#i think that line has become blurry for David too

[ingravinoveritas]

(Putting this in a separate post because I sort of scattered my thoughts across two different posts last night.)

So by now we've all probably seen the Ask that Neil answered saying that the kissing scene in GO 2 required only one take. There were a couple of things that came to my mind when I read this, and perhaps the most immediate was that the OP asked how many times the scene had to be filmed, and that means the scene entire--the confession, the pleading, everything--not necessarily just the kiss itself. To that end, I wonder how Neil was answering--i.e., referring to the entire scene, or just the kiss. Because as it stands, the question (and answer) are a bit ambiguous/confusing, and lend themselves to greater discussion.

Assuming that this is all true, however, and that the kiss/scene was filmed in one take (though I'm not sure I believe this was actually the case, given the multitude of camera angles and other cinematographic necessities), I'd like to share a few thoughts. I keep seeing people say that Michael and David are actors, consummate professionals, and how could one underestimate their abilities so as to think they would need more than one take. The thing is, we do know that they are actors. Two of the finest this world has ever seen, even. But it is also abundantly clear that if the kiss was achieved in one take, it was not simply because they are actors, but because it was Michael and David. Together.

To stand across from someone and give/react to such an emotional performance involves so much intimacy and trust, in a way not many of us can understand. If we draw a comparison to OFMD, Rhys Darby and Taika Waititi talked about their kiss in season 1 being awkward, even though they have been friends for a long time. Michael and David, by contrast, have been close friends (if not more) for only a few years, yet there was not a moment's hesitation in that kiss. David, who was nearly blind in that scene from the combination of contact lenses and sunglasses, found his way to Michael's lips with a practiced ease, an approach borne of both skill and familiarity. And Michael trusted David so fully in that moment--trusted him enough to be vulnerable, to let himself be kissed and give up control to David.

The gasp when their mouths met. The hands coming to rest on David's back. The way Michael seemingly leans up partway through, leans into David while expertly conveying the myriad of emotions Aziraphale is experiencing. Could it all have been done in one take? Perhaps. But that still doesn't mean there wasn't more to it. The accumulation of so much that had built between Michael and David over the intervening years between season 1 and season 2, further adding to their already incredible on-screen chemistry. All there for us to see, to make us want more. To make us ache.

Whatever the case may be--whether the kiss truly was accomplished in one take, or was the result of countless rehearsals between Michael and David in the days/weeks/months beforehand (be it at the S2 table read, while working on scene blocking, or the two of them "rehearsing" on their own) we are beyond fortunate to have witnessed something so precious and rare. And hopefully we'll soon get to hear Michael and David themselves telling us all about what it was like...

[ingravinoveritas]

I...I just need to leave this here...

#What if this is my last straw

[film-in-my-soul]

Reincarnation - Icemav please!

I love reincarnation fics, and there's just so much angst potential for Icemav with this. I was caught up in deciding how to approach this, so I'm sorry if it disappoints TT^TT

.⋆｡°✩ Immortal!Ice is caught in a loop where his love comes back into his life every few decades and is stolen away from him. ✩°｡⋆.

WARNING: Blood/Violence/Death, Angst, Potential Unhappy Ending

The first time that Ice sees him isn't the first time, and for a moment, when he turns around in his seat, familiar shoulders and familiar half-wild brown hair become familiar hazel-green eyes and a cat-got-the-cream smile, Ice feels like he's been punched in the stomach.

He should have known. It's not as though he loses track of the years; it's not as though the anxiety doesn't prickle under his skin, and he finds himself waiting even as he fights the long-engrained response when too long a time between appearances builds. It's never changed, not in the countless centuries it's been happening. But every time there's a delay, a stretch where Ice can hope that this time it will be different.

It never is.

Nick Bradshaw introduces them, and Ice rolls the name Pete in his mouth without saying it aloud, adding it to a list he's taken to whispering to himself as he sleeps (Stefen, Daniel, Ethan...). It stings how much it sounds like the one that's taken its rightful place of first.

Petrus

Ice keeps his cool, holds on with both hands to the moniker he's earned for himself, and smirks. He plays the part cocky and self-assured and lines up the dominos that will keep him in Pete "Maverick" Mitchell's sights but presumably out of his orbit. All the while, he's thinking of how, this time, he can make it different. How this time he might be able to save him.

He's so caught up in that and flying straight and clean he forgets about the dreams.

Immortality makes looking backward in time similar to pulling the focus on a long camera lens; the further back, the more obscured. Time bleeds everything together in spans of forty and sixty years, but Pete (Vincent, Joseph, David...) is always fresh, the more recent iterations of him at least, and when he's there, it's as though Ice's brain reaches into the blurry frame of his memory and drags the picture into focus.

It's always the oldest ones that come on the hardest, the most bloody, the most heartbreaking. They're the ones where Ice didn't understand, where he was still foolish enough to always, up until the very last moment, believe he could win.

He loses Petrus to the end of his own gladius, tricked (he would later discover) by a goddess who'd wanted him for herself. Instead, she'd taken her pleasure in having Ice pierce his love's belly and spill his blood.

Tomai, Ice loses to a rain of arrows that fell from the blackened sky over their medical tents. It had hurt, he thinks, the most because, at the time of his arrival, Ice had thought he was a blessing, a gift, and only learned after cradling his lifeless body that it was a punishment.

Richard saves Ice from a mudslide, Charles dies in the trenches, telling Ice a story to keep them both from falling asleep, and Mattias finds the pictures that Ice keeps and breaks under the pressure of the truth. Ice still can't take baths.

Hundreds of years and the pain from those nightmares are grounded in Ice's undeniable truth, and it never gets easier. It sees Ice woken by his own gasping breaths and drying tears. He tastes the phantom bloom of iron over his tongue, and when he sees Pete, bright and so full of life, as beautiful as Ice has always thought he was, it's a new agony each time. And like every time that's come before it's Pete's own self, his passion and his drive and his everything, that clings to the edges of Ice and makes him hope once more, emboldens him when Ice wishes he wouldn't. Because the hope is just as dangerous as the love and the sorrow and the knowledge of what comes next.

So, Ice does what he can to try and keep the distance, to try and give them more time, Pete more time. He calls him dangerous. He pushes. He makes sure Pete flies like his tail is on fire because Ice can already see in his mind's eye that it is.

And even though Ice knows that fate is an unbroken circle and that the gods of old are dead, he prays.

Ficlet Bingo! (Still Squares Left!)

[johnhardinsawyer]

Collecting Stones

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

5 / 7 / 23 – Fifth Sunday of Easter

Acts 7:55-60

1 Peter 2:2-10

“Collecting Stones”

(Building the Kingdom)

There is a small island off the coast of Scotland called Iona.  I have only been there once, but there is something very special and holy about that place.  To get there from here, you have to take a plane, a train, a ferry, a bus, and another ferry.  You really need to want to be there to get there.  There is an ancient Abbey church on Iona, a retreat center, and two quaint hotels.  There is daily worship in the Abbey, beautiful music, and lots and lots of history.  There is an old cemetery and lots of ruins – stones piled up and stones lying around.  Over the centuries, Iona has been the home of medieval monks (1,200 years ago) and post-modern environmentalists and LGBTQ advocates (today) – all of them Christian, all of them seeking to be faithful in that thin place where heaven and earth seem to meet in a mysterious way and the line between the two can seem blurry.  

There is so much history, and so much beauty, and so much that is holy on Iona.  Anyone who visits the rocky coastline of the island would have good reason to wonder, “If these stones could talk, I wonder what they might say they’ve seen.”  When I was on Iona, I took one of these stones.  It is small and smooth, from centuries of being tumbled by the waves and the sand of a beach on the northern end of the island.  A quick walk from the place where I picked up that stone, there is another beach at a place called “Martyrs Bay,” where sixty-eight monks were killed by Viking raiders in the year 806.[1]  If the stones on that beach could talk. . .  I shudder to think of the story they would tell.  

Our first scripture reading, today is a story that I shudder to read.  Maybe you shuddered to hear it.  It is definitely one of those passages of the Bible that some people might call a text of terror – or one of those passages that some people will point to and say, “The Bible is just too violent for me.”  If the stones in the story of Stephen could talk, they would tell a tale of human beings doing what they have done at every stoning, and lynching, and act of mob violence in history.  

You know, there are so many examples of stones being used in the Bible.  Sometimes, they are used for good – for building up – and sometimes they are not.  There is a famous line from the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament:  

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. . . a time to break down, and a time to build up. . . a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together.  (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 3b, 5a)

It would seem that those who came to kill Stephen threw their stones in a way that did not build up.  

In the Old Testament, in the Book of Judges, a man named Abimelech is mortally wounded when a woman drops a millstone on his head.[2]  Maybe we should feel bad for Abimelech, but maybe he shouldn’t have killed his seventy brothers and declared himself king.  Those who live by the sword sometimes die by the millstone, I guess.  Then there is an even more famous story in the Old Testament of the shepherd boy named David, who picks up five smooth stones from the ground and goes off to fight and kill a giant named Goliath.[3]  So, clearly, there are stones that are used to kill in the Bible, but there are also examples of people, like Jacob, who is out in the wilderness at night, and uses a stone for a pillow, has an amazing dream and hears the voice of God, and then sets that stone pillow up in such a way that it becomes a pillar at a place called Bethel – a place that Jacob says, “shall be God’s house.” (Genesis 28:22)[4]  There is also the time when God’s people travel from forty years of wilderness wandering into the promised land and, at the spot where they cross the Jordan River, Joshua collects twelve stones – one for each tribe of Israel – and he says,

When your children ask in time to come, ‘What do these stones mean to you?’ then you shall tell them that the waters of the Jordan were cut off in front of the ark of the covenant of the Lord. . . so these stones shall be to the Israelites a memorial forever.  (Joshua 4:6-7)

A stone can be a permanent thing – telling a story, carrying deep meaning.  If you think about a gravestone erected over someone’s grave or a monument to a great person.  Stones can have a way of lasting and signifying something.  

Perhaps, the most famous example of a stone in the Bible, of course, is the stone that is rolled away from the tomb when Jesus is resurrected.  But before that, there is the story of Jesus stopping a crowd from throwing stones at a woman who is caught in adultery.  “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her,” Jesus says.  (John 8:7) Jesus’ words stop them in their tracks.  They all drop their stones and go away.[5]  If only this had happened at the stoning of Stephen. . .  At another point, in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus has a little child sit on his lap and says that people need to become like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven.  “If any one of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were fastened around your neck and you were drowned in the depth of the sea,”[6] Jesus says.  (Matthew 18:6)  Ouch!  Another millstone!  Jesus is using hyperbole, here – a figure of speech – to make sure we understand that bullying children or taking advantage of their simple trust in God is a big no-no.[7]  Still, in another spot, in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus quotes a verse from Psalm 118, “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone,” (Mark 12:10)[8] meaning that the people who are criticizing him (who think they know how to build things and do things “the right way”) might think they know what is right, but they do not know God’s true intentions as the divine Builder of all things.  

These words of Jesus and Psalm 118 are echoed in today’s second reading from the First Letter of Peter.  The overall message of this letter is to offer encouragement to people who are trying to follow Jesus in a world where they are not always understood or accepted.  The people reading this letter centuries ago – and those of us reading it, today – are invited to be put to good use by Jesus for the building up of the kingdom of God.  “Come to him a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight, and like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house. . .” (1 Peter 2:4-5)

Now, some of you might find this image strange.  For most of us, the only “living stone” we know of, today, is that actor/wrestler named Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.  In actuality, the author is saying that each one of us – no matter how many muscles we may or may not have – can be used for good by God.  We can be chosen and used for building up.  No matter who you might see when you look in the mirror or who others might see when they see you you and I have the high calling of being God’s chosen, holy, people – to be, as Eugene Peterson translates,

. . . God’s instruments to do [God’s] work and speak out for [God,] to tell others of the night-and-day difference [God] made for you – from nothing to something from rejected to accepted.[9]  

Stephen saw himself as someone like this, as did those monks on Iona all those years ago – God’s chosen and accepted people – trying to do God’s good work against all odds.  Of course, history is filled with stories of martyrs, killed before their time.  Is this what you and I are called to become, too?  I don’t think so.  But I do think that when God uses us for good that certain things are asked of us – things that are sometimes (maybe even very often) outside our comfort zones.  I guess the question for us is:  will we seek to be instruments of building up or tearing down?

It is clear that we human beings are very good at the tearing-down side of things.  Turn on the television, or the radio, go to this-or-that website online and you will find those who are very good tearing others down, based on what they believe or don’t believe, how they look, what they have said or done.  And you and I?  Well, we are often content to stand by and watch all of this tearing down taking place – not unlike Saul in the story from Acts, who held the coats of the people throwing the stones and approved of what they were doing.  Think about how you and I treat other people on any given day and there will be moments in which we are not doing much building up.  

It is clear that Jesus calls us to live a different way – a way that is countercultural, a way that is not easily understood by some.  You might remember the thing that pushes Steven’s murderers over the edge, the thing that causes them to pick up stones and start throwing, is when Steven looks up to heaven and says that he sees something different.  Is the kingdom of God.  This is a kingdom that is all about the building up as to the tearing down – all about a greater love, a greater sacrifice, a greater forgiveness (even forgiveness of one’s enemies) than we are capable of on our own.  But, with the help of the Holy Spirit, there is no limit as to how God might use us for good – how we might be built into a spiritual house with other living stones, a house where all may find a home.

As a church, what are we trying to build?  There are plenty of churches that are interested in building actual buildings. And it is a blessing to have an historic building, in which our congregation a community can gather, and from which we can be sent out to the world to serve, and to live. But, in truth, what we are seeking to build is greater than what we can see with our eyes or touch with our hands.  What we are seeking to build, is an on-earth-as-in-heaven way of living and being.  What does this mean, for example, in a week when loneliness has been declared a national epidemic or when our national idolatry of firearms leads some lonely and hurting people with access to weapons to take the lives of others?

I am mindful of the story of Saul – the approving bystander and coat-holder.  I do not know what damage the witnessing of brutal violence does to someone’s spirit, but Saul was in need of something new, and different, and hopeful, and good, and healing.  Just a few chapters later, God chooses Saul for the work of building God’s kingdom.  Saul’s name is changed to Paul.  And Paul spends the rest of his life in grateful amazement – coming to terms with the love and mercy of the God who chose him to build something good.  How might we be about the business of being built up into a spiritual dwelling for all so that we might build others up in Jesus’ name, with Jesus’ love?  How might we share the good news that God has chosen us, against all odds, to receive mercy and to share mercy?  How might we be strengthened as a spiritual dwelling for the ministry of building up the kingdom of God – on earth as it is in heaven – at this Table of welcome and mercy, grace and blessed community?  

Let’s see. . . Have we left any stone unturned this morning?  Stones are used in a variety of ways – literal and figurative – in the Bible.  [Check]. Stones can be used for tearing down and for building up.  [Check]. Ah!  One last thing. . .  Why did I choose this one stone from Iona out of so many others – probably a million others on that beach?  Well, when I saw it in the water, it had these beautiful deep blue-gray stripes that really caught my eye.  Later, when the stone was dry, the stripes had faded – you could barely see them.  But when I put the stone in water, again, the stripes reappeared.  Pretty cool!

How many of us let the beauty of who God made us to be stay hidden beneath the surface – unseen by others?  How is God encouraging us to reveal who we really are?  In the waters of baptism, the spiritual gifts of God are given to us.  And when the water of baptism is remembered and revealed in us and through us, the beauty of these gifts can shine through for all the world to see.  

May the beauty of what God is doing in us and through us be seen and shared.  And may God’s kingdom be built of us and by us, with God’s help.  

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.  

--------

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martyrs_of_Iona.

[2] See Judges 9:50-57.  

[3] See 1 Samuel 17.

[4] See Genesis 28:10-22.

[5] See John 8:2-11.

[6] See Matthew 18:1-7.

[7] Eugene Peterson, The Message: Numbered Edition (Colorado Springs: NAV Press, 2002) 1356.

[8] See Psalm 118:22-23.

[9] Eugene Peterson, 1677. 1 Peter 2:9-10.

[ethanesimp]

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆* MY MÅNESKIN  MASTERLIST ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆* 

☾ BLURBS, DRABBLES & HEADCANNONS

☾ SERIES

Key:

Angst: 🥀

Fluff: 🌺

Smut: 🌹

Requested:  🌷

DISCLAIMER: All these works are purely fictional. I (obviously) know none of these people personally so they are not written with the intention of representing the personalities, ideals, and/or private lives of the Måneskin members. They are just face claims.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆* DAMIANO DAVID ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

More Than Just A Game (1.8 k) ⋆ Friends With Benefits  🥀 🌺

Summary: What had started between you and Damiano with a simple game quickly turned into something more. The moment the line between pleasure and love becomes blurry you realize it needs to stop before one of you gets hurt.

gold rush (0.8 k) ⋆ Famous Fem! Reader  🌺  🌷

Summary: Damiano has a small obsession with you.

Sweetheart  (1.1 k) ⋆ INTERACTIVE  🌺 🌹

Summary: What started as an afternoot out shopping turns chaotic after it starts raining.  

I Tuoi Particolari  (2.6 k)  🥀 🌺

Summary: It’s been two years since Damiano lost you.

