacti. My memory, foggy on so much, still holds the name of Nick Rhodes’s cat at the time (Sebastian). The household appliance “JT” would choose to be? “A refrigerator, so I would stay cool.”

But despite previous opportunities, I’ve avoided them bar an awkward backstage handshake with Le Bon. In the meantime, they have notched up record sales of 100 million, had 21 Top 20 hits in the UK and, unlike many bands who came to fame in the 1980s, they produce different, exciting, if not always lauded albums, working with new producers and musicians. They’ve had top five albums in each of the four decades they’ve worked. Their last album, Paper Gods (2015), produced by Mark Ronson and Rodgers, was their most successful for 25 years.

Now 46 and with no desire to anthropomorphise greenery, I meet Rhodes, the keyboardist, and John Taylor, the bass player, once described as having the squarest jaw in rock. Rhodes suggests his “local”, Blakes hotel in Chelsea, near the home he shares with his Sicilian girlfriend, Nefer Suvio (he and Julie Anne Friedman divorced in 1992; they have one child together, Tatjana). Taylor, just in from Los Angeles, home to his second wife, Gela Nash, who runs the fashion label Juicy Couture, invites me to his flat in Pimlico. Le Bon, still happily married to the supermodel Yasmin Le Bon with three grown-up daughters, is busy in the studio and Roger Taylor, four children and with second wife Gisella Bernales, is otherwise occupied.

Rhodes, who joins me in the bar at Blakes, has the same peroxide mop and alabaster skin that were always his trademark. He wears black trousers by the English designer Neil Barrett and a Savile Row jacket dressed down with a rock T-shirt from the Los Angeles company Punk Masters.

Four days later, I arrive at Taylor’s flat in a garden square where he greets me at the door dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, with sculpted bed-hair. I’m reminded of the time my brother splashed Sun-In on his to emulate Taylor’s bleached New Romantic fringe.

It’s good to have them back. They started on the new album in September at Flood Studios in Willesden, northwest London, and, as well as Coxon, have been working with three producers: Giorgio Moroder, Ronson and the DJ Erol Alkan. “The whole place is filled with analogue synthesizers, so it’s just joy for me,” says Rhodes, who began life as Nicholas Bates but renamed himself after a make of electronic keyboard.

Rhodes met Moroder — the “godfather of electronica” and the man behind Donna Summer’s I Feel Love — through a mutual friend of his girlfriend. “We talked about music and what had happened to us,” Rhodes says. “He is as sharp as a razor, 79 going on 45.” They worked with Ronson, who has produced Amy Winehouse and Adele, in LA. “The first thing Mark always says is, ‘Let me hear the rest of it,’” Rhodes says with a laugh. “He is quite competitive.”

Taylor, who leads me into a room that’s more gentlemen’s club than rock-star pad with an open fire, armchairs, brown furniture and bad Victorian paintings, says the break of five years has refuelled them. “We have to starve ourselves of creativity long enough that when we do show up we have something to say,” he says. “[The studio sessions] are quite exhausting because we have been down this road. We can finish each other’s sentences and I guess, to some extent, we can do that musically as well. We are working with the same cast; it’s like a soap opera. That’s why collaborators become so important as you need to keep the spirit lively.”

Rhodes, who says the new album is more “handmade” and “guitary”, explains the working dynamics: “John and Roger’s rhythm section often drives a track. Simon, the lyricist, gives all the songs our identity; it’s his voice that tells you it’s Duran Duran. My part has more to do with sonic architecture.” That may be the most Nick Rhodes phrase yet.

We move on to Andy Taylor. “Forty years ago we had Andy in the band and he was a strong flavour and a northerner and brought a rigour,” says John Taylor. “Filling that vacuum has always been one of the major challenges of version two of the band; we did it with Warren Cuccurullo and with Graham on this record. But it’s not the same. Andy didn’t mind telling people what they were doing wrong.”

He pauses. “We had a reunion with Andy [in 2001] and that was enormously difficult, actually.” How so? “That’s a book really,” says Taylor, who has written about the saga, along with his struggle with drink and drugs, in his excellent 2012 memoir In the Pleasure Groove. “Or it’s a mini-series.”

“It was very uncomfortable for us,” Rhodes says of Andy leaving in 1985. “For sure, it had become stressful over the previous year — we were all burnt out from not having stopped for five years — but we didn’t see it coming at all.”

What are relations with Andy like now? “I don’t really have any,” says Rhodes. “I haven’t seen him for many years since he left the last time. I was not even slightly surprised when it did fall apart. I was relieved. As much as Andy is a great musician he is not an easy person to play with.”

I mention to Taylor that Andy has just announced his own UK dates in May, playing Duran songs. “Uh-ha,” he says. He didn’t know. Does he mind? “I don’t mind at all. All power to him,” says Taylor. “I would rather he be out playing.”

Taylor has the sanguine air of someone who has spent decades nuking his demons (he’s currently working on guilt; he had a Catholic mother). He has been sober for 26 years after an addiction which in part led to the break-up of his marriage to the TV presenter Amanda de Cadenet in 1997. Was it hard at first? “It was like turning round an ocean liner,” he says, his voice posh Brum with a California chaser. “I work a daily programme and that’s what keeps me sober. It’s not something that just happens; it takes a lot of attention.”

We move on to the themes of the new, as yet untitled, album. Le Bon lost his mother recently, so we can expect songs inspired by loss. Taylor says he took inspiration from “the challenges of long-term relationships . . . Take a song like Save a Prayer, which personally I think is one of the greatest ever songs in praise of the one-night stand,” he says. “It comes to the point where you can’t write something like that. It’s not age-appropriate; yet it is sexy. So how do you write from the perspective of someone who is trying to keep a long-term relationship together? That is the challenge of any late-age pop star. How do you make it chic, to use one of Nick’s favourite words.”

It is hard to forget how impossibly chic Duran were in the 1980s: from their beginnings in Birmingham (Nick and John, anyway), where they met when Rhodes was 10 and Taylor 12, to a world of famous friends, beautiful partners and exotic travel. Le Bon married Yasmin after seeing her in Vogue, Rhodes was with the shipping heiress Friedman and Taylor the teenage de Cadenet. Andy Warhol was a close friend of Rhodes.

While others were singing about the dark side of Thatcher’s Britain, they were . . . more opaque. “In the 1980s a lot of what we did was somewhat misunderstood because we were living in the same gloomy years with high unemployment and miners’ strikes and civil unrest as everybody else,” Rhodes says. “But our answer to it was we have to get away from this and make it a little brighter because it didn’t seem like a particularly promising future.” Don’t expect that coronavirus torch song any time soon.

Their association with Bond — they wrote the 1985 theme A View to a Kill — only added to the glamour. What do they make of the new one by Billie Eilish? Rhodes admits that he mostly listens to classical music these days but “was thrilled to hear Billie Eilish. I think it’s by far the best Bond song since ours.”

But not better than yours?

“I am very happy that she reached No 1.” Duran’s got to No 2.

Taylor is more critical. “I thought it was lacking in a bit of Billie Eilish to be honest. It could have been madder. It was a little bit too grown up,” he says.

Is it as good as A View to a Kill?

“No!” says Taylor, theatrically. “Although,” he admits, “it was the most difficult three mins that we have ever produced.”

It had a great video, in which the boys slunk around the Eiffel Tower. Taylor frowns. “I hate that video. So stupid. I can’t watch it.” One for the fans, then.

A secret of their longevity, Rhodes says, is not bowing to nostalgia. “I like to keep my blinkers on and look forward.” Having said that, he sounds ready to write his own memoir. “I would do a book yes,” he says. “I haven’t read John’s on purpose. I even wrote a foreword for it for the US version without reading it, but I did own up to it. I think mine would be very different from a lot of the rock biographies. The one that sticks with me is David Niven’s.”

Rhodes featured in Warhol’s diaries and Warhol, the subject of a show at Tate Modern in London that opened this week, would surely feature in his. He “invented the 20th century”, Rhodes says. “Andy was making reality TV in the Sixties. Can you imagine what he would have thought about the internet? It was all his dreams come true, but he would never have got any work done.” Rhodes says he stays off social media for that reason. “It’s not that I don’t like it; I fear it. I am going down a rabbit hole I may never get out of.

They’ve spent twice the time being famous as being unknown. Are they the same people they were in Birmingham 40 years ago?

Rhodes nods. “Yes, yes,” he says. “There have been big changes — marriages, divorces, kids, moving countries in John’s case — but when we are all together we have known each other for so long there is no room for anyone to behave in a way that would be unacceptable. There is no room for divas. We have lasted longer than most marriages; it is like being married to three people but we each get to go home on our own every night.”

Taylor tells me: “Without getting into recovery talk, a lot of that is about scrubbing away the masks that you tend to accrue to cope, so I think I am as close to that person as I was 40 years ago.”

Rhodes says tolerance is the key. “Sometimes when I arrive at the studio it is really bright, maybe someone is writing, and so everyone accepts I can’t cope, and so the lighting comes down.” I tell him I once read he always wears dark glasses before noon. He laughs. “Pretty much. That’s funny. I am hyper-sensitive to light. It’s not just pretentiousness. “

They appreciate they will have to prepare physically for the dates. For Rhodes, a terrible insomniac, that means “fruit and vegetables and grains” and lots of walking. But no workouts (“I am not a big fan of gymnasiums”). Taylor says he needs to start practising bass and the need to get back in shape is “keeping him awake at night”. “I like to run, I do Pilates, I do yoga and I think about everything that enters my mouth, everything. I am 90 per cent vegan. I don’t drink, take mind-altering chemicals. I am on and off sugar.”

Perhaps the greatest sign that they still have it is that their children want to see them play. Taylor just heard from his daughter, Atlanta, who lives in New York and is soon to be married to David Macklovitch from the Canadian band Chromeo.

“It’s a surprise when you get a text from a child and they say, ‘You’re playing Hyde Park — my boyfriend and I want to come.’”

[ryder616]

Rewatching Devils You Know

Good morning, Mr. Hunter, and welcome to F.A.I.L.E.D. (Failed Attempts In Liquidate Evil Douchebag). You’re joining an elite unit comprised of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best and brightest. Please collect your new badge and the orientation package at the reception desk. You may want to pay special attention to the leaflet titled “I Blew It: 10 Ways to Deal with the Aftermath of Botched Assassinations and Irate Co-Workers”. 

Counting S1, this makes it seven times Ward could have died at the hands of one of our agents but didn’t:

Skye let him live when Mike gave him a heart attack.(1x20)

May chose to stop at a broken larynx and nailed foot.(1x22)

Fitz didn’t complete the asphyxia demonstration.(2x03)

Skye shot him and left him to bleed out but Kara saved him.(2x10)

Jemma threw him a splinter bomb but Bakshi butted in.(2x19)

May was going to hunt him down but Bobbi’s extraction took priority (/nudge Hunter).(2x22)

And now Hunter failed, too, after a dangerous undercover mission specifically aimed to rid the world of Grant Ward and almost sacrificing Andrew’s life for it. Which is especially grating because if you must put someone else in danger for a shot at revenge, the least you can do is having the decency to not miss. 😁

Still, Hunter can count himself lucky: Andrew is alive, May saved his ass at least twice in that 2 vs 11 showdown and she won’t kill him once they’re back on the base.

As for Ward, his own luck won’t last forever. 😈 😈 😈

Gonna Catch ‘Em All:

Shane and Lori Henson were a cute young couple that went through Terrigenis at Afterlife but never learned how to cook a chicken. And we will never learn what their powers actually did. He was floating and she was glowing red.¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Dwight Frye, “former programmer, serial online gamer and I.T. guy” was Lash’s...I.T. guy, helping him track the Afterlife Inhumans. His power must be one of the worst ever, identifying Inhumans by how sick proximity with them made him feel. With time he might have learned to control it so that it didn’t hurt him, just like Daisy and Lincoln have with theirs.

Stuff that crossed my mind:

The world sees us as a threat. We need to stick together, those of us who’ve been here before the Outbreak. I object to this choice of word. You guys are not an epidemic. Inhumans sorely needed a brand manager and a P.R. firm. 😁

Daisy, wait! Daisy! Damn it. What? Are you implying she shouldn’t run without backup after a dangerous monster who shakes off bullets and is specifically targeting Inhumans? Mack, don’t be absurd.

What about Daisy and Mack? They could use backup out there. -- I know you really want to get back into action, Agent Morse, but the answer's no. You’re still rehabbing. You haven’t passed the physical. That’s because it’s the wrong kind of physical, duh. Just wait for May, she’ll fix it.

How did I let you talk me into this? I had a garage, workbench full of new tools, my own espresso machine... Espresso is overrated anyway. 👀

I was gonna say "make little baby sharks," but then "Jaws" was probably 20 years before you were born, so...do I sense a low-key, Gen X vs Millennial pop culture clash?

[Mack hesitating to move forward] Well, do you want me to take point? You know, maybe you should. You’re the one with superpowers and you do make a smaller target...

Blue, not clear [the plastic bag for samples]. -- What? -- I said “blue”. Not “clear”. How many times am I...Okay, look, Simmons and I have created a system. “B” is for “blue” is for “biological sample”. -- Right, another system. And what’s the clear bag for? 🤔 Hang in there, Bob, this out of action torture is almost at an end.

[Simmons] open up to you at all about what happened to her? -- Not really. Why? Did she say something to you? -- No. Why don’t I believe you?

Stand down! Everybody, stand down! S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not the enemy, and you definitely don’t want to piss off the young Agent Johnson here. We’ve got about 19 Agent Johnsons on our side, though none can take down a building. And how do you know she can take down a building? Coulson? How much intel did you share with Rosalind? Maybe too much, eh? 😒

Are you gonna help or not? -- I like it when you get all tough. Is she flirting? What level does this warrant on the Philinda alert state, defcon 4?

New recruit brought you these [weapons]? -- Yeah. Same bloke who brought these took out Spud last week. He’s a tough bastard. You’re not exactly a softie yourself, Kebo. Didn’t Von Strucker Jr. hit you several times in the face with a laptop just 2 weeks ago? And here you stand, as despicable as ever.

So, what's the job? - Don't know. -- When's it going down? -- Don't know. -- Any idea where? -- Not yet. -- You do realize the point of intelligence gathering is to gather intelligence? 🤣 🤣 🤣

What if there are innocent lives at risk? -- There's always lives at risk! [...] If I have a shot at finding him, I'm taking it. -- Look, I want Ward as bad as you do. But I don’t think his life is worth yours or Bobbi’s. Which she proved in 2x22. Sadly, Hunter doesn’t feel the same way (other than in Bobbi’s case, obviously).

It’s okay to struggle, to feel uncomfortable in your own skin. -- I’m not one of your Inhuman patients, Dr. Garner. Funny you’d say that.

You’re safe now, Jemma. It’s over. -- You’re wrong. *dun dun dun*

And how many more like her are you hiding? -- That's not what we're doing. -- These people have problems! I'm not just gonna turn a blind eye and rubber-stamp them for your new team. Would this qualify as lashing out? 😏

What happened with you two? -- The reason Andrew left me had nothing to do with S.H.I.E.L.D. It's about me. Always has been. -- You're too hard on yourself. QFT.

I had a great time. -- So did I, until you fell off the face of the Earth. No calls, no texts. -- That had nothing to do with you. -- Please, don't give me the "it's not you, it's me" speech. Well, but it is him and not you. 😢

How did the ATCU not track him? He's one of their own. He's a government employee. -- You think the ATCU knew about him? -- Worse. What if they're running him? -- I think the conspiracy nut in you had a few too many lattes this morning.  🤣 Like probably every morning, doesn’t mean she’s wrong, being suspicious of the ATCU.

There's that first-name thing again...it's a dead giveaway. I mean, don't feel bad. She's sharp, attractive, head of a big, shady organization. -- I don’t like where this is going. -- You think I do? I would have pegged you for a Meldrew shipper more than Philinda at this stage, Daisy. Though I suppose the part where Rosalind is heading the shady organization tasked to “deal” with the “alien outbreak” can’t exactly endear her to you.

Be careful. It’s got a laser finger. Yes, Rosalind, he’s a dork. That’s why we love him.

You guys don't get it. You should be helping him, not hunting him. [...] Do you think he likes doing what he's doing? He doesn't. Ever since I turned, I feel like my skin is on fire and there's a jackhammer in my head. I wake up thinking that the pain will go away but it doesn't. The only thing that helps is when Lash does his thing, sends us freaks back to where we belong. I didn't want this. And I know I'm not the only one. Daisy must be loving it, hearing all this. 😥

Do you really have a laser finger? -- Sorry. It’s classified. And now he‘s flirting? Defcon 3?

He's driving me nuts, you know? The other day, he snapped at me just because I put a bio sample into a clear specimen bag. -- Clear? Well, "B" is for "blue" is for "biological”. You’re not winning this one, Bobbi.

Oh, I ain’t getting in the bloody boot! It stinks of rotten bananas in there. [...] Always in the bloody boot. Given it’s Kebo’s or Hydra’s car, I’m now (uncomfortably) wondering whether dead humans smell like rotten bananas. And Hunter has of course already had the pleasure of riding into a car boot way back in 2x02, courtesy of a pair of Talbot’s underlings.

I feel like we're driving in circles. -- I bet we are. Probably buying time for Mr.Banks [...] -- so he could get rid of anything "Roz" doesn't want us to see. -- Yeah, that, or he's prepping a cell for you. -- It's his funeral. Scoffing in the face of detainment (or worse). I can see why Mack misses his espresso machine.