When You’re Gone (9.8 k) ⋆ Mob Boss! x Mob GN! Reader   🥀 🌺

Summary: Soulmates are already a difficult concept to grasp and things don’t seem to get any easier when you like a person who already has a soulmate.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆* ETHAN TORCHIO⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

To Love You  (1.8 k)  🌺

 Summary: After you have a horrible day, Ethan insists on taking care of you in hopes of making you feel better.

What Happens Backstage (1.7 k) ⋆ Dom! x Sub Fem! Reader  🌹 🌷

Summary:  Ethan gives you a treat before a performance.

Amami per Sempre  (2.8 k)  🥀 🌺 🌷

Summary: Ethan isn’t the brightest—or the best—when it comes to surprises, so his attempt at proposing to you causes a few misunderstandings...

Don’t Burn The Pancakes (3.1 k) ⋆ GN! Reader  🌺

Summary: Your daughter’s idea of cooking breakfast for you doesn’t go as well as she’d hoped for.  

Nothing Stays The Same (1.0 k) ⋆ GN! Reader  🥀

Summary: Not even love can resist the test of time.

You’re All I Think About (2.7 k) ⋆ GN! Reader  🥀 🌺

Summary: Two best friends and a confession that has been weighing down on both. Who’ll say the truth first?

En Esta Vida Y Las Que Siguen (2.5 k) ⋆ Vampire x GN! Reader  🥀 🌺

Summary: He had heard about reincarnation many times, but Ethan had never been a believer. Little did he know all it would take for his thoughts to change would be a cute librarian and an accident.

Dolcezza (1.2 k)  ⋆   Nurse! Reader 🥀 🌺 🌷

Summary: Ethan prepares tea and takes care of you.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆* VICTORIA DE ANGELIS⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

Let Me Go (3.1 k) ⋆ Servant! x Royal GN! Reader   🥀 🌺 🌷

Summary: You're cornered into making a decision that won't only break your heart but Vic's too.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆* THOMAS RAGGI⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

Confessions and Cigarettes  (0.7 k) ⋆ GN! Reader 🌺 🌷

Summary: Thomas tells you he loves you for the first time.

Promises  (1.2 k) ⋆ Best Friend Fem! Reader  🌺

Summary:  Thomas lulls your daughter to sleep after he wakes up to the sound of her crying  

Oh My Love  (1.9 k) ⋆ Thomas Raggi x Fem! Reader  🌹 🌺

Summary: This is just smut with like two paragraphs of plot idk what to tell you.

[ingravinoveritas]

The question was clear, and Michael absolutely blurred the lines and talked about David because that is what he does best...

Ok, I'm not a native English speaker, but the question seems clear to me; what is Aziraphale's favorite thing about Crowley? Not, what is Michael's favorite thing about acting with David. I love these very, very blurry lines ♥️

I can't wait for the GO3 press tour...

[whump-town]

Aversions

Hotch is less than dealing with the events of Foyet’s attack.

Warnings: alcohol abuse, child abuse, drug abuse, graphic depictions of violence & stabbing, self-destructive behavior, crying, self harm, mentions of suicide, suicidal ideations, violence with guns, and maybe some out of character Hotch and Emily.

Not sure how I feel about this fic... but I guess, we’re going in with both feet so 

“You cannot save people, you can only love them.” --Anais Nin

Aaron Hotchner has never been good with words. Not the right ones, anyway.

But actions can speak louder than words.

He’ll spin Garcia around the dance floor when they go out for drinks. Hands placed just where they should be and he’ll laugh softly when she makes a thinly-veiled dirty joke. And she’ll remember those nights for her whole life. The way he smiled at her as the lights shimmered overhead. The way he blushed when she refused to dance with anyone else, stating she needed a real gentleman.

There are nights at Dave’s. Weekends that he gets to keep Jack, uninterrupted by cases, and they go to visit Pop’s; Jack’s third favorite person (mommy and daddy of course being one and two). It’s the sound of Jack’s happy feet running up and down the hall, Hotch’s thundering voice as he he-ho-hums and chases him along. Dave watching the youth bleed into that scrawny, spunky recruit from some twenty years ago. And Jack always runs into Dave’s arms and in one fell-sweep proclaims him the only safety he can get from his daddy. His giggling face turned into Dave’s shoulder as he shouts, “get him Pops, get him!”

Those memories were just weeks ago.

It’s been two weeks since Dave’s house was filled with Jack and Hotch, smiling and happy and… fuck just healthy.

Aaron Hotchner wakes up dizzy and sore. The pain ebbing into the numb, dull ache of whatever’s being steadily fed into the line disappearing into the pale flesh of his hand. For a moment, he just watches the ceiling spin. An all too familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. Anxiety spreading its claws out to take root but he… he can’t seem to remember why.

Realization floods his chilled limbs with a shudder, the memories hitting his sternum. He leans his head back into the pillows, limp and stiff and cold and so fucking hot-- The stiff tug of the stitches in his abdomen force him to come to an altogether too swift descent. There’s a hissing sound that comes before his right-hand aches, something cold and heavy spreading up his arm and into his chest.

“Good to see you awake,” a nurse greets.

He’s too far gone to say anything.

By the time Emily finds him, he’s had one minor run-in with the staff. A doctor stops Emily in the hall, her tone laced with annoyance and apprehension that bleeds into her threat to restrain Hotch if that becomes necessary. Emily leaves with a nod and promises to keep an eye on him but she leaves with this tight bundle of uncertainty forming in her chest.

He wakes as she settles down in the visitor’s chair.

The stitches along his hip are tight, leaving him immobile despite his foggy brain wanting nothing more than to curl onto his side and sleep just a little longer. But the scent of the antiseptics burn his nose and he can still feel Foyet--

The tip of the knife slowly dragging down his chest. There’s no threat of a scratch or blemish out of place. Aaron’s breathing having long ago turned ragged and shallow. “Have you ever read the reports,” Foyet asks, keeping his slow purposeful movement going. “Tell me, Aaron, have you read what David Rossi and Jason Gideon had to say about you? Young Aaron…”

Foyet smirks as he stops, shifting as he presses weight into the stab. It’s slow and agonizing but, Hotch realizes with a shudder, he’s too cold and weak to even really feel it. His body slowly falling away.

“Not so young anymore,” Foyet comments. He takes a moment to watch the knife’s slow pull from Hotch’s body, smiling when Hotch’s chest catches and he falls silent and breathless. Not even the sound of his ragged wheezes filling the air. “I can see how they’re right, you know?” Foyet lays the knife down on the side, pulling himself up and away from Hotch. “I wonder what’s going to get you killed faster, your loyalty, or your stubbornness?”

His eyes peel open slowly. Uncoordinated and sluggish he raises his left hand to scratch at the dried blood on the side of his face. His fingers manage to clumsy hook the canal running his nose and he pulls it crooked on his face.

Her voice quiet, afraid any sudden movement from her or too sudden a loud sound, might startle him, she calls his name. “Hotch,” she rises from the chair. She hates how her voice wavers. The shift that takes place between them. Any semblance of friendship they might have must be cast aside because… he’s a material witness and a victim. One that she can set off. One she might break.

Stepping into his field of vision, she can see his shoulders relax. Just having someone else close. Someone he knows. “You…” she’s stuck between Emily and Prentiss. Between her role as his friend and his coworker and even her role as an agent. But he’s always commended her undercover work. She’s got a spark for thinking on her feet. “I’m going to fix the oxygen canal, okay? It’s going to agitate your skin otherwise.”

Through slow, coordinated, and purposeful movements she keeps her hands where his darting bloodshot eyes can see. She hesitates when he sucks in a panicked breath but something in the back of her mind says pausing is only going to make it worse so she pulls the canal into place. Her fingers just hardly graze his cheek but she can still his body flinch at the contact.

And all she can think is fuck.

“That’s better, huh?” Her eyes dart to the heart monitor, uncertain if she’s convinced herself that it’s beating erratically fast or if it’s just a fragment of her mind. More than anything else, she makes herself aware of her body. The way that she moves so as not to startle him or, as she’s quickly putting together, touch him.

She steps back to the side, fully aware of the way that his eyes don’t break away from her. “Get some sleep, boss.” There’s something familiar and light about the way she calls him that and she can only pray that gets them through.

He suspects that he’s finally gone and done it. A part of him is relieved to find that fourteen-year-old Aaron Hotchner, a boy clutching to life with bloodied hands, was so wrong. The flash of heat and the open sting of his father’s belt against his back isn’t what finally makes him snap. Forces and pries his tight hold from reality. It’s nine, precise stab wounds and an awful cocktail of drugs that he can’t see his way out of. That’s what breaks him. Then again, it’s so much more than that.

Derek Morgan. His dark blue shirt fitted tightly over his back, the edge of the back tucked into his black pants. Tight muscles shifting under his skin as he stands with his back facing Hotch. His tattoos, body art Hotch had never really cared to mind, staring back at him now. Those tattoos are the only sensible thing about the world as his body is pulled back down.

He blinks owlishly at JJ. Her cold, tiny hand squeezing his and trying so valiantly to get him to talk to her. A question, something pressing, something important but he can’t…

Garcia with her tear-stained cheeks and the mascara running down her cheeks in pools. She says his name, he doesn’t hear but he sees her mouth form the word. He thinks that she might sit by his side and read. He’s got the faintest in and outs of The Hunger Games plot stuck in his brain.

There’s a fuzzy, half memory of Reid. Even in the present, he’s not sure it’s actually happening. A hallucination, maybe, but as he’s looking the young genius over he’s not sure why he’d hallucinate Reid. Then again, who else is left? There’s this look in his eyes, it makes Hotch feel guilty. Wrong. He doesn’t dwell on that feeling for very long. One sluggish blink later and he’s gone… maybe he was a hallucination.

Somewhere between hugging Jack and Dave standing in the doorway to his room, Hotch feels a very deep, uncomfortable weight settle across his chest. A realization on the tip of his tongue-- he wishes that Foyet had just killed him.

Waking with only the weak light of the hall outside, he realizes that he has no idea how much time has passed. Days or hours or even time. Just that the room is dark and there’s a light glow from the machines behind him. The morphine’s going to kill him. He needs to be more alert but the edges of the world are blurry and he’s already succumbing to the warm sting spreading over his body.

His hips ache and he makes the mistake of shifting. It’s just a small movement, sleepy and hazed he’s not capable of too much more. Still, his body is on fire.

“Careful,” Emily whispers from the dark.

He can see her, out of the very corner of his eye, rustling as she moves out from under the mountain of a blanket and uncurls her legs. He watches, silent, as those legs seem to go on forever. Reality melting into the heat of his body, the flames licking up him. And her touch is the water he so desperately craves but he’s lost his sense. There is no up or down or reprieve from the heat.

“Easy,” she breathes across him, the flames succumbing to her. To her will. “Just breath.”

He’s sinking back under the haze, mouth full of cotton and jaw slacked open but he can’t find the words. He can’t seem to remember how to speak. “Prentiss,” he rasps, eyes sliding shut but his hand closes around hers. Begging, pleading that she understands.

“I’m right here,” she promises. “Sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

A week later, she finds him tripping over himself he’s so drunk. Making a mess of himself and everything around him but… that’s all he’s ever been good for anyway. She doesn’t say anything. There isn’t any disappointment in her eyes, despite what he’s expecting.

Haley always hated seeing him drunk. He gets sloppy.

Where Haley had seen only Mr. Hotchner, a broken old bastard, in her husband, Emily just sees a man begging for normalcy. For the pain to numb and for things to return to normal.

Emily just takes the bottle out of his hand. Taking a chug out of the bitter, dark liquid she grunts as she swallows. It burns and she supposed that’s half of the appeal to him. “Come watch the History channel with me,” she says, taking his hand and guiding him to the couch. He goes easily. She knows he likes the History channel and she also knows that he just needs some stability. Something solid. So she leans into his side and holds his hand. Reminds him that he’s not as alone as he thinks that he is.

But even that’s not enough.

“Hotch! Hotch, that’s enough! He’s dead, man,” Morgan falls to his knees, pulling Hotch from Foyet’s body. “He’s dead.”

Emily watches Hotch’s trembling body. The split skin of his knuckles and the way that two of his fingers crookedly bend into his palm. Rough ragged sobs tear through the room, breathless words passing Hotch’s lips. He’s shaking uncontrollably. She watches, his bowed back, snap. His attention, that hawk-like, eerie attention, is moved. It’s changed.

He pulls himself from Morgan’s arms.

Morgan having drawn Hotch to his chest. Bent their bodies to mold them into a folded backward hug. Their heads pressed together. Morgan can’t help his own tears. The abject horror washing over his body at the sight of the mess before him. Great arching sprays of blood and the thick scent of blood looming over them. And George Foyet… a blooded lifeless body before them.

And Hotch…

He stumbles to his feet, pulling his body from where he’d fallen into Morgan. Where he’d allowed himself just a moment's embrace. He takes three, four large steps on shaking legs.

Emily steps forward but Dave catches her elbow. He stops her from moving to Hotch.

He’s not in his right mind. Dave’s only protecting her. Protecting them. Aaron is hardly going to survive today, he doesn’t need to accidentally hurt Emily. He is a live wire and he’ll take them all out in the explosion.

George Foyet arches against his wires and they’re standing right there when his anger boils over and he screams into the nothing. Holding Haley’s body in his arms so delicate and broken. They’re both just broken dolls, their cords cut and the curtain comes tumbling down. One last final blow-- his job really did take everything from.

Jack isn’t enough to save him.

He blows up. It’s not nuclear but it’s unhinged and raw and there’s something about his eyes that makes Emily finally draw the line. He’s hurting but there has to be a line. A place where one of them steps in and says that it’s enough. That he’s got to pull himself together before he sucks them all into the black hole of his chest. And she’s quickly realizing, she’s the only one strong enough to do the job.

She finds him on a bender. He can hardly stand and the light mirth she’d once admired about his quizzical eyebrow raises is gone. The man standing before is a mess and she’s not sure if she hates herself or him more for letting it get this bad. For not finding that line sooner.

“Jesus,” she whispers.

He knows disgust when he sees it. A childhood spent curled into his father’s shoe, cracked ribs, and broken arms, he knows disgust all right. And now, a fully grown man, he just laughs. There’s nothing light about the sound. It’s morbid and twisted in his throat. A hollow sound. She’s disgusted by him.

“You need a shower,” she informs him with a curl of her nose. She steps past him, ignoring the frown she shoots her. She knows that he doesn't want her here but what he wants isn’t really a priority right now. He hasn’t got to tell her. She can see it in his eyes and smell it on his breath. He wants to crawl into a dark hole and die. She’s here to drag his sorry ass out.

Looking around his apartment, the first priority is getting rid of all the bottles. “Where are the trash bags,” she asks, heading to his kitchen. He’s already shaking his head, running his hands through his thick greasy hair. She finds the bags on her own, right where she’d assumed they’d be. Under the sink. “Where’s Jack?”

He falls onto the couch with a huff. “Jessica,” he grunts.

Good, she thinks, for him. Jack doesn’t need to see his father like this. Hell, no one does but… someone has to. At the same time, if Jack were here, Aaron wouldn’t have let himself get this bad.

“He probably misses you,” she says, starting in on tossing his garbage. There’s an astounding lack of food but it’s also not entirely surprising that without one of them hovering over him and forcing him to eat that he hasn’t tried. The word suicidal may not have come out of their mouths but they watch him. They see him. Sometimes you don’t have to speak a truth for it to be true.

And Aaron Hotchner is a coward. They are all. It’s why they haven’t taken his guns and it’s why he hasn’t put one to his mouth.

There are three guns in his home.

Two service weapons that he wouldn’t stain with his own blood. He took a vow and those weapons are not meant for this. It’s a disgrace to the only thing that’s ever made him mean anything.

The third is a gun his father had given him.

He was sixteen.

The words had poured out of his mouth. An aching truth he hadn’t even realized was true until the words were spoken. He did want to kill himself. The abuse was never going to end. He could see no end in sight and his father consumed his every action and thought and even his self-image.

He was tired of his reflection.

His father had grabbed the bottom of his jaw, large fingers digging into his flesh as he’d pulled Hotch’s mouth open. Hotch had shaken, frozen in place, as his father pressed the barrel of his gun to the roof of his mouth. Gunpowder and cold metal.

Sometimes, Hotch can still taste it.

He’d been afraid to die then but now, he longs for it. There is a darkness in his veins, murky and thick, that he needs to spill out. To watch the crimson drip down his flesh so that he can see, so that he can know that beneath this shell he is alive. That there is only a part of his sum that is broken and dead. He is alive.

His ribcage expands with life.

His heart beats with purpose.

But his mind… it has rotted. Desolate and afraid.

His father had beaten him senseless that night but that made it no different than any other night.

And the very gun that had once been pressed between his lips now rests in the safe in his office. Untainted and calling out so wistfully to him. He can hear it now, as Emily calmly collects his empty bottles of alcohol. His throne of glass shattering beneath him. He can always hear it. How simple it would be to get it now. To just end all of this.

“Aaron?”

He looks up suddenly, eyes unfocused and glazed.

“Aaron!”

The bile hits the back of his throat and is thrown out on his hands and knees, expelling the contents of his stomach into the porcelain of the toilet. His head throbs as Emily follows him, turning on the lights. He’s been sitting in the dark for so long, he’d forgotten the sting of the light.

“Just leave me alone,” he grunts, spits falling over his bottom lip as his stomach aches on. Rolling and churning. He’s put nothing in it for the last forty-eight hours other than Scotch, Oxy, and two shitty beers from when he first moved into this shit-stained apartment. He groans as his stomach clenches, leaning his forehead against the cold porcelain.

Emily’s seen enough. She’s tired of this little performance he’s putting on. “No,” she steps to the sink and drenches a rag in the shockingly cold water. Wringing it out only slightly before slapping over the back of his neck. “This bullshit, it ends tonight, do you understand me?”

He grunts as the rag meets his skin, trembling muscles protesting at the temperature difference of his overheated body. Even if he could think of something to say in protest, he’s not sure it would make it past his lips without being accented by more drug-laced regurgitated booze. Besides, he knows she's right. Deep, deep down. Beneath the self-loathing heat and even farther down beneath the frayed parts of him that never survived childhood. He knows. He knows that even if it’s not for him, he has to stop. For the team and his son.

“First,” she whispers kneeling down beside him. “We need to get you sober.” She draws a clean rag over his face, wiping the vomit from his lips. “What have you taken?”

He shakes his head. Can’t meet her eyes. He’s ashamed and he should be.

She reaches out to touch him but he flinches, looking between her hand and her face. As if he’s expecting her to hit him. “Aaron,” she softens her voice. Moving slowly until she’s cupping his cheek. His eyes water, chest hitching as his breathing grows unsteady with the emotions boiling to the surface. “I just want you to get better.”

A tear falls down his cheek and he turns his cheek, trying and failing to hide it from her. He wants to get better.

Tears are falling down his face when he turns his face back to her and pulls in a stuttering breath. He pulls his sleeve up. He shows her the hesitantly made cuts on his forearm. “I-- I don’t…” he pulls away from the hand she reaches out to him with. But when she tries again, he lets her hold his wrist in her hand. Her finger ghosts over the scabs. He hadn’t known what he was doing and he hadn’t liked the blood. He’d just wanted the hurt.

It was too much like Foyet. The knife and the razor and the blood on his white t-shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She shakes her head. No, this is-- this is his fault. These cuts were made by his hand but they never should have let him get so low. They should have done more.

Pulling her eyes from his arm she steadies herself. He isn’t hopeless. He's a fighter and he’s stronger than she is. He’s got more to lose than he realizes.

“I took the oxy,” he admits. “It’s-- It wasn’t enough.” He’s shaking now, coming down from his anger and submitting to the pain. “You need to…” a part of his broken mind screams. It screams to fall silent. That he needs the gun and that he’s just supposed to be distracting her now so that he can follow through with the plan he’s been making for weeks--

The office and the gun. Spinning in the leather-bound chair that Haley had gotten him as a wedding gift and biting the bullet. The letters are written and waiting on his desk. The chamber is full. The gun calls for him.

“There’s a gun,” he whispers. “In my office, you need to-- you have to get it or I’ll…”

She nods her understanding.

He can’t see around the tears pooling in his eyes, “uhm... “ He’s trying to think, what else? What else is left? He couldn’t stomach the thought of slitting his wrist. Never had the nerve to draw a bath and just to sink into warmth… that’s too gentle. He’d needed a bang. A mess and more disgust. More hurt.

And now he can feel the panic of his options being taken away.

“Aaron,” she squeezes his hand. He meets her eyes and feels a fraction of warmth. “Just-- Just--” she wants to tell him to let her in. She wants to tell him that all this is going to pass in time and this awful moment will just be a cruel memory one day. But she’s looking at him and seeing her own reflection. Two people broken by time and unable to trust another human being. She can’t be certain why she does it.

Her mind screams that he’s neither trustworthy nor in the right mind but she wraps her around him and pulls him into a hug. “I love you,” she tells him, hugging him tightly. Feeling his tension and apprehension. Slowly, he lifts his arms and hugs her back. He clings to her. Squeezing her tight but she’s not going anywhere.

He’s vaguely aware of the fabric of her soft cotton shirt getting wet against his face. Her hand comes up and brushes his hair down and he finds that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s sobbing in the arms of the very woman who was once hired to end his career. He doesn’t care because he feels the pain and for once, he can breathe.

Emily holds him tighter. Neither is speaking. They just cling together in the storm and Emily hopes that she can drag him out of this mess. That he can come back here, to her arms instead of into the bottle. And she’ll get his gun. She’ll throw out all of the alcohol and call Jessica in three or four days when he’s mopped up and dry and tell her that Hotch needs to see Jack.

And maybe one day they’ll think back to this moment and it won’t hurt as much. But for today, for this moment, they just hold one another.

[indestinatus]

Yellow Brick Road

TIVATOBER 2020 // DAY 17

↳ prompt: Scarecrow - rated T (1,726 words)

summary: Alone in the hideout from Sahar, Ziva finds herself doing something she didn’t expect, which brings back memories from the past. 

A/N: also known as - if you chose to read one story of this whole series, please let this be the one.

read it on AO3 🌾

Heavy rain poured down on the gray tiles of the sidewalk. There was enough water on the street to reflect the blurry traffic lights and undefined skylines, at least until a car passed by and splashed it all over the closed stores. Umbrellas piled up in front of a popular restaurant and some moved across the street, but Ziva’s vision was out of focus enough to only distinguish them as blurs of color, disappearing quickly.

It had been hours since she had passed the point of tiredness, now breathing only out of instinct. Her eyelids burned but she kept them open, watching the skies fall. 

It was rare for her to need a break like this, though it was turning even more frequent these days. She could only track Sahar down for so long - with just a name, the mysterious woman quickly vanished only to reappear again in another city a few weeks later - and after so many failed attempts of getting to her, Ziva decided to wait until they came to her instead. 

That usually didn’t take long. 

A taxi stopped just in front of her and a man rushed to open the door, motioning for a woman just behind him to enter ahead. She did so hurriedly, holding what looked like the man’s suit over her head as she disappeared into the backseat of the car. 

A second later, the man did the same, hastily running a hand through his wet hair before disappearing. Ziva thought she saw him smile to himself, but the car sped up and she lost track of them before she could confirm. 

Two strangers she would never see again, nor hear the end of their story. 

She didn’t really process how or why, but suddenly she found her reflection staring back at her, heavy bags under her eyes and hair dripping wet. Ziva blinked, realizing she had crossed the street and now stood in front of the glass door she’d been watching from the opposite side all evening.

Before she could change her mind, Ziva’s hands moved on their own accord and pulled the door open. Blaming the tiredness for her poor choices, she stepped into the movie theater, searching for the ticket booth.

The air conditioning of the room made her soaked clothes feel cold. She picked a spot near the exit, blending into the shadows. In a second she had memorized all viable routes of escape, but it had been more out of habit than from a real necessity. 

Her heart was in her throat when the main title started to play. It was this loud melody with a classic tune to it, the high notes revealing the passage of time. As the title appeared, nostalgia burned in her chest. It had been too long since she’d last seen it, way too long.

“I thought this was a colored one.”

“Do you really want me to spoil it to you, woman?”

“I’ve read the book, you know.”

“Then how come you always manage to quote it wrong?”

“How do you know they’re the right lines? Perhaps they’re different in the book.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Yes. Exactly. You would not know.”

“Don’t brag now. You’re the one who hasn't seen a movie that’s seventy years old.”

“I had other things to do.”

“That’s older than Gibbs.”

“That’s older than you.”

“Miss David. You hurt me this way.”

“Shush. It’s about to start.”

“You… Wicked Witch of the West.”

“Hm… Doesn’t she die?”

“You’ll have to watch and see.”

It knocked the breath out of her. She already knew it was coming, but the sudden change from sepia to technicolor was still a marvelous thing to see. Bright colors invited the viewer to enter this brand new world, and Ziva let herself get lost in the songs and the details. 

The room was almost empty, some people scattered across the rows ahead. She wondered if they had seen this movie before. Probably, considering how old it was. Though she knew the story by heart, it was because she’d read the book a dozen times while growing up, it being a classic in her mother’s personal library. 

He had teased her the whole day when he discovered she’d never watched it. She remembered it clearly—quoting lines and singing lyrics, he’d succeeded in driving her crazy enough for her to give in, which led to them renting a DVD copy on a free Friday night. She brought the beers and he led the place, the one between them who had a television at home. 

Tony’s selective memory always surprised her, though his insistence in getting under her skin was a force on its own. He would bug her until he got what he wanted, and she was used to it—most times great at fighting back—but some days she just wanted to give in and see that typical smile of his, the one that stretched over his face until the corners of his eyes got wrinkled. 

She could picture it so clearly, the image still imprinted under her eyelids.

It was a memory she visited often, that day. It had been one of those moments no one could know it would become a memory until it did. Their laughter, the sureness of safety and the genuine feeling of happiness were things that still warmed her heart, whenever she thought of it. They were so young and worry-free, she always felt a sting of regret for not cherishing the moment more when it was happening. 

Dorothy reached a crossroad, unsure of which path to go next. When the Scarecrow changed the arm that pointed where to go, some people chuckled, and Ziva smiled weakly. He had always been her favorite one of the group. There was something really endearing about his clumsiness and care. He was smarter than he would ever know, and it was a charming quality she rarely saw in people.

“How can you talk if you haven’t got a brain?” quizzed Dorothy, tilting her head.  

“I don’t know,” replied the Scarecrow. “But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don't you think?”

“Yes!”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah… Right.”

“What? It’s true. Plus, he’s cute.”

“He’s a scarecrow.”

“So…?”

“Don’t tell me you’re turned on by a scarecrow.”

“I did not say I was ‘turned on’. You are wiggling my words.”

“Twisting.”

“I thought it had been a twister.”

“Just… Watch. See? Now your scarecrow is also part of the narrative.”

“I like him.”

“Sometimes I just can’t respect you.”

“He talks a lot.”

“You say that to me all the time!”

“Well, you do talk a lot.”

“Are you admitting to like me, David?”

“I will call Ducky right away. We finally solved it - your brain is there, only it is made out of straw.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“Hm.”

Ziva felt her heart clench when the thought of Tony showing it to Tali crossed her mind. Had he done the same? Was he excited over little details and quoted its famous lines just like he did with her? Or did it remind him of them? Did they ever get the chance to watch it together or he avoided it? She certainly stared at the movie theater marquise for hours before she gave in, the tiredness making her too vulnerable. 

She missed him so much her bones ached from it. 

Ziva wondered if she would ever feel the same again. That flickering in her chest whenever they spoke in riddles, both of them catching each other’s stolen glances more frequently than not. They had always been good in sharing non-verbal cues, and even if they bickered until one of them got tired, the silence was the one thing she missed the most. 

To be able to be understood like that by someone else, it was the closest she had ever been to love.

“Oh,” confided Dorothy to the Scarecrow, “I think I’ll miss you most of all.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, saying goodbye. Both of them were too emotional to say anything else, Dorothy wiping the tears with her hand and him giving her a sad smile. There was something incredibly bittersweet to have known it would have come to this all along. 

Ziva struggled to breathe. She didn’t recall when exactly she had started crying, but she couldn’t see a thing now. There were only blurs. 

She tried to remember the last time she did cry. Her chest ached from keeping it silent, the loud beating of her heart the only thing she could hear. She knew it would happen as soon as she bought that ticket, but there was something quite soothing about being in a dark room where no one else knew her. 

She could finally be free, even if for a brief moment.

Ziva stood up before the credits started rolling. Hastily wiping the tears from her face, she exited to the street, hoping for once that she was really invisible, and no one would approach her now. 

The rain had stopped. It was much darker now, though the street lights seemed brighter. The line of people outside of the restaurant had disappeared, probably already inside. Some taxis were available at the other side of the street, but she preferred walking. She couldn’t take any risks now, knowing she could quickly become the prey. 

Ziva looked up to the sky, clenching her jaw. Letting the cold air inundate her lungs, she tried to ease her breathing. Tony and Tali were somewhere safe, far away from there, but at least they were under the very same sky. She wondered if it was raining there. She wondered if they were okay. 

Closing her eyes, she pictured them again. Happy. She needed them happy, even if it meant they had found happiness without her. There was no other way to keep her going, other than to imagine them alive. Even if it looked like nothing more than a dream, she needed them there, safe, tucked away in her heart.

When Ziva opened her eyes again, the sadness had already been buried. 

With Dorothy’s words still ringing in her mind, she ducked her head, following the gray brick road into an adjacent alleyway. 

There is no place like home, she had said. 

And wishing for nothing more than a pair of ruby slippers, Ziva David disappeared into the shadows. 

[addysonsophia]

Pressed Coffee

Pairing: Johnny x Reader (gender-neutral terms were used, but I had a fem!reader in mind when writing this).

Genre: Fluff, angst, some suggestive situations (not really).

Word Count: 9.1K

Summary: This is difficult to explain. I had to write this for a college lit class following the form of David Levithan’s Lover’s Dictionary, which twists the “normal” way of defining words. Told through the lens of a man we learn about his relationship, the reader doesn’t know the sequence of the events that are taking place before our very eyes, through the words that he has chosen to define with tableaus of his love life. I did this with Johnny, and I think I did a good job. Wow, this was a bad summary. Let’s try: How coffee can lead to a beautiful romance. Yeah that’s ok.

Warnings: None, some angst near the end. 

Caffeine n.

           I was late, like always.

           I woke up a whole hour later than normal, and that caused me to do a speed-run version of my morning routine. Good thing I shower at night—a great time saver. I left my apartment in twenty minutes; as I stepped out the door the noises of the morning surrounded me: cars bumper to bumper through the city making their way to work: morning joggers with their dogs and strollers zooming past the seemingly frozen vehicles; birds swooping down from the sky to the land, hopping, and hoping for some food.

           I quicken my pace as I head to the subway station on 48th Street; my shoes just a tiny bit too tight today, barely allowing me to keep my speed. Closer, I get to the orange sign, the faster time moves, never letting me get ahead, leaving me two steps behind. Down the stairs with a quick hop in my step, and a swipe of my subway card, I wait on the platform for my train. I looked to my watch, then to the board above the tunnel—the train was seven minutes way.

           “Crap.” Was what I said out loud but, in my head, I was breaking down. It takes a lot to make me stressed but being late was suspect number one. Being late, is like a mortal sin that has been ingrained into my psyche from a young age: all my after-school activities in high school emphasized how important being on time was. “If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re late, you’re dead.” That is what many band teachers, drama directors, and coaches have said to me. In college, there were consequences to being late, the beginning of practices would be spent running for every person not there (if they didn’t inform the coach that they would be late), then when the offender would arrive, they would run. Being on time shows that you are respectful, aware of other people and their time that they are giving up to also be there.

           With the rising levels of stress, I shot my boss a quick text:

           “I’m running a bit late. I’ll be in soon. Would you like me to pick anything up for you?”

           A minute later, she responded with:

           “That’s fine, you don’t have tons of work like normal. Can you get me a coffee? You know my order ;)” A sigh of relief fell from my mouth at the message, and the growing squealing sounds from the tunnel. I send back a thumbs up and slip my phone back into my pocket.

          The wind of the underground picks up as a silver train flew by, slowly coming to a halt. As the doors open, people being to push their way into their spots—I take mine towards the front of the car, another hand joining the many others on the rail overhead. Swaying back and forth, the lights flicker above me as the air conditioning blows; a baby sits on their parents’ lap in front of me with the biggest smile on their chubby face. A small wave is all it takes to grab the baby’s attention, smiling back, I make a funny face at them, and now they’re bubbling with the cutest laughter. They reach out to take my hand, their ravioli sized fist wraps around my pointer finger, and the last of my stress melts away with this little angel in front of me. The parent, also has a smile on their face, appeased with the behavior of their child—any form of travel with a baby is hard, so I try and make it a little easier for them.

          Sadly, my stop was up, and I waved bye to my new friend. I stepped off the train and headed up the stairs to 110th street. I already knew what coffee shop I was going to: there is a small café down the block from my office that has the best drinks and snacks—which was prefect because I had to skip breakfast. Hauling ass through the streets towards Papaya Acres Café, I mentally prepared my order.

           “One large, caramel swirl ice coffee, two and two liquid sugar; one medium hot coffee with regular cream and sugar; and a croissant with butter, warmed.” The bell chimed as I pulled the glass door open and was immediately bathed in the scent of coffee and sweets. I inched forwards in line towards the cash register, when I made it, I recited my order perfectly, paid, then waited at the pick-up counter. The bell above the door twinkling when more customers came in, the melodic music coming from the speakers, and the whining from the espresso machine. I pulled my phone out to kill time before my order was ready, I opened Twitter and started scrolling through my feed.

           “Dude, you can’t just, like, look at someone like that and not expect to get punched in the face.”

           “I didn’t mean too! There was a-a-I don’t even remember, but she didn’t have to punch me.” What did this guy do? I know that I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it, I had to listen in.

           “I don’t know, I saw your face, and I would have punched it too if you were looking at me like that.” The man, that was facing me, had brown hair that was styled away from his face, leaving his brown eyes on display—they were light and full of mischief. He wore a grey sweatshirt that looked comfy as hell, and he had a smile stretched across his face.

           “Well, he seems nice.” I whisper to myself, my lips dancing into a smile. I turned my back to them, deciding it better to not listen in anymore.