You got a concussion, separated your shoulder. So of course he gets up and takes off his sling. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, I swear 🙄 🤣 

What’s up, D.? Second time in the episode Mack called her “D”. For the record and because I have a tiny tiny hope that a certain episode title for S7 refers to them, though I’ll probably be disappointed as usual. 😔 

I saw something. And I'm not sure, but I don't think Lash is just some great white shark. I think he can turn into a person. -- Wait a minute. You’re telling me that you saw him transform into a regular guy? I know this is important, too, but isn’t it even more curious that he didn’t even attempt to kill Daisy, Mack? Mull it over. And file it away for future reference.

May and Hunter have a lead on Ward. Sounds like a dodgy situation...Wait. They didn't tell you? I'm sorry. It's tough when people keep things from you. Reminder that Fitz wasn’t told the real reason Jemma left nor that Ward was in the basement.

I was hoping you were dead and Bobbi was coming for me. At least that rematch would have been more even. -- Hardly. I heard it took two of you after hours of torture. Indeed. Under normal circumstances, Bobbi would wipe the floor with anyone who doesn’t have combat-worthy superpowers or is not named May.

How many did you count? -- Eleven, including Ward. I’ve taken out five. -- Slow day? I’ll say, she didn’t even reach 50 %. 😁

Watching [Andrew] die like this isn't quite the same as, oh, let's say, holding the woman you love in your arms while she breathes her last breath. But, hey, it's the best I could do on such short notice. Don’t be modest, it’s a good plan. Please die soon. *counts the episodes he has left*. Right. Not soon enough.😩

He has a warehouse full of guns here that I brought him. A lot of people will die, May. Nice try, but nobody buys that you’re thinking of the “greater good” in this moment, Hunter.

Something happened to me, Fitz, on the other side. It's time I told you the truth about everything. Time to enable the blue light filter! 😁

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: How Strong the Habit of Idle Speech [1/2]

Rating: T Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Tags: Pre-Relationship, Developing Relationship, Mutual Pining Word Count: 3000 Summary: Crowley attempts to sleep off recent events. It's a form of self-defense. Aziraphale putters, and thinks, and finally acts. Takes place between the bus ride home from the apocalypse and ice cream in the park. Also on AO3. Notes: There's a second part to this somewhere. I've both reread the book and binged the show in the last week, so it seems likely that there's a general mixing of canon. Mandatory "I am not British and have no idea how well I am or am not mimicking some cadences of speech" warning. Title from The Country of the Pointed Firs and Other Stories, by Sarah Orne Jewett.

The television bathes the room in its flickering, vaguely offensive, bluish-white light; a low stream of sound, interspersed with swells of music and shouts of violence, issues from it; in his sleep, Crowley's foot twitches and resettles, stretching out toward Aziraphale, his head tipping further back against the arm of the couch. It doesn't look exactly comfortable, limbs that are usually so fluid and effortless strung tight instead: arms crossed, cramped, over his chest, one leg crossed over the other, and no pillow, even, between his back and the armrest.

He would have plenty of cushion if he'd just put his body the right way. There's a whole part of that side of the couch, however uncomfortable the black leather looks, that is meant for feet to go up on.

But there has been a lot of wine, and a lot of frantic planning, and a very long day before that, every moment of it testing them in some way. The energy of ethereal and occult beings is said to be infinite, but even Aziraphale is feeling a little drained. Here is the cost of rubbing elbows with humanity: your molecules eventually begin to think like theirs do.

Aziraphale is full of too much nervous energy to sleep, even so. Besides, one of them should keep a lookout, just in case tomorrow comes early.

The book in his hands was meant to occupy him. "Was hanging onto this, for...something," Crowley had said vaguely, producing it from a cleverly-hidden console table behind the couch when it became clear that Aziraphale could no more enjoy the television programme than he could dance the tango. "Can't remember. Have it."

And he'd thrust it forward in that casual way of his—here you are, it's nothing, don't thank me, first editions just magically appear when I ask them to—and Aziraphale had taken it, and said, "Thank you," without equivocating at all. Crowley had given him a long, measuring look, perhaps waiting for the expected equivocation.

It's not his usual fare. The Country of the Pointed Firs, Sarah Orne Jewett. American, very late nineteenth century—may as well be twentieth. But he sees the point, the appeal, especially at the time that Crowley would've fished it off a shelf somewhere. The pervasive sense of decay that suffuses it, the hardship. The loneliness.

Regardless of the flip commentary he has supplied for Crowley, Aziraphale does not actually think that this first edition just magically appeared. It has a certain truth, a certain wear, built into it.

He leaves it on the coffee table, beside his cup of tea, and moves quietly toward the study. Crowley doesn't stir.

Aziraphale makes himself useful. He begins with the congealed mess of destroyed demon on the floor, and returns what remains of the holy water to the thermos, screwing the cap on tight. All night the thought of it has needled him, but Crowley had said, "Don't mind the mess," and issued a certain look from behind his sunglasses that seemed to say, Today has been very long and we are going to deal with that later.

But Crowley is asleep, and has no opportunity to disapprove now. Aziraphale inspects the whole place, making certain that no drop of it remains anywhere that Crowley might accidentally step or sit or lay a hand.

He considers taking the thermos back. Miracling it away, far away, where only he will be able to find it. He could lie, claim that what was left was too polluted to use again, but he abandons this plan fairly quickly. He is sure that Crowley would see through it. Sure, too, that he has seen enough pain and contempt and suffering on Crowley's face these last few days to last—well, forever.

Polluted would not be a kind word to use, certainly.

So he screws the cap on tight and leaves it on the desk, significantly more empty than the last time it passed from his hands to Crowley's,1 and ensures to the best of his ability that Crowley will not be vaporized by stray droplets.

He allows himself to think on that. Allows himself to consider an Earth on which Crowley does not tread. It is a chilling place, he has realized, this hypothetical landscape. To him, anyway. Humans will go about and muck things up and perform minor miracles of their own, and that is still joyous, wonderful. Because Aziraphale loves humanity—more than he was meant to. It's not generalized enough, a kindly and paternal distance from them. It's up close and messy: he's coveted their food, glutted himself on their words, succumbed to the sloth of a long afternoon with their wine.

And still, it is not nearly as close and messy as the way he loves Crowley.

He waits, one step into a room verdant with houseplants, for someone to smite him for thinking about this so straight-on. He's done a good job of coming at it sideways, until now. Always have plausible deniability, that's how he's kept himself unsmote for millennia.

But no voice booms from the sky; he hasn't heard Her in a very long time, now. No searing light falls to make him into a pile of angel ash, conveniently opposite the location where demon goo recently resided. And he doesn't Fall, either, as far as he can tell.

This only cements the suspicion he's had, for some centuries now, a creeping thing that grew legs with time: that no one is really At The Wheel, so to speak, and even the angels who lovingly despise Aziraphale are not omniscient.

The plants are trembling, a thin and exhausted terror that has gone on all night. Crowley has been even more erratic than usual, and it's worked them into quite a state, wondering when the next judgment will fall on them. Aziraphale moves among them with the mister, calming them, repairing those that have come out in stress-spots so that they'll be safe from Crowley's wrath.2

When they've stopped shaking, and fallen back into their usual state of low-level unease, Aziraphale stays there among them, for a time. The hours left until dawn are an eye-blink. He feels its approach like an oncoming train, and wishes he could step out of the way. Stay in this microcosm created by a breath of reprieve, here in Crowley's flat, where Crowley is safe, and Aziraphale with him, forever.

Forever. Yes, that's what they're gambling for. The stakes are uncomfortably high when the alternative is or nothing.

He supposes that, if it comes to that, he won't know the difference. He will be nothing, after all. Absent entirely from existence. And maybe, centuries or millennia from now, he and Crowley won't even be a story that others tell. Everyone—angels, demons, the few involved humans and their professional descendants—will forget, and the two for whom it matters most won't be there to remind them.

His eyes sting. He allows it. Just like all their wonderful food, and complex music, and artless contraptions, there is something special about human emotion, even emotion dour as this. The nerves don't quite know where the hurt is coming from but know it's there all the same, and create a strong, centralized ache in his chest.

He returns to the sitting room, and from the doorway, he looks at Crowley. He's curled even tighter into the couch now, tucked snugly against the back of it, breathing deep and even. He doesn't snore.

Aziraphale miraculously finds a nice knit throw blanket in that console table and drapes it over Crowley. Softly, gently, so he won't wake. The sunglasses look like they're digging into his face, so Aziraphale leans over him and maneuvers them free.

He's almost made his escape when Crowley's eyes flicker open, and Crowley's hand reaches up—fast, but swerving, unsteady—to fasten around Aziraphale's wrist. Once there, his fingers tighten, relax again, but don't release. His eyes fix on Aziraphale's face. They narrow, a little. Not suspicious as much as squinting.

"Is it time already?" he mutters, words running together, some letters skipped.

"No," Aziraphale says. The ache in his chest has intensified. It is still painful, understand. But there is something else there, too, magnified by Crowley's fingers wrapped around his wrist, by the muzzy clarity of Crowley's yellow eyes fixed on his face.