           “I don’t know any—”

           “Miss, here’s your order.” Two coffees sat in a carrying tray and a bag—hopefully containing my croissant—in between the drinks.

           “Thank you, have a great day.” My smile grew as I picked up my order. Turning back to the door, I began texting my boss that I was on my way. I made it a few steps when my hands were knocked towards me.

          He was early, like always.

 Frustrated adj.

           Today, out of any day, today was the day that I was going to cry in public. Now, I never usually cry, not at movies (sometimes I do, I’m not heartless), not at sad songs, not when I’m stressed, and definitely not in public. But this just broke the dam.

           There I stood, in the middle of a coffee shop, with both boiling and freezing coffee down the front of my white sweater—well, my now, brown sweater—and cute black pants. The clear plastic cup sat crushed next to the paper cup, the rest of the hot coffee melting the ice on the floor. A pair of faded, black converse faced my black shoes. Tears begin to pool in my eyes, the tiled floor becoming blurry, hands clasp my shoulders and my head snaps up.

           “Are you okay?” Deep brown eyes stare back at mine. The tears being to race down my face.

           “Yeah.” I nod slowly.

           “Then why are you crying?” A soft hand comes to my cheek, his thumb brushes a tear away. After that I just completely broke down, like big ugly sobs, snot—everything. His hands shift, moving from my face and shoulder to caressing my head and holding my back.

           “I woke up late, then my train was late, but my boss said it was fine and wanted me to get her a coffee, and then I split it all over me. But this is the fifth time I’ve been late this month, and my supervisor said that if I was late one more time, I have to meet with her.” With a heaving chest and choked sobs, I managed to explain my short morning. Sinking further, I wrapped my arms around the kind man and just let it out. I probably shouldn’t have done that, but he was so warm, and I was so tired—sometimes you just need a hug.

           “That was my fault, I’m sorry.” He whispered into my hair, a hand running up and down my back. Slowly, I began to calm down, savoring the hug for a few more moments before I pulled away. I looked at his grey sweatshirt and saw dark marks from where my face was and the remnants of the coffee.

           “It’s okay, I’m sorry that I got tears and snot on your sweatshirt.” Dabbing at my tears to dry my face, I turned away, getting mascara on my sleeve—the sweater was already ruined so it couldn’t get any worse. I pulled myself from his arms sighing, I bent down to grab my phone (thankful undamaged) and texted my boss what happened. I turned to the counter to reorder, and the worker already has my order ready.

           “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” I begin to pull my wallet out to pay, but she was just shaking her head at me.

           “After what I just saw, you are fine. Don’t worry about it.” Her smile was kind. I went back up to the counter and put a couple of bills in the tip jar.

           “Thank you so much.” I turn back around and see the man still standing were I left him.

           “Hi, my name is Johnny. Can we start over again?”

Gilded adj.

           Being with Johnny was like being in a world of sunlight. Everything was filled with loud laughs, quiet whispers, longing glances, quick kisses, and loving touches. Of course, there were arguments and disagreements, we were a normal couple in a not so normal world. His job is demanding, long hours and weeks spent with the only kinds of communication are texts and FaceTime calls. At first, this arrangement was strange: dates spent at hole in the wall restaurants in a back-corner way from the other patrons; dinner and movies—at home; late (like 1 a.m.) walks in the park, and food from convenient stores. It was easy to get used to, and I get why it had to be that way. When your boyfriend is part of a world-known group, you can’t really go outside in broad daylight and be seen together—it would most likely ruin his career, and some of the fans go too far.

           I rolled over, a mess of blankets and sheet caught between us, and I just look at him. The sun streamed in through the curtains, filling the room with a warm glow. His hair turning a rich golden brown, the light doesn’t stop there, bathing his skin a shimmering yellow. The sight making me gasp, because in that moment, he looked ethereal—in that moment I knew I loved him.

           Soft breathes fell in the space between, I moved my hand and started tracing his face. Thick eyebrows, long lashes, strong nose, full lips, sharp jaw; this man looked like he was carved from the Gods themselves, and he was all mine.

           He groaned when I stopped my movements; arms moving, coming to pull me closer to his chest.

           “Morning.” Eyes still closed.

           “Morning.” Eyes opened, the brown catching the light and turned gold. I leaned in and placed a quick kiss to his lips, then tried to get up. But he wasn’t budging.

           “Where do you think you’re going?” He raised himself up on one arm, holding me with the other.

           “Bathroom.” He shook his head, I moved away again. Then he lifted himself up, arms coming to either side of me, only to lay himself on top of me, effectively stopping any attempts to start the day.

           “You’re not going anywhere.” His lips tickled my neck as he spoke. I sighed out and began to run my hands through his hair, and his breathing slowed. Shortly after, the snores started, and there was no way I was getting up for about an hour. I wrapped my arms around him and started to fall back to sleep.

           Perfect, it was perfect.

Hostile adj.

           It was a rare date night out, and I was brimming with excitement. Tonight, we went to our favorite restaurant then headed for a movie at my place. On the walk back to my apartment, something felt off. Footsteps and whispering followed every step of our own. I pulled my face mask higher up on my face as I looked around—to not cause suspicion. With a glance behind us, I saw a group of girls, and my heart sank. This was it; this is where the relationship ended; they were going to find out and tell everyone.

          See when you date a celebrity, there are rules because there are consequences. The fans of most groups are wonderful, the kindest people you will ever meet, but then there are a few that are not. These fans think that they are entitled to the artist: they stalk them; find their phone number, and call them constantly; they send death threats to anyone who gets close to their favorite artist—or worse to the artist themselves. To say I was scared would be an understatement.

           “John, there’s a group of girls behind us. They’ve been following us for a while.” I lean my head on his shoulder to not cause alarm.

           “John? Wha—Oh. Ok. Ah, let me think.” He became serious: eyebrows furrowed under his black cap; lips pursed behind his face mask. I don’t know how they found us; we were so careful.

          Steps grew closer, and I could hear some of what they were feverishly whispering about.

           “Do you think it’s him?”

           “It has to be. I mean, look at him.”

           “If it is him, who is that?”

           “I don’t know, but I think if I can get close enough I can—” With that they dared more steps, for every two we took, they took three. This was getting serious.

           “Ok, after we reach this corner, we are going to enter that store—see it? The bookstore? —then we are going to walk around inside until they follow us in, then after a few seconds we are going to leave, then make a break for it down the block. Sound like a plan?” It was a stupid plan, but it was the only one we had right now.

           “I guess, this better work.” My grip tightens on is arm, trying to ground myself in the situation.

           “Wait!” One of the girl’s screech behind me, I slightly turn my head to hear better.

           “—said that she spotted him on 1st and 3rd Street. Let’s go.” They all crossed the street and headed in down the block—away from us.

           “I think we are going to have to stop with the dates outside for a little while.” With a sigh, he nodded.

Lend v.

           It was a cool day, in October, and I forgot my jacket. Walking through the streets at night would have been fine if it were summer, but it wasn’t. I had been in such a hurry to get out of the apartment to meet up with him, that I just completely forgot to grab the jacket sitting on the hook by the door. I didn’t notice until I had made it to the restaurant.

           “Did you walk all the way here without a jacket?” I scooched my chair closer to the table, grabbing my glass to sip some water.

           “Uh, I forgot it to grab it when I left.” A chuckle falls from his mouth, his eyes curving to crescent moons, then he reached across the table to take my hand, his larger one encompassing my own.

           “You’re a freakin’ loser.” An often-used term of endearment. Eyes rolling, I squeezed his warm hand.

           “Takes one to know one.” His face breaks into a wide smile.

           The waiter came to take our order, and when he left, we just sat in each other’s gaze, content with the moment. The food came, bites were shared, and when the bill was paid, he offered to walk me home.

           With the moon rising higher in the sky, the temperatures dropped. Lights from shops, apartments, and streetlights created a world of color, drenching us in greens, blues, reds, and yellows. A gust of wind came from behind us, and in a moment of silence after—he dropped his jacket onto my shoulders. I laughed.

           “Thank you.” I looked at his profile, a strand of hair fell into his eyes, and he just left it. Lips were curved into a small smile—proud of the smoothness of the execution; a black turtleneck was the only thing shielding him from the weather, and from the looks of it, he was winning.

           “Always. Can’t have you freezing on me.”

           “I’m not going to freeze, Johnny.”

           “Not when I’m here, duh.”

           “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

           “I’m lucky you’re mine.” Not only was my body warm, but my face was too.

           He was smooth.

Loneliness adj.

           He was gone. Days had turned into weeks, and the bed had grown cold as nights were spent hoping for his return. Time seemed to move slower without him by my side; the sun and it’s jovial rays never seem to set, and when they do the moon and its frigid compassion surround me in an endless longing for the light. I know that I shouldn’t be acting like this, but he was my world.

           I made my way to the kitchen, the cold floors numbing my bare feet. The blanket wrapped over my frame providing little warmth. The rising sun casted an orange glow in the room. I slowly set my mug into the sink, washing the rings of coffee from the inside wall, my movements becoming sluggish as the world caught up with me.

           The lock beeps from the front door, gradually opening. Shuffling could be heard in the entryway: keys being placed on their hook, bags being set down, shoes being kicked onto the rug, and jackets being placed on the rack. Water running down the drain was the only thing that filled my ears—deaf, I was to the footsteps drawing closer. Mug in one hand and scrubber brush in the other, I gazed to the beginning of the day: lights flicking on room by room in the building across from me, people making their way of from their homes, cars starting to head towards their destination. Vibrations come from behind me as warm hands snake around my blanket, hands turning into arms and a chest pressed into my back. It does not shake me from my trace, still I gazed out the window—until warm lips press onto the top of my head. By the time I had set down the mug and scrubber, I was turned around, facing him. As I looked into his eyes, my own began filling with tears. Like the play button had been pressed, my hands shot out to grab his arms, pulling him closer.

           “You’re back?” uncertainty filling the room.

           “I’m back.”

           My world had returned. He pulled me from the sink, taking one of my hands and his other sliding to my back, he begun to sway. There we stood, dancing in the kitchen at 6 in the morning—revolving around each other, for we were the centers of our universe.

Nervous adj.

           The energy in the venue was high, everything was buzzing: the lights, the speaker, the crowd, and my heart. This was the first time that I saw Johnny’s group in person, I’ve seen concert videos, fan-cams, and their online concerts, but never in real life. He has been on tour for two months—which is a long time to only talk through FaceTime and texts, but it was well worth the wait. I managed to get tickets to their last show, shortly after followed plane tickets and a hotel reservation.

           The beginning of my day was spent sleeping in to get rid of the jet lag, once I was up and ready, I headed to the venue; the concert may start at 8 p.m., but you also have to get there early so you can get fan-made stuff and merch. I arrived at 4 p.m., and began to wait, making friends along the way, excitedly talking with them about the members, songs, moments, and theories for the next comeback.

           I made it to my seat, light stick, and fan banner in hand as I pulled my phone out to text him good luck—as I did for every concert. I went on Twitter to see that the concert was trending, a smile on my lips as I liked the groups’ pre-concert posts. The fan sitting next to me saw my fan banner.

           “Ooh, you like Johnny?” Their eyes sparkling in the bright fluorescent lights overhead.

           “Yeah, as much as I love them all, he’s my favorite. Who’s you’re favorite?”

           “Haechan, he’s so cute. But I also love all of them members too.” After that we got more friendly, names were swapped, and then we started talking about everything about the group. As time for the concert began grew closer the more my heart began to race, my palms became sweaty, and my stomach was in knots. Soon the lights dimmed, and the crowd thrummed with energy, light sticks turning on and the space changed into a green ocean.

           The screens on the stage flickered to life, beginning the VCR introduction. The lights flashed and there he was in all his glory, standing before me. The music played and the members came to life, moving as one before the crowd.

But he always stood out to me.

Smitten v.

              He had seen me during the concert and had someone come get me when it finished. Going through some ‘STAFF ONLY’ doors, and many turns later, I was in the dressing room waiting for the guys to finish going over the concert.

           Sitting, on my phone, still going through the concert tag on Twitter, I heard them coming from a mile away with their excited yells and laughs. The door opens and they all flood into the room, the sound following them in. He was the last one, of course. Eyes scanning the room, going from person to person trying to find something, someone—me.

           When our eyes met, it was as if the world going on around us had melted away, it was only him and me. It was perfect. Slowly, I rose from my seat and started to make my way to him, he was pushing through the people blocking us. When we got to the middle, he slowly, but surely, wrapped his arms around me. It was warm and whole, and I accepted it—eagerly. I buried my face into his chest—slightly heaving from the two-hour long concert, the sweat was felt on my cheek— and I smiled into it.

           “Hi, I missed you.” Quiet, we were, afraid that this moment could end in the next breath.

           “I missed you too.”  He kissed the top of my head, then rested his cheek there, I wanted him to stay there forever. But our reunion was stopped when the others joined in on the hug—turning into a dog-pile. I let it happen for a little while, but then it started to get hot, and they were all sweaty—so, so sweaty.

           “Guys…I can’t breathe anymore.”

           “You let Johnny hug you, so why can’t we.” Mark said from somewhere from the outside of the pile.

           “Because he’s my boyfriend, and ya’ll are gross and sweaty.” I squirm in Johnny’s arms, but none of them budged. “I’m going to die in here, aren’t I?” I whisper.

           “Probably, but at least I’ll die with you.” He whispers back.

           “No, you’re not, you Giraffe. You get fresh air and everything, while I’m down here in the depths of gross boy stank.” I resorted to whining, I’m not proud but I needed out of my prison.

           “Guys, you heard them, give ‘em some space. They’re right, you do stink.” He started pushing them away, chuckling.

           “Is that better, Baby?” He brushed my hair out of my face when I looked up at him.

           “Yes, Handsome. I can only handle one stinky boy right now.” His hug became crushing as he lifted me a few inches off the ground that left me squealing.

           “Stinky?!” Eyes wide. “I’m stinky?” He asked, voice raising a few decibels.

           “Big time.” Then, my life flashed before my eyes as he starts to rub his head all over my face. Gagging, I push his nasty ass away from me, but with his grip around me, he wasn’t going anywhere. A hidden smile on my face turns into a frown when he lifts his head up to look at me.

           “You’re gross. I don’t want to hug you anymore.” I push again, but that only encourages him. His hands shift from my back to my sides, then he starts to wiggle them over the covered skin.

           “Stop it! No, Johnny! Stop!” Forced laughs escaped as tears start to run down my face.

           “Then, take it back! Say you want to hug me!” He wasn’t letting up, if anything, he was picking up the pace.

           “Never! I told you that I don’t want to hug stinky boys!” My chest began to rise and fall at a rapid speed, air rushed into my lungs only for it to be ripped back out. There was no end in sight as one of his hands grasped my side to stop me from trying to twist out of his attack.

           “I’m not stopping until you say it AND give me a kiss!” A huge smile and crescent eyes are all I saw as he brought his face closer to mine, smile slinking into a smirk. “Be good, and listen, Baby.” Time to bring in the big guns.

           “Jaehyun! Help me! Please!” I whip my head around to not only look for my hopeful savior, but to hide my flushed cheeks from his comment. As fast as I called his name, two more arms wrapped around me, and pulled me from Johnny’s ruthless hold. I push off from Jaehyun; finally, away from the constant contact, I slowed my breathing down. Smoothing my hair down and running my sweaty hands down the front of my jeans, I stood up straight and looked at Johnny.

           “That was mean.” Lips: full on pout mode, Eyes: puppy dog mode engaged, Arms: crossed over one another. I was the picture-perfect example of how to get an apology. With his jaw dropped and eyes wide, Johnny was the perfect example of forming an apology.

           “Mean?! You said that you didn’t want to hug me anymore!” True.

           “But I was just joking. You didn’t have to rub your sweaty head on me, then tickle me.” Jaw snapped close, and eyes turning into soft brown ones, we were at a standstill. The others were lightly laughing at the scene going on in front of them, one seen many times before, but always with a different victor.

           “You hurt my feelings.” One step closer.

           “You hurt my nose and lungs” One step.

           “You were mean.” One step.

           “You were meaner.” Last step. We met in another hug; the winner was obvious.

           “God, they’re so whipped for each other.” Mark whisper to Jaehyun with an eye roll.

Telephone n.

           “I love you.”

           “I love you more.”

           “Not possible.”

           “I think it is, Johnny. I love you so much more than you love me. You fill up, like, 54% of my heart.” With a slight nod, I won this time.

           “Only 54%? Are you loving other people on the side?” A dramatic gasp and a flared hand placed on his chest caused me to laugh.

           “Of course, Loser. The rest of the boys take up about 6%, My mom has 10%, Ms. Jenkins and her cat has 7%, and I have the other 23% saved for a rainy day.” My cheeks began to hurt from smiling so much; one thing that I love about him is that no matter what, he can always make me smile.

           “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, Baby.” I slightly leaned forward, even though it did little to minimize the actual distance between us. My breath caught, as I strained my ears to hear him as he whispered.

           “I love you, 3000.” My face dropped, a chuckle bubbled out, turning into a laugh, then into a cackle, and finally, I was in bed with tears streaming down my face and I couldn’t catch my breath. Once I finally calm down, I looked at him with a serious face.

           “You are the love of my life.”

           “And you are the love of mine.”

           “I miss you.” Sigh.

           “I’ll be home soon.”

           “You’ll always come back, right? Back home? Back to me?”

           “Always.”

           That night, neither one of us hung up, content to still in a comfortable silence until he fell asleep. Then I soon followed, the sound of his breathing lulling me to sleep with one word on my mind.

           Always.

Voyage n.

           I watched the sun sink beneath the tall buildings. The sky had been graying all day and with the dark clouds rolling in, all the signs pointed to a storm.

           But there was going to be more than one storm tonight.

           Hours over the stove, wasted as the meal sits in the oven waiting to be eaten. Slowly, they lose their heat, mine steadily rose. The cars filter through the street below, reds, blues, blacks, but not the car I was waiting for. The rain falling on the street, coloring it dark; the hum of electricity fresh in the air as a flash of lightening lit up my face in the window. I looked around my dark apartment and felt empty. With a huff, I head to the bathroom, limbs stiff from sitting folded up on the couch, waiting. I looked at the mirror, sighed, turned, and left. Walking through the dark apartment, I heard thunder booming overhead, followed by a crack of lightening, brightening the room for a second, before being shrouded again.

           Four times. Now, five times, he had missed our date. There was no text, no call, no note. Nothing, there was nothing.

There was one thing: loneness.

There were two things: loneness and anger. Two things that don’t work well together. One eats at the mind, and the other eats at the soul.

           Hours passed, and I was still alone, sitting on the couch. Still waiting. That’s what this relationship was, waiting: waiting up for him to come back after practice, waiting for him to come home after months of being away, waiting for him to show up to dates, waiting for love. That was the hardest part, the love. Being away from each other as often as we are, you don’t feel loved—I don’t feel loved. Nights spent lying in bed waiting for him to hold me. Days spent waiting for any sign of life on his end. And the in between spent always waiting.

           It was a moonless night because of the storm, still pounding away. They say thunderstorms are caused by the Greek God, Zeus, king of the sky, when he’s angry. How I shared his rage tonight. How I wanted to scream at him, but no sound came out. Nothing came out. The door beeped, then opened; shoes kicked to the floor, and keys hung up on the rack. A sigh fell from the doorway. I looked at my watch, the glow threw shadows around the living room as it read: 11:23 p.m. Steps heard, a light clicked on, a name is called—my name. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

           My named echoed through the apartment, he wondered into the living room—light still off.

           “Baby, what are you doing sitting in the dark?” A chuckle falls from his lips, a sigh from mine.

           “Waiting.” My mouth too dry to put power behind it, so it came out as a whisper.

           “What?” He made his way closer to me, only halfway to the couch I was curled on.

           “Waiting.” It was a little louder this time.

           “Honey, speak up. You’re whispering.” He was almost in front of me know, I could smell his sweat mixing with his deodorant.

           “WAITING! I SAID I WAS WAITING FOR YOU!” A crash of thunder boomed in time with my declaration. He stood, staring at me like I had grown another head.

           “I’m sorry.” With my chest heaving, I pulled myself off the couch, making my way to leave the room to cool down. I passed him and he grabbed my arm, halting me. I turned to face him, his eyes moving quickly over me—searching for the reason of my outburst. A crack of lightening spilt the sky and lit his brown eyes that were wide with worry.

           “W-What’s wrong? What happened, Angel?” He grasped my hands and held them in between us. I scoffed, head shaking. Did he really forget? Something so important—a date—and he doesn’t even know what he did wrong? I let it go the first few times, but this—this tipped the scales.

           “You forgot.” I spoke, words filled with a venom that I could feel the burning at my tongue and throat, itching to get out. I stared at our connected hands, frustration filling me up, I could see it collect in the corner of my eyes. The wind started to slam against the windows, as another clap of thunder sounded.

            “Oh, Sweetheart. I am so sorry. I got hel—”

           “You got held up at practice.” I laughed, because of course he did. He always did. I was beginning to feel hot; I dropped his hands and crossed mine. He reached out for me, but I stepped away—needing space.

           “Darling—”

           “Stop with the nicknames, Johnny! Stop trying to defuse the situation!” I paced around the living room—still in the dark—trying to ease the anger. Johnny walked away to turn the light on; the room bathed in a hue of gold. He was wearing those sweatpants that fit him just right, and a black long sleeve; a tired look on his face, but his eyes were guarded—trying to read my fire-filled ones.  

           “There is no situation, I don’t see why it is such a big deal if I miss a date.” Annoyed—that’s what he was, he was annoyed with me. But the feelings I had, were worse.

“Oh? So, that’s how you feel about it? You don’t care about our dates? The only thing you seem to care about is work.” My back was turned, I didn’t want him to see me cry.

           “Are you fucking kidding me? The only—Wow. What is wrong with you?!” The level of his voice was rising—so was mine.

           “What’s wrong with me?! You have missed five dates, Johnny!” I turned around in time to see his eyes rolling. “No calls, no text, no heads up! I would have been fine, but I stood for hours over the stove cooking your favorite meal! I had set the table all nice, I got your favorite wine, your favorite candles, and your favorite music! But you just didn’t show up—too busy dancing with your friends—leaving me alone!” Hands thrown up in the air, I moved into a corner of the room.

           “Do you want to know what you sound like right now? You sound like a brat.” The word being spat out of his mouth. “You think I’m just singing and dancing all day?! I am working my ass off to make people happy! I work all day, and I just want to come home and sleep!” There it was, the guilt, beginning to build in my gut. “You knew what you signed up for going into this relationship, you knew that things weren’t going to be easy! But here you are, whining like a little bitch because I missed some dates!” The storm outside matched the storm inside, the loud rage was inescapable.

           “What did you just call me? A Bitch? I—Ok.” I ran my hands through my hair, I was boiling now, nothing was going to stop the war he just laid out. “I do know what I signed up for! But when you’re in a relationship, things go both ways, Johnny! I don’t think you recognize that! When was the last time you planned a date? When was the last time you went out of your way to do something nice? When was the last time you showed me you cared? I don’t remember, and after all of this, I doubt you do.”

           “Are we serious arguing over this?”

           “Don’t change the subject!”

           “We are seriously fighting over a date?! A DATE?!”

           “ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION!” The windows rattled from the thunderous boom. The storm or the shout? That is something that will be unknown for the rest of time.

           “What is this really about? Are you jealous? Are you jealous at the fact that I do something I love? Are you jealous because you work a meaningless desk job?” My mouth dropped. One of my biggest regrets was not pursuing what I wanted to in college, I did what my parents wanted and that was shared in secret with him. Late night talks, quiet whispers so no one in the world could hear our confessions.

           “I can’t believe that’s what you think this is about! I know you love your job! I love seeing you happy because of it! I-I just can’t keep this up.” Tiredness just rolled over me as I was sitting down on the couch, and holding my head in my hands. The storm still raging outside.

           “This?” He sneered.

           “This! You! Coming here late every time you stay over! Dates spent here, your place, or some random restaurant at 10 at night! Not seeing you for weeks at a time! You’re never here anymore, Johnny! There’s always some excuse as to why you can’t come over. And sometimes there’s nothing at all!” The rain on the windows matched the tears on my face. “I’M SO LONELY, AND YOU DON’T EVEN CARE!” My chest heaves for a different reason as sobs echoed through the apartment. I spared a glance at him, the anger was gone, replaced with realization and sadness. His hands shook, eyes searching around the room, mouth slightly open, trying to find something—anything—to say. But the damage was done.

           An eternity had passed, but only mere minutes had. One question weighed on my mine. One that needed to be said. One that could change everything.

           “Do you even want this anymore?” My eyes shut, waiting for his response. But none came. When I opened them, he was standing in the doorway, mouth open, eyes frantic. With a sigh, I rose from the couch and headed to the door. I walked by him and when he didn’t say anything, I scoffed. I slipped my shoes on and unlocked the door.

           “Wh-Where are you going?” He sounded so small. My baby—no, not anymore. He may not have answered the question, but his silence did.

           “I don’t know.” It was like I took a backseat to the situation and I was now only watching it.

           “When are you coming back?” Opening the door was the easiest and hardest thing I had done all night.

           “I don’t know.”

           “I’m sorry.” I hummed in response, slipping out the door.

           I don’t know how long I walked for, but the moment I had stepped outside, I was soaked by the rain and guilt. It wasn’t cold though; it was surprisingly warm. I had shut my phone off after Johnny had left his 6th voicemail. I want to be alone, but my thoughts kept me company. The mind likes to bring up memories, I found, after a something like this. Mornings spent waking up to breakfast in bed with a loving kiss in between bites, soft pouts led to a forkful of food, and warm gazes fueled breakfast being forgotten for a little while. Beautiful flowers placed on my desk at work, with a dorky note attached to it; doorbells rang with deliveries of even more flowers when he was gone for months at a time. Date nights that came to an end with a slow dance in the living room as music circled us from some random playlist on his phone in his pocket, after a while, hands, and lips begin to wander, one pulling the other down the hall to the bedroom. Late nights shared in bed, hair slighted messed, hands tracing shapes onto skin, lips moving in hushed whispers, and eyes full of love. Sleepless, nightmare filled nights, glasses of water at my beckoned call, hugs were endless, and a soft voice always lulling me back to sleep.

��          As I sat on the curb of some random street, crying, these memories showed me that he did care. Love is shown and spoken in different ways, and I was so focused on the verbal, rather than the actions. God, I was so stupid. Last week, he had made me lunch for work, he even took the time to cut the fruits into hearts.

           I raised my head up and looked towards the sky, rain hitting me in the face. I sighed, then reached into my pocket, and tried to turn on my phone, but a black screen stared back at me. This night couldn’t possibly even get worse. So, I stood up and tried to find a street sign to figure out where in the hell I was. I spotted one above a bookstore and figured that I was about a 30-minute walk away from my apartment. From the love of my life. Walking in soaking wet clothes and shoes in the rain is very much uncomfortable, but it had to be done to get back to my life.

           Street after street I grew closer, after some wrong turns and a very nice lady who gave me directions, I was almost home. As I waited at a crosswalk, I heard something being called from across the street. But I ignored it, it was most likely nothing, just a random noise from the city. When the light changed, I heard it again, this time sounding like my name, growing louder. I made it across the street when I heard it clearly, this time I looked to where the sound was coming from. Combing the streets, I saw brown hair, a black long-sleeve, and track pants that fit just right. I started down the sidewalk, tears forming in my eyes, and a smile on my face. His back was to me when I met him, so I ran into him at full force engulfing him in a hug, starting to sob.

           “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was dumb and I know you love me.” He turned in my arms and wrapped his own around me. I looked up, his hair was wet, and his shirt was soaked. Tears fall down his face, his eyes sparkling. I raised a hand to his cheek, he pressed into the warmth, and I wiped away a tear, only for it to be replaced by the rain.

           “I’m so, so sorry, Johnny.” He took my hand and kissed my palm. “I-I was being selfish and I didn’t see all that you did for me. Can you forgive me?”

           “Always, Baby. I’m sorry that I made you feel like you weren’t loved, because I love you so much, and my heart broke when you said that.” He dropped his head into my neck as his shoulders shook with tears, his hands gripping the back of my shirt like I was going to disappear from his hold. “I let you down, you didn’t feel loved when all you were doing was giving me love. I wasn’t doing-I wasn’t being enough for you. I’m sorry.” He broke down, he’s sobs echoing into the night. We stayed like that, in the rain, until he started to hiccup, my hands soothing up and down his back when he calmed down. I took his face back into my hands and raised him so he could face me.

           “Look at me, Handsome. Please look at me.” When he opened his eyes, they were sparkling and red. I brushed his wet hair out of his face and put a smile on mine.

           “Johnny, you are enough for me. Mornings with breakfast in bed, surprise flowers when you’re away, lunches when your home, dances in the living room. You show me your love, and I appreciate everything you do for me.” I reach up to place kisses all over his face, making sure to cover every inch, I wanted him to feel my love.

           Here we stood, in the rain, in the middle of the city, staring into each other’s eyes. His hand raises up to hold my face, and I hold my breath. He leans in, slowly I close the gap. I melt into him; his lips were soft against mine—there was no rush. We broke apart, with rain falling onto us, I break away from his arms, grabbed his hand and walked towards the apartment. In the light of the city, hand in hand, we felt the love for each other again—in that moment he became my everything, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

Wander v.

           The night was full of life during the walk we took in through the city. Lights glowing, shinning onto his beautiful face; with our hands entwined we made our way to some unknown destination. Papaya Acres Café. I laughed as I saw the café.

           “Do you remember that day? The one where we met? I was a mess; I was surprised that you even had the balls to ask me out on a date after I rubbed my snot into your sweatshirt.” In the moment, it was probably one of the most embarrassing times of my life. Now, it is a funny memory that gets laughs when we tell people how we met.

           “Of course, I did! It’s not every day you bump into an angel and make them cry, so I had to do something to make you smile again.” His hand squeezed mine as we entered the café, the bell chimed as he held the door open.

           “Why, thank you, kind sir.” A curtsy.

           “The pleasure is mine, my lady.” A bow. Followed by giggles.

           “Welcome to Papaya Acres. What can I get for you?”

           “Handsome, I’m going to the bathroom. Order for me?” With a nod, I turned and went into the bathroom. Soft jazz played through the green tiled room as I entered a stall. I wrung my hands into a paper towel and headed back into the café. Johnny was sitting at a table near the pick-up counter. My chaired squeaked when I pulled it back; wincing, I sat down.

           “I missed you.” His lips pouted, face sitting in his hands, eyes soft.

           “I was gone for like three minutes, Loser.” I laughed out.

           “I always miss you when you aren’t around.” I pulled one of his hands from his face and held it in my own, comparing the size difference. I hummed as I laced our fingers together.

           “I missed you too.” A playful smile appeared on my lips.

           “Here is your order.” I looked over and saw three cups? Huh, that’s weird. Maybe Johnny wanted to try a new drink or something.

           “Thank you. Have a good night.” He got up to pick up the drink tray, and I waited for him in the middle of the café. My hand got cold when he passed me my drink—I drink iced coffee, no matter the seasons—and his were now full with his two drinks. Putting my drink near his face, he took a sip from the yellow straw, humming in delight when he pulled away.

           “You got two drinks? What kind did you get?” When he told me, neither of which was something that I was going to try; when one of us orders something, the other automatically gets to have a taste of it, it’s a rule we made after many meals were pouted over because no one would share.

           Walking through the park down the street from the café, arms bumping as our laughs reverberated on the trees and buildings around us.

           “My dad knew I liked beans. So, he was like playing with beans. Then he dropped it, and then he dropped a rock. And then it slid, and then hot water started falling. And then, coffee.”

           “You actually think I believe that? Johnny, I’m not Mark.” I chuckled.

           “Hey, don’t be mean to Mark.” He chuckled back. He walked over to a trash can and tossed mine and the cup he had been nursing away, leaving the untouched cup in his grasp. He, now having a free hand, connected in the middle, brought our clasped hands to his face and placed a gentle kiss on my knuckles, his fingers running over my ring finger—something he had only started doing recently, but I paid no mind. I looked at his face, and he wore a serious expression—his thinking face: eyebrows furrowed, and lips pursed.

           “What are you thinking about, my love?” My free hand brushing away some hair that had fallen into his eyes. He sighed; a small smile played on his lips.

           “I was thinking about how it would look if you had a ring right here.” He pressed on my ring finger. I laughed with a smile. He looked at me with wide eyes; I looked at the cup in his hand, he was shaking.

           “Johnny? Honey, you’re shaking. Are you ok?” My hands cupping his face now, I searched for the reason for his sudden nerves. His eyes snap to mine as he takes my hands off his face, and he steps away. My heart is now in my throat, as my mind races to find out what was causing his anxiety. My hand, acting on its own, reaches out for him, but he only laughs with his head down.

           “You are truly something different, you know? You are the reason I get out of bed now; there are days when I don’t want to go to work, days were I just want to give up, but then there you are with your cute little texts, cheering me on, notes left from the last time you were at the dorm. When practice runs long and I can’t give anymore, you pop into my head, and then I remember that tonight you are waiting for me to come home—so I push ten times harder.” He cleared his throat, and shook the cup in his hands, a dull rattle followed. He swallowed. “I know it isn’t easy being in a relationship with me, the dates, the secrecy, but you are always there.” He brought his hand up to push away hair that wasn’t there. “God, this is hard.” He whispered, his hand moving to run down his face.

           “What’s hard?” He looks at me. He shook the cup again; the same rattle came from within it.

           “I want you to be there.”

           “What? I’m right here, Baby.” Now it was my turn to furrow my brows—in confusion.

           “I want you to be with me. For as long as you’ll let me. I want to grow old with you; have kids, have a family—maybe a dog. I want to dance with you in our home when we have gray hair and wrinkles.” I get it now. He chuckles. “You are so beautiful, and I just want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to make breakfast with you, I want to go grocery shopping with you, I want to do puzzles with you—”

           “I hate puzzles, Loser.”

           “That’s beside the point, don’t interrupt—it’s rude. Where was I?” The rattle started again.

           “You were listing things you wanted to do with me.”

           “Oh, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I want to sit with you in the living room and just spend the day reading, I want to take you out and have photoshoots that I can post for everyone to see. I want you, Baby. I’ve never wanted anything so much.” I smile and move to close the distance.