It feels like dancing the gavotte. Breathless and joyful.

This can't be the end of all that. He simply won't let it.

"No," he repeats, "we have a few hours yet. I thought you looked uncomfortable."

Briefly, Crowley's fingers flex. Aziraphale can almost see their trajectory, their intent, though his imagination is probably running amok, is all: Crowley will pull Aziraphale's hand the scant distance to his lips, brush an absentminded kiss against the back, and let him go.3 But instead, with something like regret twisting his mouth, gathered around his eyes, Crowley releases him without doing any of that.

"So do you," he returns, a little clearer now. "Stop puttering and sit down."

"I was not puttering." But he does sit down, closer to Crowley than before; after all, he reasons, Crowley's legs are taking up nearly the entire couch, so there is nowhere else to sit except this spot, where legs really ought to go if legs must go on furniture at all.

"There'll still be a load of congealed demon on the ground if I turn around and look, then?" Crowley says, tipping his head back against the armrest again. His shoulders have lost a little of their tightly-curled tension. He closes his eyes, and smiles as he says the words.

Aziraphale is more familiar with Crowley's smirk, of course. It has featured a hundred, a thousand times more prominently in their long acquaintance. But he knows the smile, too, a thing that is still a trifle smug and sharp with mischief, but heartfelt.

"No," Aziraphale admits. "It was dangerous. You might've tripped."

Crowley's eyebrows go up. His eyes don't reopen. "Appreciate the concern."

Aziraphale smiles, too—quick, and looks away, as if he's at risk of being spotted.

But happiness, however bright, can maintain itself only so long when dread is waiting to re-establish itself, and Aziraphale feels that coldness take root again. That fear.

"I was thinking," he says, though really, he's been very careful not to think this particular kernel of thought through at all.

"Only thing to do while puttering," Crowley replies. "That's the problem with it."

Aziraphale ignores this. "We could just…go off. Enough distance, maybe they wouldn't follow. Too much of an inconvenience."

Crowley opens his eyes at this. Turns to look, slowly, at Aziraphale. His face is unfathomable.

"You think?" he asks, mildly.

"Alpha Centauri has been recommended to me." Aziraphale gives a feeble smile. "Might be nice."

They look at one another. It's easier to hold a gaze through discomfort than for humans, certainly, but it is not easy. Aziraphale, however, does not look away. He searches for some answer on Crowley's face.

"I should say no," Crowley says at last, one eyebrow raised. "Give you a taste of your own medicine."

"I suppose you should." Aziraphale clasps his hands together in his lap, the better to keep from fidgeting. In a more somber voice, he says, "I would deserve it."

Crowley shifts beside him with some low murmur of discontent in his throat, pulling himself a little further upright. "You've gone off-script, angel," he says. "You're supposed to remind me that you're here to thwart my wiles, and you can't thwart them if I'm here and you're on Alpha Centauri, so I have to come with you. You insist. For the cosmic balance of the universe."

"I think I'm a little tired of the script," Aziraphale says.

Crowley looks like...he looks a little like he did on the wall of the garden, so long ago, when he'd found out Aziraphale had given away the sword.

"That right?" Crowley says, with a threatening grin tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," Aziraphale says, and while Crowley can still be caught unawares, "I'm sorry, you know. For the things I said. They weren't true. And they were unkind."

"Shut up." The words are automatic, familiar, a defense that Aziraphale knows well, but Crowley's face softens even as he says them.

"Well, they were."

Crowley draws in a deep, heavy breath. "I knew you didn't mean it. Not really."

"I suppose you must have," Aziraphale says, "or you'd be on Alpha Centauri by now."

Thank God you knew, he thinks, but does not say; it is a matter of respect. Thank God, thank God, thank God you have always known me better than I have known myself.

Silence blooms. The problem with being off-script, Aziraphale reflects, is that he doesn't know what to do next. Bumbling his way forward in the dark like a human who's forgot his glasses and his torch and his sturdy boots, bound to stub a toe or three.

"I still have to say no," Crowley says, though he doesn't seem at all happy about it. "We've really mucked things up for them. Maybe Alpha Centauri was far enough from Armageddon-level mass chaos, but this is different. They'll hunt us now, wherever we go. They have a target, and they're not distracted by each other anymore."

Aziraphale lets out a sigh. "I suppose you're right. Should've gone while we had the chance."

"We should've, but it was stupid of me to ask." Crowley settles back against the armrest again, looking to the ceiling. "You would never leave Earth. You like the crêpes too much."

"You wouldn't, either," Aziraphale points out, ignoring this last.

"Not without you, at least," Crowley says, offhandedly enough to offset the sentimentality. Mostly.

It still puts Aziraphale's heart in his throat. This, too, he allows.

"But I couldn't stay, you know," he says, and he does not bother with offhandedness, "without you."

Crowley lets out a long, low breath. He doesn't look at Aziraphale, but Aziraphale sees something in his face, regardless: the briefest, smallest flicker of relief, before it's hidden again.

"Well," he muses, with half a smile, "that's something."

He still looks tired. Aziraphale would keep him up talking these last few hours, no matter how awkward, no matter how strange things have become, but they both need to rest, in their own ways, if they're to have any chance.

He wants that chance. They must make it count.

"If you don't mind, I think I'll sit here and read," he says, pulling the book back to him, and sitting back against the same armrest that Crowley sits back against.

Crowley sighs, and moves; he shifts away from the back of the couch and closer to Aziraphale instead. He shoots a pointed look upward, a question, unspoken.

"I think I'll go back to sleep," he says, and his eyes ask for permission. He waits. He has been waiting, Aziraphale understands, for a long, long time. "If you don't mind."

Aziraphale shifts his book to his right hand, and rests his left arm across the armrest. "Of course I don't, my dear."

Crowley takes his meaning. They have done a good job of that, over millennia of superficial words, but Aziraphale hopes they will have the opportunity to do better. Would get down on his knees and pray for it, if he didn't worry that would spoil the whole thing.

Crowley settles himself against Aziraphale with a contented breath, so quiet that only an angel would hear it. The weight of his body leans in; his head drops back against Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale can just barely feel the tickle of his hair, most of the product melted out of it, no energy left for a demonic miracle to keep it arranged just so.

And Aziraphale lowers his arm from the armrest, lets it drape loosely around Crowley's shoulders instead. Something that was strung tight within him seems to relax at that touch. They both seem to, a long settling that has been a long time coming.

"Have some faith," Crowley says, a touch wryly, which—after everything—is perhaps the strangest thing Aziraphale has heard in all this time. "This will work."

"Of course." It's just a matter of where he puts his faith, now. It cannot be in mysterious ways and ineffable plans. It was simpler, then. Still, he would not trade it. "Of course it will."

Crowley nods against his shoulder, and then makes a disgruntled noise in his throat. "Did you put a knit blanket on me?"

"You looked cold," Aziraphale says; he can't really help smiling.

Crowley grumbles, but he doesn't throw it off, and he doesn't change it to something that better matches the harsh decor of the flat; he lets it be. And shortly, his breath evens out against Aziraphale's throat, and his body warms beneath Aziraphale's arm, and Aziraphale reads with only half a mind and doesn't judge himself too harshly for it.

Footnotes

1. How often has that moment returned to him, in these, the end of all days? The echo of it felt every time that every time Crowley pressed him for more time? The disappointment deepening, and hardening, and hurting, with every No Aziraphale forced himself to speak?

2. If only they knew that Crowley's wrath actually meant that they got to live with Aziraphale instead. Aziraphale doesn't dare tell them; they're Crowley's houseplants, and it seems to Aziraphale that this is not an area in which his Thwarting of Wiles is required. Besides, he likes best to have only one or two or at most three plants at a time. Any more would just infringe upon his bookkeeping.

3. A long love of literature can really only make a person one thing: romantic. Angels are not immune. Nor are demons, come to think of it, if you can get them drunk enough to listen to a bit of T.S. Eliot when they're too inebriated to loudly protest.

Go to Part 2.

[storyunrelated]

Leaflets

This was another old thing (2016) that I found on the desktop, clearly done after I’d come back from a funeral. I forget which one.

Which is kind of sad, if you think about it.

Leaflets

The sound of the door closing seemed much louder in an empty house.

Sighing, Clive shrugged off his coat and hung it up. He dragged his feet as he moved down the hallway to the little rickety table that lived there. His feet ached, otherwise he wouldn’t have dragged them. There had been a lot of standing in the church, outside of the church, on the overcrowded train on the way to the church, a long walk to get to the train to get to the church. His feet ached.

Fishing in his pocket he dumped his keys out onto the hall table, followed by the programme from the service. He frowned. Was it called a programme? You got those for plays, he thought. An order of service, maybe? Or was that weddings? It didn’t seem right to think of it as a leaflet or a pamphlet or a booklet. You got those when you were trying to buy a new bathroom or wanted to visit a hedge maze. Still frowning, he picked it up again.