            “Johnny Suh, are you asking me to marry you?” A rattle.

            “Well, duh. But now you ruined it.” He whined.

            “I didn’t ruin anything. Now, go ahead and ask me. Should I practice my surprised face first? Hold on, I need to warm up.” I started pulling faces with different sound effects and hand motions. He let out a long whine and stamped his feet a little.

           “Stop,” He drug out, “This is serious.” I cleared my throat, wiped my hands on my legs, and pushed my hair out of my face.

           “Of course,” Serious face, “Continue.”

           “I love you with my whole heart, you never stop running through my mind, you are magnetic. And I can’t help but to be draw to you.” He popped the lid on the coffee cup and stuck his hand in, pulling something into his fist. Then he got down on one knee. “My love. Will you marry me?”

           Remember when I said I don’t cry in public? Not only has this man made me a liar not once, or twice, but now three times. I guess, you could say that I wanted to make him sweat a little bit.

           “Let me see…” I tapped a finger on my chin as I began to walk around him. Adding to the act, I hummed and muttered, nodding, and shaking my head. When I got in front of him, I covered his hands in mine and stared into his eyes.

           “Of course.” I whispered. He jumped up, picked me up and spun me around. When he set me down, he took my hand and slipped the ring onto my finger. He kissed the ring, then me. There we were, in the park at 10 p.m., with our love in the air.

           “I love you.” Were the words we whispered for the rest of our lives.

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Thank you for reading! I hope that you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought!

I could possibly be interested in writing more of these if you guys like, doesn’t matter the length, member, or group. Just send in a word or words, member/group, and if you want it angsty or fluffly!

Thank you again!

[expandyu]

The Need for Mid-Point Goals

According to Dr. Benjamin Hardy, PhD and the psychological concept of "prospection", long-term goals define us, give us a sense of purpose, direction, and provide us with motivation and drive. I'm talking 20-30 year plans. I'm talking, what do you want to be known for when you die.

From personal experience, I know that a lack of direction can be incredibly detrimental to our mental health and enjoyment of life. And I agree that that large scale direction can help us make decisions in the present that are in line with our values, but long-term goals aren't always enough.

Everyone has a natural focal point when it comes to thinking about the future. Dr. Hardy and David Allen (author of Getting Things Done) both maintain that we can improve our ability to dream and plan further ahead, but while we get there we still need something to focus on, something to motivate us. That's where Mid-Point Goals come in..

The Natural Focal Point

I like to think about it in terms of being either nearsighted or farsighted.

Some people are able to clearly imagine those far-off goals. They are able to rely on that far-off vision to help them make decisions about their lives, motivate them to push through the hard times, and help them navigate obstacles and distractions. They may have blurry short-term goals but that works for them because they know where they're headed on a larger scale.

Others (like me), have blurry long-term goals, but much clearer short-term goals.  For us, decisions are best made according to the goals that are more clearly "visible". The goals in focus are what provide motivation and drive. There are too many undefined aspects of the long-term goals to rely on them as a compass, but some of those short-term goals are meant to slowly clarify the long-term. We're able to gradually build that image of the future as we move along.

The Key is Definition

They key is having enough future definition to keep us motivated and focused. When we lack that definition we are filled with doubt which drains our energy. We lose motivation, we forget why we're doing what we're doing, or even forget what we're doing. Even if the goal is to become more skilled at defining long-term goals, we still need the motivation and drive now to get us there. That's why we have to start with whatever scale is easiest for us to focus on.

I am near-sighted (both literally and figuratively). Long-term goals do give me a sense of excitement and motivation, but that energy doesn't last. It's too easy to lose sight of far away goals that I can't see clearly to begin with, and doing the work to find that blurry figure in the horizon every time is just too time and energy consuming. For me, long-term goals are hard to connect to my everyday life in a way that generates the level of "pull" I need to keep moving. I need something else.

I need mid-point goals to latch on to, something to achieve within 1 to 5 years. Like project benchmarks, these break down the long-term goal into something I can focus on. For me, 1 year goals currently work best. They're small enough for me to grasp how I can get from here to there, and large enough to see how they fit in my larger plan. They connect the now to the far off future, and give me the focus I need to move in the direction I want, without overwhelming me with the image of an entirely different (albeit desirable) life that's hard to relate to.

Expanding our Horizons

I still think it's important to think about that far off future. To review it regularly. Especially to make sure we're still on the right track, and to evaluate whether it's still is the path we even want to be on. But, in order to focus on the tasks in front of us and actually get things done, we need to narrow our focus in the short term.

GTD (Getting Things Done) methodology advises us to work from the bottom up. Only by clearing up and gaining control over the immediate and short-term can we shift our focus to the long term. That means we must first clarify and weed out the tasks in front of us, then move on to clarifying and weeding out projects, and so on until we're ready to ask ourselves questions about our career paths, our long-term health, our relationships, etc. We'll still spend most of our time on completing tasks and looking at short-term goals and projects, but we'll be able to look at the big picture and understand why we're doing it.

We start where we are. I can currently "see" one year ahead and plan accordingly to get to where I want to be in 2022. By the time I get there I hope to be planning 3 to 5 years ahead. And maybe by then, that 30 year future will look just a little clearer.

[amandajoyce118]

Agents Of SHIELD S7E05 “A Trout In The Milk” Easter Eggs And References

The team heads to the 1970s where they discover that Hydra has received a hand up from the Chronicoms. 

You know the drill. If you’re reading this, I’m assuming you’ve already seen the episode. Especially since I’m watching the episode four days after it aired. So, yes. There are spoilers.

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Those Opening Credits

They are so very ‘70s. If you’ve ever watched a sitcom or a spy series from the era, you’ll see nods in the sequence.

Sousa Wonders About Ending Up In The Present

Perhaps Sousa’s questioning of Daisy and Coulson about ending up in their present time is a nod to the actor’s cameo in Avengers. Let’s hope the show actually ties those two together instead of just giving us an Easter egg or two.

Dooley’s Booth

Coulson talks about Dooley’s booth in the old bar that becomes a SHIELD meeting spot. Dooley was the chief of the New York office of the SSR, for those who didn’t watch Agent Carter.

Bendeery English Ale

Daisy drinks one of these in the SHIELD bar, and there’s also a poster for it in Malick’s office. It is the official unofficial beer of the show. It’s named for a friend of Nick Blood’s and first appeared back in season two.

You Always Bounce Back

Yeah, this is, what, the third time someone has referenced Elena’s first episode of the series and her powers. That feels like it’s not going to bode well for her, but not sure what to make of all the on the nose references just yet.

‘70s SHIELD Uniforms

Those blue and white jumpsuits are straight out of the comics of the same era. Yep. 

Project Insight

We all saw Captain America: The Winter Soldier, right? Project Insight is the big project created by Hydra that targets “threats” to the world in the form of Stephen Strange and Tony Stark. In other words, it calculates the probability that people will go against Hydra and advises on whether or not they should be eliminated.

The Episode Title

The phrase is, as Sousa points out, an “old timey one,” and it’s fun that it gets used repeatedly in the episode.

Coulson Is From Processing

When Malick asks Coulson where he’s from at the bar, Coulson says he’s from processing. That’s a callback to season five when the team ended up in the future. It’s what Deke told them to say when anyone asked where they were from so they wouldn’t give away that they were time travelers.

Come With Me If You Want To Continue To Exist

This show loves to nod to its sci-fi and action movies, right? While Elena talks about Bond movies early in the episode, this line is a nod to the Terminator franchise.

The Launch Hangar

Where the Insight rocket/satellite combo launches from in the middle of the lake is where the zephyr usually launches from in the future.

The Episode Tag

Nathaniel Malick isn’t even supposed to exist anymore, but he’s sure working on living up to the family name, huh? His wanting to talk to Daniel Whitehall about surgically transferring abilities should sound familiar. Whitehall lives for so long by surgically transferring Jiaying (Daisy’s mom, remember her?) to himself. 

The List Of SHIELD Assets/Hydra Threats

I saved this one for last because this is where the majority of the episode Easter eggs come from. When Daisy and Sousa get the list of “threats” for Project Insight in the ‘70s, the computer has a nice ��Level 7 only” at the top of the screen. That’s a nod to how the show began, with Coulson as a Level 7 agent, welcoming Ward to his new status on the team.

Sousa and Daisy mention that Bruce Banner, Peggy Carter, and Nick Fury all show up on the list. The long list features some other names that should be familiar. There are actually two sets of lists, but it’s really hard to make out the first one, so help a girl out if I miss some names.

Roberto Gonzalez and Victoria Hand both show up. You might remember them from earlier seasons of the show. Vic is killed by Ward when he breaks Garrett out of SHIELD custody and Gonzalez is killed by Jiaying when he tries to have a meeting with her. I believe Isabel Hartley is also on the first page of the list, but not positive because her name is blurry. In the comics, she dated Vic, but she was killed in the first episode of season two.

Also on the list? Jim Morita and Gabe Jones. They’re both Howling Commandos. Gabe also happens to be Trip’s grandfather while Jim is grandfather to Peter Parker’s school principal.

Some more familiar names that appear are Nicole Amador, Susan Morse, and Nathan Bowen. The first is likely a relative of Akela Amador from season one, while Susan Morse is mother to Bobbi Morse in the comics. Nathan Bowen is the father of Tandy (from Cloak And Dagger) and a scientist who works for Roxxon.

Still with me? Good. Because there are even more.

Conrad Murphy is the father of Sandra Murphy in the comics. Sandra is one of the “Caterpillars” or Secret Warriors in the comics, though she’s not on Daisy’s team. She actually is on the team sent to spy on the Russian organization Leviathan (which was in Agent Carter) and her entire team ends up dead.

Andrew and Margaret Nelson appear - though on separate halves. I’m curious if they’re meant to be relatives of Foggy Nelson from Daredevil, though their names don’t ring any bells for me. It’s worth noting that the show has connected to Daredevil in the past with other Easter eggs and Skye and Matt both having a connection to St. Agnes.

There’s a Susan Parker on the list, who could be related to Peter Parker, or she could be a really random reference to a character that appeared in one comic book in the ‘40s? Likewise, Michael Phillips is a name that is connected to a mercenary who worked with the Punisher in the comics who used to be a CIA agent, but that feels like too common of a name. (There’s also an assistant director with the name who works on the show, so he could just be a nod to him.)

Betty Wright is a famous singer who actually rose to fame in the ‘70s. She died this year. She wrote the original “Where Is The Love” and has been sampled on tons of R&B tracks. Likewise, Mark Roberts might be another pop culture nod since he was an actor who started working in the ‘30s, though that was just his stage name, so who knows?

I’ve got nothing on Ben Taylor, Ben Harris, James Cook (unless they’re talking about the British explorer who would have already been dead), Ronald Collins, Roger Stewart, Leonard Torres, Robert Moore (though I did think initially that it said Morse and wondered if Bobbi was named after her dad), and David Robinson. I also didn’t catch the last name for the entry that starts with Theresa. But that’s - a lot. So, some of the names are presumably filler names, entered just because they were ones the team could use, and they could also be nods to people the VFX team knows in real life.

Edited to add:

Chastity McBride

I completely forgot to note that May’s alias in this episode is a real SHIELD agent in the comics. She’s only appeared in a handful of comics and her main mission was stopping John Garrett and Elektra from an assassination plot.

I think this is the longest list I’ve done in a while, so no speculation this time. Until next week. Or, I guess, later this week!

[mst3kproject]

The Strange World of Planet X

The Strange World of Planet X, also known as Cosmic Monsters, was released on a double bill with The Crawling Eye and stars Forrest Tucker of the same.  It’s got a giant spider and a deep-voiced 50’s narrator droning about the terrors of the atomic age, in a film so dry all my plants shriveled up and my contact lenses adhered to my eyeballs.

Mad Dr. Laird, with the help of his assistants Gil and Michele, is baking things in intense magnetic fields in order to rearrange the molecules and turn metal into putty – the general idea is that someday this will allow them to melt enemy planes right out from under their pilots. Would that melt the pilots, too? Gross.  At the same time and perhaps related, flying saucers are being sighted over Britain and a mysterious man named Mr. Smith is wandering around in the woods and getting worryingly chummy with local children.  After a lot of standing around and talking, Smith reveals that he is from outer space and has come to warn us that Laird’s magnetic fields are tearing apart the Earth’s ionosphere, letting in cosmic rays that will mutate humans into murderers and insects into giants!

Since my last ETNW was fairly well-paced and entertaining, the law of averages tells us that this one’s gonna be a real turd, and sure enough… remember all my griping about how Radar Secret Service was literally unwatchable, as in I could not force myself to keep looking at it?  The Strange World of Planet X is like that but with a British accent.  Most of it is just ugly gray people in ugly gray rooms, droning on about whatever at far greater length than necessary.  Everybody sounds like they’re reading their lines off cue cards, the photography was awful to begin with and the degraded print makes it really hard to tell what the hell is going on. Fuck this movie.

The film’s general insufferability is made all the worse because normally giant bug movies are among my favourite types of crappy old sci fi.  What could possibly be more fun than giant grasshoppers crawling all over postcards of Chicago?  If the bug bits were fun, that would go a long way towards saving this one, but of course, they’re terrible.  It’s mostly too dark to even see the giant insects, and when we do see them, they’re nothing but close-ups of live (and sometimes dead) roaches and grasshoppers.  Only a couple of shots even attempt to composite them in with live actors and those are so dark and blurry that it frankly wasn’t worth the effort.

The other main ‘effect’ in the movie is a couple of flying saucers.  These are unidentifiable white blobs when far away, and ridiculous tinfoil models dangling from strings up close.  The pie pans in Plan 9 from Outer Space are worse… but not by much.

What should be the most exciting part of the film is the battle in the woods between the soldiers and the giant bugs, but it’s mishandled in the same sort of way as the supposedly climactic fight in Invasion of the Neptune Men.  There’s no narrative or any characters we care about – just soldiers running around shooting at things.  Where are they?  How close are they to the town?  Are there civilians in peril?  We don’t know.  To be effective on screen, a battle needs a story.  The battle in Army of Darkness is about the need to protect the Necronomicon.  We can see the Deadites getting closer to the tower, as Ash pulls out more and more ridiculous secret weapons to keep them back.  The Strange World of Planet X is just random people and bugs, not even in the same shot.

There is some half-decent magnetosphere science in the movie, I guess.  The Earth’s magnetic field does protect us from the harsh radiation of outer space, although all the most harmful components of that come from the sun rather than from further afield, and such radiation can damage DNA.  This is why the ozone layer was such a big deal in the 80’s. This space radiation is much more likely to give bugs cancer than to make them grow huge, but in a movie I can handle that.  The really weird thing here is that, because they say it screens out the heaviest of the cosmic rays, they call the ionosphere the ‘heavyside layer’.  I would not have thought it possible that Cats could make less sense and yet here we are.

If you want some proper Crap Movie Science, there’s their explanation of how the monsters grew so big – mutations for size were able to pile up quickly because insects breed fast and therefore evolve fast.  I guess this makes more sense than individuals growing out of control as a result of whatever… but they appear to have applied it to a whole range of creatures regardless of their actual life cycles. Some insects do breed quickly, but quite a few of them have specific seasons and conditions for it.  This feels like a nitpick, though… I mean, by watching a giant bug movie I’ve already accepted that they can become huge so I should probably just shut up.

As an interesting note, Smith mentions that on his home planet there are giant dragonflies.  He doesn’t say how giant, though he implies they’re big enough to ride on. Firstly, man, I wanna ride a giant dragonfly!  Second, this tells us that Smith’s home planet has more oxygen in its atmosphere than Earth, because the reason insects can’t get bigger than they do is because they don’t actively breathe, but have to let oxygen diffuse into their tissues on its own (this is why there were six foot millipedes during the Carboniferous era — more oxygen in the air). The writers, sadly, do not seem to have known or cared about this, since Smith himself shows no signs of having to adjust to our atmosphere.  Missed opportunity there.

Since this is me, of course I’m gonna talk about how the movie treats women. Click the back button now. There are several female characters in The Strange World of Planet X, and while they're pretty bland they do manage to have conversations with each other about things besides men, and the honest impression I get is that the writers are trying really hard not to be assholes.  The first woman we meet is Michele, who has been assigned as Dr. Laird’s new computer operator after the previous one was electrocuted in a lab accident.  When he learns that the replacement is a woman, Laird complains about it loudly, protesting that ‘this is skilled work!’, and Gil gripes that female scientists are dour and unattractive.  Michele, of course, proves them both wrong – she is both brilliant and pretty, the latter mostly so that she can be Gil’s love interest but also at least in part to shatter the stereotype. It's thanks to movies like this setting the precedent that modern films are up to their eyeballs in hot but useless science women… but like I said, they tried.

The script is actually at great pains to emphasize that Michele is intelligent, educated, and the equal of any of the men, at least where science is concerned. Unfortunately, its way of going about it is to have them praise her for every little thing she says and does, to the point where it starts to sound awfully patronizing.  They call her ‘clever girl’ like she’s six years old and it frequently comes across as their complimenting her intelligence in order to deflect when she asks awkward questions.

Naturally there’s a love triangle in this movie.  It appears only to be immediately and peacefully resolved, and Gil’s rival for Michele’s affections is dead shortly thereafter. Why fucking bother?

A tad better-treated is Jane, the little girl fascinated by arthropods (she describes them as ‘bugs’, saying all insects are bugs, but not all bugs are insects.  While entomologically incorrect, this same definition of bug was used by David Attenborough in Micro Monsters, so I’m okay with it).  One of the reasons I think the writers were earnestly trying to be feminist is because they place a girl in this role rather than a boy.  Susan Redway isn’t any better than any of the other actors, but the character was definitely written by somebody who knew what appeals to children.  I love the bit where Jane promises to show her new teacher her favourite type of beetle, delightedly informing her, “they’re horrid-looking!”

The teacher, Miss Forsyth, is another attempt to buck a stereotype. Jane complains that she hated her previous teacher, who was appalled by her interest in crawly things.  Miss Forsythe makes a good first impression by encouraging her instead.  Again, this feels like the writers really were trying.  They want to say that the right thing to do here is to support Jane’s interests and ambitions, and someday perhaps she’ll be a talented entomologist, just as Michele is a computer whiz.

From a twenty-first century point of view, this makes for an odd contrast with one of the other notable features of how women are portrayed in this movie – they don’t come alone.  Adult women in The Strange World of Planet X must have a male partner, and if they don’t start out with one they will be assigned one! Michele pairs up with Gil, and Miss Forsythe accepts a date with the man who saved her from one of the mutants.  This second budding relationship has no effect on the story and indeed is never referenced again, it’s just there.  All the other women we meet are either dating or married… although now that I think of it this may be less sexist than it is a way to make a point of Dr. Laird’s single-minded obsession with his work. Everybody else, even scientists, has time to be a human being – but not him.

I should also discuss one more interesting tidbit offered by Smith. He says his people have been watching humanity and studying us basically since we invented ourselves, and they have never interfered before now.  Why now? Out of ‘enlightened self-interest’, he says – this is the closest humans have yet come to destroying ourselves, but it’s also the closest we’ve come to being a threat to our extraterrestrial observers.  One of Dr. Laird’s experiments, intended to destroy enemy planes, brought down a flying saucer instead!  The fact that Smith is willing to admit this suggests that he is extremely confident about the aliens’ ability to strike back if humanity should decided to start shooting down saucers on purpose.  The finale then bears this out… although it also left me thinking that the film could have ended very differently if only hacking had been a thing in the fifties!

So yet another instance of good ideas, unexplored and badly executed.  Also yet another black and white movie… what is that, six in a row?  Yikes.  See you in ten days, when I promise I will have something for you in colour.  It’ll be like slogging through the beginning of Season Eight and then finally arriving at The Giant Spider Invasion!

[ingravinoveritas]

What's fascinating is that the more I try to figure out whether they are in or out of character in this picture, the more I just can't tell...

Aziraphale Of The Day: it looks like Crowley is judging me for having the audacity to look at his angel 😭

[curious-minx]

October 2010s Music Deep Dive!

A mock up poster for the only possible music festival line-up I would be willing to risk my life attending. Tony Allen’s passing has caused the entire Octoberfest to be cancelled indefinitely, but all proceeds from ticks will be given back to the community. 

Hope all of you special nobodies and overblown somebodies reading this right now are having a smashing start your first o November. All last month I had taken it upon myself to listen to as many albums and fragments of albums released sometime during the month of October spanning the entire 10’s decade, 2010 through 2019. This is all probably a result of drinking too much dead water, Quarantine brain, undiagnosed Autism, magical thinking and the death of boredom. I have created a Spotify playlist sporting 25 hours and 4 minutes worth of music with an arbitrary amount of albums getting multiple songs, but largely one song/album. This project did create a sense of madness because of the volume of music that gets cranked out. How can we expect anyone to properly criticize music when it is nearly impossible to keep up with it all? I largely culled these albums from Allmusic’s Editorial Choice section, but I did have to use Rateyourmusic to fill out the hip-hop and R&B gaps. In gathering up all of this music I am attempting to see if spooky music was relegated to the October season and any other possible trends. Even though October has been laid to rest her swelling calendar breast still contains a treasure trove of music worth discussing. Grab your broom, sharpen your heels and get the cobwebs out of your ears because we’re going on a Deep Dive! 

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The 2010s Old Souls and Musical Auteurs 

I consider any musician or band that endures more than a decade worthy of this veteran label. Music biz lifers seem found solace in the October release schedule. A trend that has carried onto the new decade with October 2020 offering revitalized releases by Elvis Costello and Bruce Springsteen reunited with the E Street Band. All three main members of Sonic Youth, Moore, Gordon and Renaldo are still harnessing that spooky Bad Moon Rising energy and carrying it over into their solo releases. 

KIM GORDON’s NO RECORD HOME

The first truly proper solo album by Kim Gordon following up her pretty good noise rock releases under the Body/Head moniker with Bill Nace. No Record Home towers over Thurston Moore and Lee Renaldo’s mostly okay solo releases because of how truly experimental and refreshingly modern sounding No Record Home is. This album sounds like it could easily have come out from a young Pacific Northwest Trip-Angle (RIP) label upstart. Instead, Gordon is defiantly aging gracefully and remains an all around important feminist voice in experimental rock music. No Record Home did not pop up on a lot of “Best of the Year” lists in 2019, nor did Gordon embark on any kind of touring for the release. I am hoping that more people will eventually discover this great album and realize that Gordon was truly the best, most truly experimental aspect of Sonic Youth. Her vocals on this album are the best she’s ever sounded because she built these songs and sounds with the intergral collaborator, producer Justin Raisen. A glimpse at Raisen’s Wikipedia page is a who’s who of great artists of the past decade: Yves Tumor, Charli XCX, and Sky Ferreira. The collaboration occurred at an AirBnB shared between Gordon and Raisen and birthed the first single of the project “Air BnB.” A song that completely sets the tone of the album and features one of those amazing music videos in the same line us Young Thug’s “Wyclef Jean. “

Björk - Biophilia

Can you name the last album the rolled out with its own app? Nine years have come and gone and I certainly can’t think of another album with such wholesome ambitions. Björk was getting passionate about ecological concerns in her native Icelandic home with Sigur Ros and using her sphere of influence to try to good. 2014 the app has found a permanent home in the MOMA, but outside of this curio status the album itself is still a worthwhile addition to the Björk canon. Biophilia finds Björk in musical scientist mode using sounds captured from a Tesla coil and making a whole musical universe onto herself. The rest of the 2010s found Björk going for bigger and more ambitious projects that continue to frustrate those who wish she would go back to her poppier roots. She remains one of those most consistent solo artists around and someone no one will be able to predict what she does next. The only thing is certain is that it will be visionary and will probably include a wildly ambitious rollout and a new piece of physical art like Biophilia’s $800 tuning forks.

NENEH CHERRY - BROKEN POLITICS

Featuring production duties for the second time from Four Tet (who also pops up in the October playlist with his 2013 album Beautiful Rewind). Broken Politics in Cherry’s words, “is about feeling broken, disappointed, and sad, but having perseverance. It’s a fight against the extinction of free thought and spirit.” The music video for single “Natural Skin Deep” was filmed in Beirut, a backdrop made even more painful given 2020’s Explosion. Cherry is an artist with deep spiritual and blood connections with artists central to jazz’s history. Broken Politics also features songs built around Ornette Coleman samples. This is all to say that Neneh Cherry is always going to be someone tapping into a creative cosmic vein that spans generations, and with that comes a hard wisdom. Two years later we’re still dealing with the same god damn guts and guns of history. 

OTHER NOTABLES:

(Cat Power - The Wanderer; John Cale - Shifty Adventures in Nookie Wood; Tony Allen - Film of Life ; Neil Young & Crazy Horse - Psychedelic Pill ;Bryan Ferry - Olympia; Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Ghosteen ;Yoko Ono - Warzone; Vashti Bunyan - Heartleap; Elvis Costello & The Imposters - Look Now; The Chills - Silver Bullets; Weezer - Everything Will Be Alright In The End;Laurie Anderson - Heart of A Dog;Janet Jackson - Unbrekable;The Mercury Rev - Light In You;  Rocketship - Thanks To You; Van Dyke Parks & Gaby Moreno - Spangled; Donald Fagen - Sunken Condos; Prefab Sprout - Crimson Red; Pere Ubu - 20 Years in a Montana Missile Silo; Negativland - True False )

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TRILOGY OF BLACKSTARS

Three last albums released by three titans of 20th century songwriting. Two of them follow the trajectory of an older artist getting rejuvenated by a younger backing band. Lulu is beyond a meme at this point and is considered one of the most confounding flops since Metallic Music. Like Metallic Music, Lulu will get a reappraisal and find its audience. Mr. Blackstar himself Bowie considered  Lulu one of his favorite releases. “Junior Dad” alone makes this album a worthy addition in Lou Reed’s discography. Scott Walker invited some similarly hairy and intense younger rock studs into his private castle and pulls off a far more natural combination. Soused fits like a velvet glove on a elegant corpse hand swirling thick slabs of guitar and demonic percussion. Scott Walker effortlessly orchestrates between elegance and moribundity whereas Lulu wallows and thrashes against  the ugly riffage. 

No riffs or oozing wall of sound are  anywhere to be found on the sparse and pointedly elegiac You Want it Darker. Leonard Cohen never went full on sleazy I’m Your Man ever again but he didn’t become adult contemporary either. You Want It Darker finds Leonard and his son Adam Cohen. When Leonard passed away he was the only one to get a full David Bowie like museum tribute, Lou Reed only got a corner of a library. Cohen is far and away the most accessible mystical Jewish Buddhist monk with a penchant for fedoras and having a masked man with a leather belt beat him in the recording booth [citation needed]. You Want It Darker is the only one of these mortality laden kiss offs to win a Grammy. I do wonder if Cohen would have ever allowed a more adventurous production to touch his staid and timeless old fashioned sound. Tom Scharpling divides Leonard Cohen into his Pre-Fedora and Post-Fedora days. If you are being literal about that demarcation that still gives you a pretty vast body of music I just want sad bloated blurry black and white Leonard Cohen with a banana or the smiling cad on Songs of Love and Hate. Even the floppy fedora era has worthwhile albums and he sounds like if Serge Gainsbourgh was a muppet Gargoyle, he’s reliable. I will always beat myself for not buying that official Leonard Cohen raincoat at the Jewish Museum Leonard Cohen exhibit, but I hope someone has and they are finding comfort with Cohen’s music. A lot of his latter day period is comforting in a sardonic sexy mind bending nursing home sort of way. 

I am glad that these men were ultimately spared from having to deal with Covid times and even someone as tasteless as Brian Wilson’s Ghost can acknowledge that it’s more important than ever to keep your elderly loved ones locked away in a well ventilated pod. 

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(INSERT ARTIST HERE) SEASON

For a few sticky sweet select few artists the month of October proved to be a suitable release launch pad for more than one album. The Mountain Goats and clipping. have just joined the October two-timer club this year. The reigning queen of October releases is Taylor Swift and Adrianne Lenker. In chronological order swift released Speak Now, Red and 1989 probably Swift’s biggest run in terms of critical and commercial success. None of these albums have a particularly big place in my heart, in fact speaking on behalf of Brian Wilson’s Ghost Ltd. I’m not the biggest fan of America’s Sweetheart, Sweet Tea Poet Laureate.  All three of these albums all came out in the latter part of October and based on the Target brand synergy roll-out felt as inevitable as pumpkin spice. Haunted. Sad Beautiful Tragic. Out of the Woods. These are either song titles taken from these three albums are the names of the under utilized Romantic Halloween Horror Comedy genre. Lady Gaga might have been spooking it up on American Horror Story, but Swift gives a far more chilling performance in Tom Hooper’s midnight madness of Cats and I could envision Swift excelling really well as a horror film actor. Especially in a role like Scarlett Johansson’s Under the Skin. 

You cannot get more polar opposite from Swift than Adrianne Lenker. Who released her first solo album abysskiss   and the second Big Thief album of 2019 Two Hands. Lenker will have also gone on to make her third October release this year with her second solo album songs & instrumentals. Striking that such a ghostly autumnal band would have only released one album in October, but autumnal feeling albums are not beholden to release calendars. The song “Not” from the Big Thief album Two Hands is a watershed breakthrough moment for the band and put Lenker and her band on the map. In 2019 Big Thief became a band that could get booked onto a Goodmorning American performance slot and more or less made Big Thief one of the rare 2010s indie bands to become more or less a household name. 

Other notable artists to have released more than one album on October 2010s:

Less notable artists to have multiple October releases: James Blunt Korn

Calvin Harris 

Kings of Leon

Pentatonix 

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FORMER HARBINGERS OF HYPE

These are October releases from artists that once felt like whenever they put out an album a wider array of outlets and publications seemed to care more and would spill more digital ink over them. The big three artists that had the biggest drop off in attention and acclaim that stick out to me the most are Titus Andronicus,  Justice and Why? All three artists debuted with strong starts back in the aughts, but according to critical reception more or less crashed and burned. Titus Andronicus’ Local Business was one of the last times Titus Andronicus would get positive marks from Pitchfork. Local Business a fun and shaggy follow-up to one of the most self-serious concept albums of the 2010s. 

Justice’s Audio, Video, Disco similarly is a follow up to a highly acclaimed album that set the bar high enough to doom Justice into never living up to the hype. Justice’s 2007 s/t heralded them as the next Daft Punk, but unlike those soulful and thoughtful robots Justice mainly wanted to make big ridiculous unfashionable synth prog rock. Audio, Video, Disco is simply cheesy fun and even though we live in a world better off without parties and gatherings this album helps you feel like you are in high-def IMAX monster mash on the moon. 

The leaves us with Why?’s Mump’s Etc. an album that already had the job of following up an already divisive follow up record Eskimo Snow. Why’s Alopecia is a really important 2008 indie blog rap album that helped thrust the online indie blogs into the hip-hop genre hybrid experimentalism. Why? would never make another universally beloved album again and with Mump’s Etc. ended up permanently in Pitchfork’s hate pit. In the original release review the Pitchfork writer essentially deems this album an act of “career suicide.” The whole review is essentially an assignation of Why?’s figurehead Yoni Wolf and taking him to task for all of his awkward lyrical blunders and the fact he is narcissistic enough to be a musician writing about his career in a meta fashion. Yet when I listen to Mump’s Etc. I am more or less enjoying Yoni Wolf’s personality and find the whole thing to be pretty charming. A perfectly serviceable 3.5/5 release that a media outlet like Pitchfork turns into a flexing opportunity to show how that they have the power to make or break a career. 

A.C. Newman, an artist who appears on this playlist with his terrific 2012 Shut Down The Streets took to Twitter to scoff at the idea that a good Pitchfork review has done anything for his career. Shut Down The Streets currently remains the last solo album Newman has released under his name choosing to focus on his main gig with the New Pornographers. The Internet based hype machine is even more ADHD addled and twitchier by the day. The joy of doing this deep dive allowed me to revisit a lot of these artists and acts that I had fallen out of touch with. I had completely forgotten about King of Convenience’s Erlend Øye who released the album Legao in 2014. I rediscovered a good deal of bands like the Editors, The Dodos, Kisses, Black Milk, Crocodiles, Empire of the Sun, Juana Molina, Jagwar Ma, Here We Go Magic, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr., YACHT, Peaking Lights, The Twilight Sad, Elf Power, Swet Shop Boys, Radio Dept, Allo’ Darlin, Foxes In Fiction, and HOMESHAKE are all bands not trying to change the world or challenge listeners with avant garde experimentation. Instead I feel like I maintaining relationships with old friends on the edge of obscurity. 

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A HISTORY OF CHRISTMAS IN OCTOBER 

A tradition stretching back as far as 2014 not October’s Idina Menzel’s Holiday Wishes, but Seth McFarland’s Holiday For Swing sweatily released on CD, digital, and vinyl on September 30, 2014.  2015 then brings us a Chris Tomlin and Ru Paul Christmas albums because every force of Neo-liberal good must be balanced with evangelical contemporary Christian music *shutters.* 2016 finds the Christmas in October era reaching a complete and utter nadir with R. Kelly’s final official LP 12 Nights of Christmas and A Pentatonix Christmas, but also buffered by Kacey Musgrave’s Christmas. 2017 only had time for Gwen Stefani’s You Make It Feel Like Christmas and no one else could evoke this feeling in October. On 2018, Michelle and Barack Obama’s combined one and only Christmas wish comes true, no not cancelling those drone strikes, but getting John Legend to join the October release jamboree; Eric Clapton claps open his guitar’s butt cheeks and hatefully squats out a half assed Xmas album defiantly opening the album with “White Christmas” [eyeroll emoji]; and finally 2018 found the Pentatonix announcing in October that Christmas Is Here. I apologize for all of that crude butt talk about the hateful racist Eric Clapton, but(t) I have festive gluteus Maximus on the mind, because in 2019 Norah Jones got her alternative country gal trio back together to remind us to shake our Christmas butts. Eat shit commercial shit, today’s Santa’s birthday! That’s the magic of the October release schedule! 

The hallowed Christmas in October tradition continues on in 2020 with Dolly I-Beg-Thee-Pardon  releasing A Holly Dolly Christmas right on time on October 2, 2020 (Carrie Underwood missed the memo and unwraps her unwanted My Gift in September 2020). Meghan Trainor, Goo Goo Dolls, and Tori Kelly released Christmas albums. Can you believe Seth MacFarlane comes up twice in this article, because his sleazy J. Michigan Frog croon is processed and grated like Parmesan cheese snow flakes all over a rendition of White Christmas.  What a time to be alive! 