On the cover his friend smiled up at him. It was a smile from a while ago, but it was still a good smile; shining out in spite of the patchy, low quality photograph his family had chosen. He could see why they’d picked this one. A genuine smile, made him feel warmer just to look at it.

Sniffling, he leafed through it again.

He had a few of them now, whatever they were – booklets, pamphlets, leaflets. Each such service he went to he always went away with one. Had only been one or two for what felt like years but now they were piling up around the house.

There was nothing to say he shouldn’t throw them away but he really couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought of seeing that smile disappear into a bin never to be seen again was too much. It was bad enough knowing the owner of the smile had already gone out of the world.

Wiping his nose on the back of his suit sleeve he put the leaflet down again and slumped off to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. It wouldn’t pay to dwell on melancholy things. It was all part and parcel of living, couldn’t be helped. Best to just accept it and continue on as best you could.

He thought this to himself, but it didn’t make him feel better about it.

Taking out a mug and setting it on the side he jiggled the kettle to see how full it was and, judging it sufficiently full, flicked it on. As it started to bubble and pop to itself Clive stared out through the kitchen window. It needed a wipe. Then again, so did just about everything in his house. It was hard to care. He didn’t invite anyone anymore anyway.

Didn’t have that many people left to invite.

The window was at least clean enough to let him see the bungalow across the street. The garden in front was little more than a patch of bare, parched grass baking itself to oblivion in the sun and the bungalow itself was silent and dark.

He remembered there had been a woman who had lived there. He’d only seen her a few times, waved to her more than once. Back then the garden had been beautiful, full of flowers. Not like it was now.

He hadn’t seen her in a while, he realised.

With a click the kettle finished.

Pulling the last teabag from the bottom of a crumpled box and dropping it into the mug Clive filled it up to the brim, gave it a perfunctory stir with a teaspoon that had been marinating in the bottom of his sink before lifting the bag out to join the others in a mouldy heap by the taps. He had no milk.

Blowing on the tea to try and make it a little more comfortable to drink Clive settled himself down into the far corner of his sofa in his front room. He would have sat in the chair, but he didn’t feel like it.

The original purpose of the chair had been to face the television, but with that gone he didn’t really see the point in it anymore. Any seat in the room was now as good as any other seat. It wasn’t as if he had to fight over anyone for space now.

A thought struck Clive, even as he did his best to focus on nothing other than the murky brew in the chipped mug clasped in his hands.

If he held on the longest out of all his friends and everyone he knew, there’d be no-one left to have his leaflet or booklet or brochure. He’d have all of theirs, but there’d be no-one to have his.

He’d have an empty, filthy house littered with their smiling, faded faces and when the time came for his to be handed out there’d be no-one to give them to. No-one even around to pick out the best grainy, fuzzy picture of him, the one where he seemed to be smiling best. There wouldn’t be anyone.

He blinked.

He wasn’t sure what he thought about that.

Something dripped into his tea, and it was only then that Clive realised he was crying.

[lostinatrainofthoughts]

so a little update on my life!

back in dec, i applied to waseda for a student exchange programme. i was the only student chosen to apply there! so i was happy. however when i submitted my application, apparently my home uni did this mistake of not foreseeing the cgpa requirement of waseda properly (theirs is out of 4 and ours is 5) and confidently assumed that my cgpa was more than sufficient. but once converted, i fell 0.2 short of the requirement 🙃 so i got rejected even after appealing 🙃 i did not have any back-up unis i applied to (and the deadline for admission to most unis abroad then were closed) so i got transferred to bufs in busan. i was so angry at my uni for their mistake for the longest time. i really wanted to go to a japan uni and i was left w no choice but to go to somewhere i didnt want to go. i found it infuriating that they would send me to where i dont even know the language basics and its not even the city centre. but anyway. eventually, i tried to accept my fate and tried my best to find reasons to look forward going there. things are looking promising (i hope). and now thats left is to wait for my cert. of admission n fix my visa and we're good to go by the end of feb. ✈

[douchebagbrainwaves]

I'VE BEEN PONDERING IDEA

Once you cross the threshold of profitability, however low, your runway becomes infinite. And while founders may not have been exposed to that.1 Now, they said no—that they'd just spent four months dealing with investors, and we bet money on that advice.2 Undoubtedly TV helped Kennedy, so historians are correct in regarding this election as a watershed. We've had startups that were profitable on revenues of $3000 a month. Since no one can be proven wrong, every opinion is equally valid, and sensing this, everyone lets fly with theirs. But I don't think corp dev got the memo, he replied. So being hard to talk to. Practically every successful startup, including stars like Google, presented at some point to investors who didn't get it and turned them down.3 The current record holder for flexibility may be Daniel Gross of Greplin. Some of the more unscrupulous do it deliberately.

I hope that as startups get cheaper and the number of investors increases, raising money will become, if not easy, at least in the software business. Explain what you're doing.4 Often they are, we have some idea what secrecy would be worse than patents, just that it's the only one left after the efforts of the two parties cancel one another out. To my surprise, they said, the absolute fastest they could get code released on the production servers before lunch. It's now possible for VCs and startups to diverge. Why? It sounds a good deal less benevolent to say we ought to reduce the rate at which new companies are founded. The phenomenon is like a small boat in the open sea. Or the company that would be the best supplier, but doesn't bid because they can't spare the effort to get verified. The startup world became more transparent and more unpredictable. He wasn't, and he suffered proportionally.

If you write the laws very carefully, that is. It's good to talk about how you plan to make money, but mainly because it shows you have the discipline to keep your expenses low; but above all, it means you don't need them. Undoubtedly TV helped Kennedy, so historians are correct in regarding this election as a watershed. That's a problem for VCs, most of whom are not particularly imaginative. As a rule, any mention of religion on an online forum degenerates into a religious war, because so many programmers identify as X programmers or Y programmers. This quality may be redundant though; it may be that reducing investors' appetite for risk doesn't merely kill off larval startups, but taxed away all other surplus wealth? But cluttered sites are bad anyway, so perhaps you should use this opportunity to make your software compatible with some other piece of software—in eight months, at enormous cost.

Joel Spolsky recently spoke at Y Combinator about selling software to corporate customers. They'd turn down the nerds in favor of the smooth-talking MBA in a suit, because that investment would be easier to justify later if it failed. The reason raising money destroys so many startups' morale is not simply that it's hard to predict, till you try, how long it will take. If you're hard enough to sell to is not that you overpay but that the best ones actually prefer to work hard. It turns out there is, and the time preparing for it beforehand and thinking about it afterward. But if you don't, a low initial offer will demoralize you and make you easier to manipulate. That can be very demoralizing. When Steve and Alexis auctioned off their old laptops for charity, I bought them for the Y Combinator application that would help us discover more people like him. Not as a way to make the right choices, but to make choices that can be justified later if they fail. So if you have hot prospect, either close them now or write them off. More often than not it makes it harder. They won't be offended.

To make sure, they were moving to a cheaper apartment. He wasn't, and he did. Perhaps it was even simpler than they thought. If you can come up with surprising new ideas. Building physical things is expensive and dangerous. And if the answer is yes. The worst case scenario is the long no, the no that comes after months of meetings.

Notes

You also have to be a founder; and with that of whatever they copied. Beware too of the most successful founders is exaggerated now because it's a proxy for revenue growth.

I know, Lisp code.

Whereas many of the venture business barely existed when they got to the year x in a difficult position. If you seem like noise.

Whereas when you're starting a startup. The moment I do, just try to disguise it with such abandon.

[sallyidss]

A Glitch in the (Ray Tracing) Matrix

Summary: Bruce Banner has a particular set of skills…

Tags: Bruce Banner & Peter Parker, Humor, Super Mariokart, Video Game Mechanics (a little), Bruce Banner kicks ass, Crackfic? Idk

Notes: For Day 2 of Bruce Banner Appreciation Week!

(AO3 link)

Tony, Peter and Clint were enjoying a rainy Sunday afternoon of chips, beer (soda for Peter) and Super Mariokart, when Bruce entered the common area to find a snack before returning to his lab.

“What are you guys playing?” he asked, approaching the seating area and opening a bag of freeze-dried blueberries that he’d taken a liking to since Tony had introduced him to them.

“‘What are we playing’?” Peter was incredulous. “Dr. Banner, you don’t know about Super Mariokart?”

Bruce observed the TV for a moment. “Looks like just a racing game.”

“I mean yeah, it basically is. But it’s so much more! Check this out.” Peter launched a red shell at Tony’s character, knocking him off the side of the track. Tony swore loudly.

“Why don’t you take a break, Bruce?” said Clint. “We’ll teach you to play.”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. I’ll probably just embarrass myself.”

All three of them started encouraging him to join them.

“No, it’ll be fun!”

“Come on, take a break for a bit.”

“I bet you can learn to kick Mr. Stark and Mr. Barton’s butts in no time.”

“Now hold up, kid.” Clint looked mock-serious. “Bruce is good at a lot of things. He’s the smartest person I know—”

“Hey!” Tony protested.

“But this game isn’t about brains. It’s about wit, and skill. You and Tony almost never beat me. What makes you think Bruce will?”

Peter shrugged. “He’s a fast learner.”

Tony turned to Bruce. “Whaddya say, Bruce? Care to give it a shot?”

Bruce looked noncommittal. “I don’t know, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do in my lab.”

“It’s Sunday!” Tony beckoned him over to the couch. “Live a little.”

Bruce hesitated, but finally gave in. “Alright. But you guys have to be patient with me until I get the hang of it.”

“Fine.” Tony moved over to make room for Bruce, and handed him his own controller. “You versus Clint.”

“Alright! This should be easy.” Clint looked rather smug. “Fifty bucks says I can lap him by the end of the race.”

“You’re on,” Tony readily replied. “I’ve got a little more faith in him than that. I say you beat him by less than half a lap.” He turned to Peter. “You want in? You can bet five bucks or something. How much do you think Clint will beat Banner by?”

Peter thought a moment. “My money’s on Dr. Banner.”

Tony and Clint burst out laughing. Bruce just looked uncomfortable.

“Someone has to put a bet on him. It would be mean not to.”

“Thanks, Peter,” Bruce said with a kind smile. “I’ll pay you back any money you lose.”

Clint shrugged at Peter’s reckless bet. “Alright, your loss. Pony up, you two, let’s see it.”

Peter and Tony opened up their wallets and pulled out five and fifty dollars, respectively. Clint added his fifty dollars to theirs and put it on the table.

“OK, Peter, how does this work?”

Peter gave him a quick rundown of the controls, and explained the most common items. “Other than that, just go fast! And don’t fall off the edge of the track.”

Clint brought up the screen for him and Bruce to choose their characters and karts. Peter walked Bruce through it, advising him to pick the Tanooki Mario character. Clint chose his trusty favourite, Yoshi.

The intro music to the race began playing, the camera panning around to show off the features of the track.

“This looks…complicated.” Bruce seemed even more uncertain than before. “Sorry, Peter. You probably should have bet against me.”

“It’s alright, it’s only five bucks. But I have faith in you!”

Tony snorted.

The starting signal sounded, and the race began. Yoshi shot forward in a rocket start. Bruce pressed the wrong button and Tanooki Mario started driving backward.

“No, no, press Y to go forward! Y!” shouted Peter.

“Right. Sorry!” Bruce finally started driving in the right direction, but was swerving badly. Clint was already very far ahead. Peter groaned.

By the top of the second lap, Bruce was still in last place, and Clint in first.

“Dr. Banner, you’re supposed to hit the question blocks, not avoid them! That’s where the items are!”

“Hey, no helping him, kid, that’s cheating,” said Tony.

“Bah, let him,” said Clint. “He could use the help.”

But halfway through the second lap, something strange happened.

Tony blinked. “Wait—Banner, did I just see you do a power glide? Pete, you didn’t tell him about that.”

“Yes he did.” Bruce spoke up for the first time since the start of the race. “Last week. The same day he showed me how to draft.” Suddenly, Tanooki Mario sped forward in a burst of speed after drafting behind Dry Bones, the computer character in second last place. “But I found this glitch in the track on my own when we were playing two days ago.”

“Glitch?” both Tony and Clint asked at once.

Suddenly Tanooki Mario did a hard skid around a corner, but just before spinning out, he veered toward the edge of the track, falling off toward the water. But instead of being rescued by Lakitu’s fishing line, he fell into the water…and materialized on the track in sixth place, up from eleventh place a second ago.

“What the hell?” Clint shouted.

Tony’s jaw dropped. “What in god’s name just happened? Banner, what the hell did you do?”

“Well,” began Bruce, maddeningly calm despite the sudden turn in his fortune, “when I was playing this course with Peter the other day, I noticed that the way the ray tracing was done in that section of the track had light rays from two origin points intersecting.” Tanooki Mario picked up a Torpedo Ted item, which, well, torpedoed him from sixth place to fourth. “I hazarded a guess that it was a transition point between two consecutive sections of the course. These kinds of video game levels are usually coded in section blocks.” A carefully-aimed green shell from Tanooki Mario sent Bowser spinning out of control, bringing Bruce to third place. (“How did he do that with a green shell?” shouted an incredulous Clint.) Bruce continued: “A bit of reading showed me that programmers will often optimize a game by leaving those transition points empty, meaning the regular game physics don’t apply.” Tanooki Mario was rapidly gaining on Waluigi, the character in second place, and soon he was the perfect distance away for drafting. “With a bit of practice, I figured out how to aim at the invisible line separating the two sections of the course, which teleported me about a quarter of the way around the track. To the beginning of the next section block.” Tanooki Mario blasted past Waluigi thanks to his well-timed drafting. Bruce was now in second place. “Really, it was just observation, and a cursory knowledge of physics and linear algebra. No wit required.” He gave Clint a brief sidelong look.

Tony nudged Peter on the shoulder a little harder than necessary. “You guys hustled us!”

“I beg to differ,” said Peter. He smiled deviously. “I don’t recall Dr. Banner actually saying he didn’t know how to play. You two just assumed he couldn’t.”

Tony frowned, clearly dissatisfied with that answer. He turned back to the race. It was close, but Clint was still ahead.

“You’re still in first place, Barton. It’s too late to lap him. But if you win by less than half a lap, I win my bet. Don’t screw it up, and I’ll give you twenty bucks back from your bet.”

“Deal.”

But two thirds of the way through the third lap, Bruce landed three red shells from an item block. As both Tony and Clint emitted a long, comical “Nooooooo!” Bruce released the shells with perfect timing, sending Yoshi skidding off a ramp and into the water as Tanooki Mario glided past him and crossed the finish line in first place with an easy lead.

Bruce dropped his controller like a mic and held one hand out to the side, high-fiving Peter without even looking. He and Peter stood up, gathering the $105 from the coffee table.

“Your original five back,” said Bruce, handing the bill to Peter, “and your half of the spoils.” He gave him one of the fifty dollar bills.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Peter replied.

Tony hadn’t spoken yet. He was giving Clint a murderous stare. Clint was still staring at the TV screen in disbelief, his mouth agape.

“Pizza?” Bruce asked Peter, waving his fifty in an offer to pay.

“Pizza,” echoed Peter. They left the room together.

The click of the door closing snapped Clint out of his daze. He turned and pointed an accusatory finger at Tony.

“You.”

“Excuse me?” Tony batted Clint’s finger away from his face. “ You were playing. Where was your ‘wit’ and ‘skill’?”

“He’s your best friend. How could you not tell he was hustling you?”

“Hustling us,” Tony was quick to clarify. “And anyway, I had the most reasonable bet. You only had to beat him by a second, tops, and I would’ve won!”

“No one can dodge three red shells in a row, Tony.”

“Hnh,” was Tony’s noncommittal reply.

“That Peter,” began Clint. “He’s having a bad influence on Banner. I’m sure this whole hustle was his idea.”

Tony gave him a sidelong look. “I think you’re right. We should keep an eye on them when they’re together.”

“Or they’ll have more laughs at our expense.”

“Right.” Tony looked back at the door through which Bruce and Peter had just left.

“I’m also a little hungry…” Clint began.

“We should start keeping an eye on them right away. You never know what they might get up to without supervision.”

“Think we can catch them before they leave for pizza?”

“You just want pizza,” Tony accused.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

They looked at each other for a second. Then without warning, they both jumped up from the couch at exactly the same time and headed for the door.

“Fri, tell our scammers to wait in the lobby.”

“So how are we going to get them back?” asked Clint as they stepped into the elevator.

“I’m working on it.” Tony crossed his arms and regarded Clint with narrowed eyes. “I’m thinking physics lessons. For you.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you had more knowledge of video game physics and less of that ‘wit’ you were going on about, you would’ve won. You have only yourself to blame, really. First lesson tomorrow, nine a.m.? Linear algebra refresher.”

“Stark, I swear to god,” Clint threatened as the elevator doors closed.

[pangurbanthewhite]

I think the thing that makes me angriest as a user and a programmer is that tumblr lied. Tumblr straight up lied. “Classic art” isn’t being exempted from this ban of theirs’. Bare-chested men aren’t being exempted. Erotica sure as fuck isn’t gonna be exempted if their own announcement post got flagged.

And they had to know this! This was in the works and just got rushed out a little ahead of schedule! So they wrote up this outline of their new policy to us that can best be described as a wishlist or the next epic fantasy story with the knowledge that no way was their algorithm sophisticated enough to pull it off and they put it in front of us anyway. They pissed down our backs, told us it was raining, and then flagged us for even using the word “piss”. 

Blatant, shameless lying is one of the things that makes me angriest. 

[sole-cuore-amore-e-droga]

Tel Aviv 2019: Straight outta Estonia to Eurovision with a lowkey tribute to Avicii soundwise I guess

I’m not one of those people to go all their way out to overdefend Eesti Laul as “THE most diverse NF to ever exist songwise”, but even I was disappointed in this sudden rush of radiofriendly pop music that I would rather refuse to describe if I had to endure any of them ever again all at once this year. Remember - Netta won with being CRAZY! Why can’t Estonia be CRAZY even more! Was this secretly a bigger demand from the new producers or so that Estonia would need to out-radiofriendly the Latvians whose goal actually was to find a good radiofriendly song that’s enough for qualification????

Also, I kind of wanted to watch Eesti Laul, but I haven’t really settled with it, as I didn’t have enough patience to watch it one time it wasn’t on Saturday (!!). Even with Eesti Laul usually taking the live tweets from foreign fans into account and displaying some of them on the national Estonian television for good measure. And often showcasing their weirdness through crude animations every so often. But I already saw my Twitter timeline being full of that stuff, and for that I’m happy.

I did have some favourites despite being tired of all this pop stuff, and one of them was the ever-so-gender-ambiguous INGER (I say so cuz I thought it was a guy, turns out it’s a she, yeah), and I kind of wanted to see her win after the lowkey last minute interest towards her? But the televote didn’t seem to want any of it during the final public say, and didn’t even want Kerli (not the Spirit Animal Kerli) through despite of her being “hot” (are we now choosing ESC NF winners based on their looks??? tighten up ffs). Instead the final’s televote thought it’d be a good idea to fuck up the international jury’s expectations by putting through an act that got 2(!!!!!) finalised points from them jurors overall and making it win the superfinal. That televote 12 the act got beforehand was just enough for the guy to last-minute qualify over another act of 14 overall points, and who knows, maybe if it wasn’t for that 12, the winner would’ve been someone else. But it didn’t and we have a last minute qualifier victory because televote superfinal is a thing.

And in the literal sense of the way Estonian minds thought their victor that was unfairly treated by the juries was a Swedish singer Victor Crone and his song “Storm”, which was written by the one and only Stig Rastafarian~ err I mean Rästa. Stig is one mythical human creature that never rests a minute without really wanting to appear in the Estonian delegation somewhere every year - whether as all by himself, with someone else, as a songwriter for someone else, or even as part of a band (remember Traffic, anyone? Now that I think of it, the whole band looks like a puppet-act just for Stig to get to Eurovision and the other band members didn’t even want any of it in the first place). Just exactly what is Stig’s aim here? To "take it back to Tallinn”? To meet new people in Europe because he’s too lazy to travel otherwise? To boast about the many Estonian entries he contributed to? Beats me.

That and Victor Crone being Swedish, therefore a man more suited to Melodifestivalen (where he actually once participated in) and only on Eesti Laul because Stig really wanted to save his voice for this one and tag some randomer along with him just for the sake of yearly input to Eesti Laul. Well, at least Victor is historically joining Sahlene and Sandra Oxenryd as “a Swede represending Estonia for a year because what do we know for the Estonians that weren’t chosen instead”. Let’s check his song out.

First and foremost, as the title obviously states, the song reminds me of the late Avicii’s music style, especially around 2012-2013, when he was just starting to get bigger post-”Levels”-release. Just with a bit more singing surrounding the song because... well, maybe to fill up the song some more in order to not look awkward on stage during an instrumental part of the drop being as long as would be one you hear on the radio.

Then he has this easy-listening generic male radio voice that the audiences can not necessarily reasonate with, but it’s memorable, together with the chorus, whose purpose is to be memorable - you don’t need no message that’s special, you just need a melody to hum in your head for the next few weeks, and that’s basically what Stig was able to achieve with this little ditty. Then there’s the amazingly easy song structure: verse - chorus - verse - (extended) chorus - bridge - chorus (+ song ending). That’s a structure that works on basic songs to make them more user-consumption-friendly and not too overbearingly dragged out. And I enjoy it, just like I did “Light Me Up” last year, which was also sung by a mediocre-live-vocalist-Swede that could have easily ended up 6th in Melodifestivalen edition with such song, sadly. I do acknowledge that it’s basic, but I enjoy it.

The problem the Eurofandom finds with this song is that it’s too basic of a song from Eesti, Victor’s proven himself to be a dull live singer, and the chorus rhymes “like this” with “like this”, and all the self-rhymes are automatically shite. And it’s fine if a song I like has its flaws, but it automatically worries me that its live potential is automatically down the drain because of the singer’s lack of vocal compassion or strenght. That begs the question, why choosing THAT kind of song if it’s totally going to underperform live in Eurovision if the singer wasn’t sick in the NF at the time???

...oh I get it now, you Estonians must have thought Stig deserves another year in the Estonian greenroom. Or you found Victor hot. Or you find it great that a song about a storm actually was originally staged to look like Victor’s in a storm. At least for the televiewers’ eye. Because all that they see in the real arenas is the singers’ backs if they don’t turn around in time.

With visuals like these, why even need a music video! (except that there already is one, look at the beginning of the review)

All in all, all condiments are there: just the sugar, spice and everything nice there’s needed for a song like this to break a fandom like this. You can practically smell the Hesburger grease from this song. I don’t care if that’s a bad thing - if you like the song, that’s fine, just shut up and enjoy... but if you dislike it, welp, there’s no way I can change your mind then.

And a random backing singer. Not that she’s helpful as the one for Ott Lepland or anything, she just strikes like thunder and leaves no lasting impact whatsoever.

Greta Salóme’s imaginary cousin, is that you????

Now excuse me while I contradict and repeat myself some more in the next few paragraphs:

Approval factor: As you might have seen me shading Elina a lot last year, I can safely say that at last I’m spared from her vocal practice entrapped in a porcelain-and-silk dressing!!! I like “Storm” myself so I’ll sheepishly approve the hell out of it, lolol. :-)

Follow-up factor: I would be lying if I didn’t say that after a risky-ish way to get all out opera and then coming back to a safe song after doing well with that opera number weren’t a complete nosedive into an empty pool. Subjectively it flows way better for me, but objectively, and the same could be, once again, said for Eesti Lawl [sic] 2019, it is rather interesting of a letdown? But hey, maybe it was finally time for the Estonians to chillax a bit and cave in to send an Estonian-Swedish pop number after the opera stuff, after the 80s synthpop stuff, after the smooth and slightly orchestrated and a little bluesy number, and heart-grabbing ballads... just so they could keep up their ‘variety’ in case Hungary runs out of ideas and starts sending cop-outs of themselves. They already did it with rehashing one artist and one lyrical idea already this year (the catch is that the father’s alive!), honestly. And oddly enough, they have yet to send something a little more modern/electro-influenced that appeals to the common crowd... (”Running” may not count because not everyone can relate, whereas there are more cases of broken-off love (as if in the other half being a heartbreaker or the first half missing the other half so much that they feel “incomplete” than abusive fathers. Just what I think there is? If I’m wrong I obviously expect to be @’ed in the replies section lol) For this conclusion though I’ll say that my opinion says it’s a ‘’’decent’’’ follow up, but for Eurofans, it’s not very much so of such, idk.

Qualification factor: you may think it’s dead while going to perform in between the more badass entries AND mediocre live vocals, but it won’t at least be the worst Stig entry to ever place - around 14th in the semi at the very worst and maybe in the lower half of top 10 at very best imo. Nothing more, nothing less.

NATIONAL FINAL BONUS

I actually barely even bother with Eesti Laul since they don’t accept my Twitter comments live on their television anyways. Say, were there any Twitter comments live on their television this year? No one on Twitter boasted about it if they saw theirs from what I’ve seen, but what I’ve definitely found from the eager Eesti Laul watchers were some casual and usual Estonian oddities thrown on the broadcast, such as:

• The soft and warm but also random and deranged yearly transitional postcard animations (that were refered to as “crude” earlier in this review), which I commonly know now as “my last two braincells”. Even if the graphical theme itself of this year’s Ee-Lawl were oddly-shaped birds coming out in forms of letters, they didn’t really show up much in the broadcast I suppose, and the best fuckery with my mind this year definitely happened when I saw some of THOSE pop up on my Twitter timeline:

We now return to your regularly scheduled news programm~ wait why are you saying that the scheduled programme should be Eesti Laul

• Even if the most acts themselves weren’t that kooky musically, they were obviously interesting performance-wise. We were greeted with an impulsively quirky crazy cat lady Kaia Tamm who bemoaned the absence of the fluffy creatures in German somehow (you know Germany’s a terrible track-record keeper when the only song in German this year featured on Estonia and the only German in Eurovision this year was gonna be sung by an Ukrainian entrant if she was alowed to), as if a song in full Italian from last year wasn’t enough. Not only did she dress up as Alice in Wonderland with kitty ears, but her costumed dancers were entertaining, the violinist was FIRE and a cute large teddy bear looked cute on stage. Not to mention, someone have rightfully noticed that some costumed felines in the audience looked like as if they were to kill someone:

• Lumevärv too is an interesting thing. Never forgetting Lumevärv. This Inga woman, the fiery orangehead she was, used her 3 minutes on stage the best possible way with dancing with her back turned on at the audience and only looking at the camera, while millions of lights (which is sadly not what the songtitle "Milline päev" means) shone in the audience, creating an amazing mood.

• Hey everyone, the 10 years challenge is back! This time it’s with the violin virtuousess(???) Sandra Nurmsalu, the lead of Urban Symphony, who deserved much more than a 3rd place. Unfortunately the Estonians did not bring her back to get her desired revenge, which meant that they thought that they woodn’t need no magic tale fairy that’d grant them tree wishes and let her magic wand our out the wondrous [sic] sawdust. I’m already seeing myself out for how terrible this sounded. And it’s a bit saddening about this not doing as well as some hoped, considering she would have brough out the new and the better Jacques Houdek teas:

• Other favourite act of mine from this year, besides the aforementioned “ever-so-gender-ambiguous-looking INGER” with her indie-folk jingle “Coming Home”, was the charming disco-haired Sissi Nylia Benita with a wholesomely radio bop “Strong”, and they both actually looked like they stood a chance in the superfinal vote-up now that the actual Eesti Laul fan favourites, pretty cute pop boys like piano-indie-pop-driven Stefan and electro-pop-and-Kirkorov-driven Uku Suviste, were not receiving enough support by the juries I guess??? I’ll show a video to INGER if anything and link you all to the rest so you could judge these young and beautiful souls to yourselves in a way!

• Other note-worthy acts include another song about the notorious instrument horsefly in Ee-Lawl’s history that stood even less chance than “Parmupillihullus” but is still fun regardless, and the united forces of Tanja (EE 2014) and Birgit (EE 2013) trying to compose a bigband talk show anthem and dedicating the lyrics for them being ladies with their high heels out on. And honestly, that’s all I’m gonna talk of acts-wise because most other songs were THAT of a radiofriendly-radio-filler that they don’t warrant anything else exciting for me to say.

• No but for real, the voting to the superfinal was completely off-rails. Instead of Victor, juries were there to support that Kerli woman that wasn’t from 2017 (and her soft acoustic song too), as well as Sissi and INGER (but you already know that because I barely read my write-ups before I finish them, hence lots of redundancy). At least that’s all to my knowledge. But everything definitely changed when the televote attacked! And turned the top 3 all male, lol. This voting was rather random simply because the juries didn’t really love Victor, but it definitely took the televote to convince them that “lol Victor is definitely worth of Eurovision!!! screw that he’s non-Estonian!!!” (the difference is that Victor doesn’t have a big social media following unlike Bilal and didn’t win an obnoxiously people-powered talent show unlike USNK from A Dal 2018 - it’s just that he’s more backed by Stig Rästa, and Stig is love, Stig is life.) Honestly, I am all up for unpredictable voting, but if it looks unpleasant to me, then I feel like tuning out.

We’re over with this write-up, thank-fuck-fully, so that you won’t need to hear me lamenting how supposedly cheap “Storm” is ever again. But before that I will have to leave you with some Eurovision 2019 facts coming on: Estonian delegation can be lucky for once - instead of having had to panic for spending an egregious amount of money for a staging detail, this year they don’t have to worry, as the organizers were so shook by Victor’s stormy sky effect, they offered to pay for it themselves!!! Crazy, huh??? (reported for favouritism)

And now I’m done. And we’re moving on to another review and I end up wishing Victor Crone the every best of luck out there. Storm out with a good time well spent! (Whatever that might mean.)

[sincerely-chaos]

coming to one's senses fucking hurts

In the last few weeks, I’ve come to three realisations.

The first one is my far the nicest one; I now know for certain what kind of therapy I'd like to get a degree in.

The second one followed a few weeks later, and is a direct continuation of the first; I'm most likely never be able to persue a degree in therapy, both due to economical, administrative and work related reasons.

Which leads me to the third and final realisation; I'm not going to get much further in my choosen professional direction. I'm stuck in the no-mans-land of having more skills, training and experience than my job actually requires, but not enough formal merits to allow me to practise several of those skills/methods officially. The funny thing is, I still get to teach people above my skill level. I'm just not... an equal, clinically speaking. I get to do more things than most of my colleagues with the same title, and am even sometimes encouraged to do so, but at times when I do, it creates a kind of dissonance where people don’t know quite how to address the work I do, or where it gets awkward (like when the psychologists who are doing their clinical placement at the clinic assumed they'd walked into the wrong room for the weekly meeting where new patients are discussed, simply because I was already in that room, and why would I be there...?).

I might as well add a fourth realisation, albeit a less factual and more emotional one; I feel like I’ve kind of gotten myself backed into a corner, and where I have no idea how to continue moving in any direction. And also; it hurts. Because psychiatry is what I jokingly refer to as "The love of my fucking life", and while my patients are beyond amazing, and the work I get to do with them is still the best thing, as well as teaching, consulting and mentoring, amongst many of my colleagues, I will be respected for my skills and knowledge, but I will not ever, due to lack of formal merits and the difference in titles, be a automatically included in many parts of the clinical work that I somehow thought I might one day be able to be, at least to a greater degree than I am at this point. My assessments or suggestions will never carry the same weight as theirs, and it could be argued (although no one has ever voiced such thing to me) that I shouldn't even make certain assessments or arguments during discussions, given the different roles we have.

To summarise; I will most likely never be able to go much further in the direction I want to, and it means that I'm pretty much left where I am at the moment, perhaps with some more special assignments and even more teaching (which is great, but it’s not moving me in the direction I had wanted to go). What I have is still more than one might expect, and something I value, but it still somehow hurts, knowing that I have no idea where to go from here, or if it’s even possible to go anywhere I would actually want to go from where I am now.

All this should have been obvious to me in August, when I almost-but-not-quite got in to the therapy programme I had applied to, which meant I had to wait two years for next chance to apply, but at that point some of my merits would have "expired", giving me less chance than this year. Still; I looked for other possibilities, and it took another four months for me to finally come to my senses and reach these conclusions.

Well. It was going to hurt whenever it happened anyway...

On top of this, I finally had to face the fact that for this one person I wanted to matter to, I will never be who I wanted to be, and he will never be what he tries so hard to be. We're both stuck with some deficits that we try our best to obscure from everyone, and he's doing a far better job at it than I ever have, but now I’ve seen the cracks, he will somehow never really be comfortable with me again. I’ve gradually begun to let most of my cracks just be there for most people to see if they choose to look closely enough, not trying to cover them, because it costs too much, and I somehow have begun to appriciate the dual consequences of allowing myself to be that vulnerable. I don’t think that's ever been an option for him. Not one he’s been willing to make, at least.

That’s the real frailty of genius. The fact that it costs, and that it’s uneven, and that the one thing some of the most brilliant people I’ve known fear the most is for someone to see how it’s neither even nor effortless, and least of all flawless. That it’s a paradox of being incredibly skilled at some things, while lacking in others.

He was good enough at obscuring that it took a while for me to truly catch on. And I was observant enough for him to find it interesting to work with me, but it seems there are some things he'd rather I wasn't that observant about. Well; it takes one to know one. I know what to look for. It’s not a trained eye; it’s recognition, a reflection of what I’ve been trying not to give away myself. Inconsistency. That occasional lack of self-regulation. The restlessness. The failiures.

It’s still fun, working together, and he still teach me so many things, still nudges me to take a step forward, but he's also pushing me away when I see too much - or maybe when I *am* too much, because there's that too - and there comes the part where I trust his clinical skills and his intuitive understanding of things, but no longer trust him enough to allow him to matter too much, because... I will always be too much, in a sense, yet I will rarely be enough.

And I don’t need a reminder of that. I don’t need what feels like both fear and pity.

I just liked feeling a little bit less alone, having someone to talk to, professionally, who would not only be interesting in analysing things and seeing patterns, but also adding to it by showing me how I could look at it from yet another angle, how the patterns might shift or how another method might work better.

It is a rare thing, even he acknowledged as much. To have someone to really talk to that way, despite the clinic being filled with professionals. And I didn’t always like it, because now I knew how it felt having it, it would inevitably be rather dull when I no longer had it, which I gathered would only be a question of time. I didn’t like how much it mattered, but it mattered nonetheless.

That’s the crux, right there.

It matters. And I can’t make it not matter. But it’s this thing that I don’t feel like I can really enjoy, because it’s now something that is turned on and off like a tap, depending on if he’s been too much or I’ve been too much or everything is simply too much.

I will always be too much and not enough to be someone he feels at ease with. And he tries so hard not to be some of the things that he is, not to be so blatantly vulnerable as he must find me when I'm not making an effort to hide me deficits, and sometimes, I'm a reminder of the fact that he is, in fact, still some of those things.

It shouldn't matter as much as it does.

And yet.