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WHERE DID THEY GO?

A Brief Case For Class Actress’s Rapproacher

Among my October music travels I encountered one artist that really impressed me with her proper LP debut Rapprocher. The trio fronted by Elizabeth Vanessa Harper is essentially peddling the kind of competent moody 80’s inspired synth pop that belongs on a lost Donnie Darko sequel. Harper’s vocals are striking and expressive and they are melded with constantly propulsive bed of shiny synths and glossy barely-there gated percussion. Outside of an 2015  EP called Movies featuring exciting production contributions from Italo-disco icon Giorgio Moroder there has been nothing else from Class Actress. Highly recommend you check them out especially if you want to find the sweet spot between Chromatics and Kylie Minogue. 

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THE OCTOBER 2010s MASTERPIECES 

(Robyn - Honey, Big K.R.I.T. - 4eva is a Mighty Long Time  ,Miguel -  Kaleidoscope Dream, Crying - Beyond The Fleeting Gale , M83 Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming ,SRSQ - Unreality, Sufjan Stevens - age of adz, Joanna Newsom - divers, VV Brown Samson and Delilah, Kelela - tear me apart , Neon Indian - VEGA Intl., Fever Ray - Plunge , Antony and The Johnsons - Swanlights (goodbye album) , Caroline Polachek - Pang , Sky Ferreira - Night Time, My Time . Bat For Lashes  Haunted Man, James Ferraro - Far Side Virtual , Grouper -  Ruins , Kero Kero Bonito -Bonito Generation , DJ Rashad - Double Cup)

Maybe if I surround this VV Brown album with more well known artists she’ll finally get some more clicks? I should also mention that Joanna Newsom’s Divers is nowhere on my Spotify October Music playlist because Joanna Newsom thinks Spotify is bananas, and she hates bananas. I know I should also mention Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, m.A.A.d city and Tame Impala’s Lonerism. That’s the maddening thing about October music that just when you think you covered all your ground you find another hidden hump underneath the carpet.  I feel remiss without mentioning striking debut and instant hidden gem Tinashe’s Aquarius, which did you know has a new album art on Spotify. Death Grip’s No Love Deep Web. T_T I didn’t even get around to making a big verbal mosaic to Thom Yorke’s witchy Suspiria soundtrack.Corpus Christi! I forgot to highlight The Orb album in the collage with my other veteran artists!  As you can see this project nearly ruined me. I did not necessarily listen to all of these albums from front to back, but I did listen all of the songs on the playlist and chose them from the immense collection of October releases. I am pretty sure this is the kind of content for no one in particular but I really needed to get it out of my system. Let’s meet back up October 2030!!!!!

(Thank you to my beloved partner, best friend and Spotify provider Maddie Johnson XD)

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7sdLaNNaqWpKEKXRZ3jNqY?si=SLZxUwLMQYOQ5wA1xuZc7w

[artificialqueens]

Planet Earth is Blue (Branjie) --athena2

A/N: Brooke is an astronaut making her way back to Earth, reflecting on loneliness and the mysterious woman in a bar back home she can’t stop thinking about. The basic premise of this is inspired by the short story “The Second Kind of Loneliness” by George R.R. Martin, with a lot of liberties taken. It is a little experimental, and with that being said, I would really appreciate some feedback on this. Thank you to Writ for betaing and always encouraging me, you’re the best <3 <3. Title from Space Oddity by David Bowie because I’m basic.

—

The emptiness of space stares at Brooke Lynn Hytes, and she stares right back.

She’s alone as her ship nears home, though she wasn’t supposed to be. She’s not even supposed to be in the captain’s chair. But in some ways, it suits her. Loneliness always has.

Loneliness is easier in space. Understandable, even. Who could look at such blackness, spreading in every direction, never ending, and not feel lonely, like just a speck of dust?

But on Earth, there’s no excuse. There’s no excuse for sitting in noisy bars, watching people laugh and dance and connect, and not having the words to join them. No excuse for watching people buy each other drinks, watching hands creep toward each other across a sticky bar table, watching people walk out arm-in-arm to go home together, to share a warm bed, and going home alone. There’s no excuse for being lonely when companionship and friendship are mere feet away, taunting her.

Brooke would sit and stare at her empty glass, her insides emptier than all of space, before going home to her empty apartment, not even a cat or dog running up to see her, because what would she do with it during long training hours and the time spent up in the stars?

She fiddles with the controls, making sure the ship is at the proper angle to re-enter Earth, blinking to restore her blurry vision. She’s been awake for three days, no one to trade sleeping shifts with, no one in the empty seat next to her.

She hasn’t cried since it happened. Since Captain Rogers went out on the ship to make repairs and his tether snapped, sending him out into space, nothing to stop his drifting. Mission control wouldn’t want her to cry. Emotions aren’t supposed to get in the way of the mission, aren’t supposed to cloud her judgment. Nothing is supposed to get in the way of the mission. It’s why they encouraged Brooke and Rogers not to form any relationships once mission planning began, not to have any strings on Earth that could be severed in the mission.

Brooke obeyed, not that it was hard for her to do so. It was easier, really, to say that she was sitting and watching people talk while staying silent herself because she had an important space mission coming up, rather than having to call herself a failure for not knowing what to say to someone. For saying the wrong thing so many times that she no longer bothered to say anything at all. There’s no one to say anything to in space. Space doesn’t listen.

Brooke obeyed, but Rogers–he had a wife and a young son, a family that expected him to come back, had probably counted down the days, until a call from the space center made the countdown worthless. He had a picture of them pinned to the dash. Brooke couldn’t bear to have them smiling at her anymore, and put it in her suit for safekeeping, to bring it home to a family that won’t be smiling like they are in the picture. A family who will miss him and who, even if they won’t admit it, will somewhere deep down always resent Brooke for being the one who survived. But she understands.

She resents herself too.

There would have been no one to miss her, no one to even know she was gone. The only person who might notice at all is A’keria, bartender at the bar Brooke goes to every Thursday, who gives Brooke a root beer and a little bowl of pretzels and asks how she’s doing. Brooke wonders if A’keria has noticed her missing the past month, if she felt the urge to grab a bottle of root beer on Thursdays. If Brooke can pretend she’s that important.

The real reason she goes back to the bar isn’t for the root beer or pretzels or ambiance–noisy, but a little less crowded than most bars, not as much neon decor–but because of the woman that’s always there. She’s friends with A’keria, and Brooke knows her name starts with a V, because that’s what A’keria calls her. Sometimes Brooke lets herself wonder what V stands for. Victoria, maybe, or Valerie? But somehow they don’t seem to fit.

V has become part of Brooke’s orbit, the sight of her at one of the tall bar tables on Thursdays restoring the axis of Brooke’s frantic mind, keeping herself and the world in place. Sometimes V even appears in Brooke’s dreams, leaving Brooke’s arms empty and aching after V was nestled inside them in the dream.

V is the kind of person everyone wants to know. The kind of person who alters the world and people around her, the kind of person whose presence will always induce smiles and laughs and hugs, her absence felt, things boring and lifeless without her. The kind of person who would leave you laughing at something she said days later, trying some new food because you saw how wide her eyes got when she ate it and wanted to experience the same joy yourself, though it won’t compare to the joy V brings. V would leave an imprint, on hearts and in the places she went, even the bar stool she sits on soaking up some of her magic, any beds she slept on bearing her imprint, the pillows smelling like her days later.

Brooke leaves no imprint in her own bed, the mattress still smooth and unchanged after she tosses and turns on it. She leaves no imprint anywhere, her body wispy and hazy rather than solid. Sometimes she wonders if she’ll go to grab something one day and have her hand pass right through it. She doesn’t make up someone’s world, and she doesn’t let people in hers. Safer, that way. Easier. Especially in her line of work. But Brooke doesn’t know if she’ll be in this line of work much longer. She doesn’t know if she can do this again, if she can stop hearing Rogers scream over her ear comm, stop having her muscles seize up like they did when she accepted she couldn’t help him. If she’ll ever be able to stop seeing him float away, grasping at the stars desperately. If she can let her feet leave solid ground again.

Brooke sighs and rubs furiously at her eyes. Maybe the sleep deprivation is messing with her head. They’ll test for that back home. There will be all kinds of evaluations when she gets back. Physical and psychological and technological. Brooke honestly doesn’t know if she’ll pass any of them, but she can’t quite bring herself to care. She’s tired. She’s so tired.

The ship dips into Earth’s atmosphere, and as the ship rocks back and forth all Brooke can think is that she’ll get to see trees again. Short trees, skinny trees, big, thick trees with wide branches like the ones Brooke used to climb when she was a kid, the entire world in her view when she was perched atop a sturdy branch. Bright green trees offering shade from summer sun and trees with golds and oranges and reds swaying like jewels and trees bare except for a dusting of sugary snow.

The ship touches down and slides through the muddy field, jostling her in the captain’s seat. She crawls out of the ship and onto grass, and she pulls off her gloves to feel the soft, springy grass under her fingers. Brooke rips her helmet off and sucks in Earth’s air for the first time in weeks, the pure oxygen overwhelming, making her chest feel like it’s about to burst as the collection team, led by Yvie, heads over to her.

“Major Hytes?” Yvie asks.

Brooke registers that Yvie’s mouth is moving, but she can’t make her own mouth answer. The world is too bright, too loud, her ears ringing and eyes burning. She tries to stand but gray swoops into her vision, and she drops back to her knees, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. It’s all too much, the feeling of being back on Earth, being home, too much for her body to stand.

“Major Hytes–Brooke?” Yvie asks, her features softening when she sees how badly Brooke is shaking. She comes closer and Brooke throws herself at Yvie’s skinny legs, needing something to hold, something to feel, to prove that she’s here, that she’s solid and no longer weightless in space.

“Hey, Brooke, it’s okay.” Yvie reaches down and gently tucks Brooke’s hair behind her ears, a gesture Brooke never thought she’d see from Yvie, who rarely leaves her engineering office, and maybe it’s the mere presence of a human, of a human touch, but tears spring in her eyes. “They’re gonna take care of you, okay? Everything’s gonna be fine.”

More people come rushing toward her, helping her up and leading her to the van that will bring them back to base. She can hear them talking, but vaguely, like she’s listening from underwater, as they help her sit in the van.

Yvie sits next to her, in the seat where Rogers should have been, and Brooke wishes her mouth would work to thank Yvie for sparing her from another empty seat.

Someone holds a water bottle to her lips. Brooke takes one sip and pulls her head back, body curling in on itself as she throws it all back up. She’s still shaking, still struggling for breath, even as Yvie pats her knee, which is comforting though Brooke can’t feel it through her heavy suit. The rest of the team exchange worried looks as they help her into base and set her up in a medical bed.

They remove her suit and all the layers underneath, until Brooke is shivering in her thin base layer and Yvie’s assistant, Scarlet, wraps a blanket around her trembling shoulders.

The med team swarms her bed, shining a light into her eyes that’s so bright it makes her flinch backward, talking about blood pressure and mental state, all the tests they need to do—

“Can’t you give her a damn minute?” Yvie shoots dirty looks at them all.

One of the med team looks at her questioningly, and Brooke just nods, barely a second passing before there’s a thermometer under her tongue and a blood pressure cuff slithering around her arm and a cold stethoscope against her chest making her teeth chatter.

“Temp’s 99.1, probably a stress response—”

“Blood pressure’s high—”

“Set up an IV line—”

Brooke closes her eyes as the murmurs continue, and she sleeps for the first time in days.

—

Opening her eyes to the glaring white room is like opening her eyes in space for the first time, everything bright and strange and scary. Her mind lags for a few seconds before she remembers she’s home, on solid ground. She presses her call button and a doctor comes in, checking her monitors and scribbling on his chart. He says that she has the IV to rehydrate her but they’d like her to try food, just some Jello, before they run more tests. Brooke refuses, her stomach twisting at the thought of putting anything in it, but when they say she can pick the flavor she relents, a tray with strawberry Jello and a spoon set in front of her.

She and Rogers would talk about what their first meals would be when they got back, when they could eat real food instead of the freeze-dried rations, when they didn’t have to stay under a certain weight. Brooke’s answer would change daily: Pizza with a crispy crust and extra cheese dangling off the sides. A thick cheeseburger, juice dripping down her wrists, beside a mountain of golden, crispy French fries that were soft and pillowy inside. A stack of fluffy pancakes drowning in syrup, chocolate chips inside warm and melted.

Now, she picks up her spoon with unsteady hands—so small and frail-looking without her thick gloves—and blindly scoops up Jello so tasteless she might as well be eating the plastic container it’s in.

For a few days, it’s like she’s exchanged one ship for another. The bed is just as small and cramped and suffocating, and Brooke is trapped inside it, tethered by her IV, unable to get up unless a doctor or nurse is with her, and she nearly cries with relief when they say her vitals are normal and she’ll discharged after the psych evaluation.

They send in another doctor for the psych evaluation. Brooke tonelessly gives the answers she knows they want. She passes, but when she’s discharged a few days later, Yvie discreetly slips her business cards for a therapist and a psychiatrist.

Brooke leaves and she’s unsure if she’ll ever be back. She can quit, she can resign due to health reasons, teach college kids or work in a damn planetarium, but she doesn’t think she can do this again. She doesn’t want to work for a place where crying compromised a mission, where they tell the public she’s doing excellent after the mission, rather than saying Brooke still hears Rogers screaming because then she would ruin their image.

She brings the picture to Rogers’ family and apologizes until her voice goes hoarse, but his wife won’t hear a word of it. She wraps Brooke in a fierce hug and tells her not to blame herself but to go out there and live.

There’s a lot of love and laughs to be had in this universe, a lot of living to be done, and Brooke thinks she owes it to Rogers—owes it to herself—to finally do some of that living.

Brooke takes an Uber to A’keria’s bar, the only possible place she can think of being tonight, because she can’t sit in her bare apartment. She needs the noise, needs the people, after all those days of silence, of an empty ship and even emptier space in front of her.

She slips out of the car and gasps as she looks up at the stars, heart light like she’s seeing them for the first time.

Up in space, the stars are different, bigger and brighter and more beautiful than you can imagine on earth. Close enough to touch, to reach out and grab a piece of starlight. But maybe they’re too close. Maybe you aren’t supposed to be so close to something that beautiful, because eventually, what stole your breath the first time you saw just becomes the background as your ship moves through space, completely unremarkable and even boring after a few days.

Down on Earth, the beauty stands, as you look up and imagine being among the stars. Down here, they aren’t close enough to touch. They are just close enough to dream, and maybe in this case, the dream is better.

V is the first thing Brooke sees when she opens the door, the world righting itself, all the confusion and frustration swirling inside Brooke calming down.

She’s prettier than Brooke has ever seen her, like she’s infused with starlight, brown hair soft and shiny, smooth skin glowing under the dim lights. She tosses her head back in laughter and Brooke feels some urge, like she knows everyone around V does, to be in on the joke, to laugh with her.

Brooke makes her way across the room, heart pounding as she nears the table. She looks right into V’s eyes, a warm brown that burns with the light of all the stars, and Brooke can see the two of them reflected in her gaze, going on museum trips and kissing under the stars, making Brooke forget the world was ever empty when she’s in V’s embrace.

“I’m Brooke,” Brooke says, face flushing red as Vanessa smiles, as she shoos away her friend and asks Brooke to sit.

“I’m Vanessa.”

Vanessa. Brooke can’t speak, because of course the name she didn’t think of is the perfect name, one that fits her wide grin and rosy cheeks so perfectly. Vanessa.

“I, uh, I’ve seen you here before,” Vanessa continues. “Miss Root Beer, right?” She laughs nervously.

Brooke smiles. “That’s me.”

“You haven’t been around,” Vanessa says, almost sadly, and Brooke’s heart nearly stops. Vanessa has not only seen her, but noticed her, expected to see her and was disappointed when she didn’t.

“Yeah, I, um, I was on a long trip,” Brooke says.

“Anywhere exciting?”

Space, Brooke thinks. But she doesn’t want to do this right now. Next week she’ll call the number on those cards and make the appointments, try to talk to a therapist, but for now she just wants to be Brooke, happy and talking to someone on Earth, not lost in the stars.

“Nope,” Brooke says. “Do you—do you want to grab some pizza? There’s a place down the street.” Her heart is jumping in her chest as the offer flies out of her mouth. Her heart rate was slower when she was launched into space, for crying out loud.

“I’d love to.” Vanessa pulls on her red leather jacket and bounds over to Brooke’s side, following her out the door.

“Damn.” Vanessa pulls ahead of Brooke and whistles once they get outside. “Look at those freaking stars. They’re so pretty tonight.”

“Yeah, they are,” Brooke agrees, but her eyes are fixed firmly in front of her.

[ingravinoveritas]

Michael himself has been saying since 2019 how blurry the line between him and Aziraphale is, so I definitely think there is at least some character bleed happening...

2019:

Now:

So, the way Aziraphale looks at Crowley is like the very peak of romance, right, but are we sure it isn't just Micheal staring lovingly at David? The line between Azi and Michael is a bit blurry in that matter.

Just look at them: