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storiesbyrhi · 2 months

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IT MEANS SOMETHING

Eddie Munson x Reader 1,606 words

Warnings: recreational drug use.

Synopsis: A short meet-cute featuring crossed paths, Argyle's weed, probable soulmates, and Fangoria magazine.

Author’s Note: Set in 1990. No Upside Down AU.

He is the last to get on the train. Patiently waiting his turn. Smiling politely at the other commuters. You watch him step off the platform into the carriage. He opts to stand against one of the poles, letting others take the vacant seats. He surveys his surroundings. It is at this moment his eyes lock with yours.

Instead of pretending like you’d only just glanced at him or nodding a casual acknowledgment, you look away too quickly. You feel yourself flush.

As the train finally pulls into your stop, you’ve used all your willpower not to look back his way. All that willpower amounts to little; as you stand, preparing to leave, you feel him staring. His gaze pulls yours back to him.

He flashes a brilliant smile, then ducks out the opening doors before you can clock his blushing cheeks.

You’re not a romantic by nature. Yes, you are prone to fits of fancy and the occasional delusional daydream, but you don’t find yourself frequently lusting after pretty people on the train. Beauty is viewed with a matter-of-factness rather than a force of attraction itself.

Some people are funny.

Some people are clever.

Some people are hot.

Some people are whatever.

And it isn’t as if this makes you less shallow or more holy than anyone else. It kind of just makes you a little more detached. Yes, you’ve dated. But there were never big, big feelings. No traumatic breakups. It had all been textbook mediocre.

It is all this knowledge of yourself that comes to the forefront of your mind as you lament the loss of the man in the crowd.

You track his fluffy hair through the station, but he is gone by the time you get to the city street. The sun is setting, a twilight glow making all the shadows seem worthy of an art gallery.

The man is gone. His dark eyes. Kind smile. His stupid t-shirt. What was it? The Burbs. That’s it. The Tom Hanks movie from last year.

Why are you still thinking about him?

The guy. Not Tom Hanks.

You walk slowly, in the city way too early for the party your friend from college, Robin, is hosting. Time to kill.

In a 7-Eleven you stand at the drinks refrigerator with too much consideration. Too much effort. Dr Pepper will always win over Coke. Flipping through magazines in the rack pulls you through a couple more minutes.

It occurs to you that the old record store a few blocks from Robin’s is open late. They have better magazines.

The neon sign sparkles against the darkening skyline as you turn onto the store’s street. Lured like a moth to a flame, you’re inside and pulling Fangoria from the stand before taking a second to look around.

There are a few customers browsing, one with a punk magazine ordered especially from the UK in his lap as he reads from the floor. You wonder if it might make more sense for the owners to open a library.

A music library would be cool, you think, as you look over at the counter.

You can identify them both.

The guy behind the counter has dead straight longer hair and one of the best speaking voices you’ve ever heard. Argyle works days mostly, since he delivers pizzas by night. He must be covering a shift for someone. Or maybe the night guy is late.

Opposite Argyle, leaning on the counter with a familiarity that tells you he has been here plenty of times before, is the man from the train. Though he isn’t facing you, the Dio patch and hair are a giveaway.

What are the fucking odds?

Fangoria back in the rack, you creep through the aisles, trying not to draw attention to yourself. When you get close to the counter, you listen to their conversation. They’re funny.

Argyle’s brand of humor is easy and irreverent. It’s how he ends up befriending everyone, including you and Robin. And, as it were, the man from the train. Train guy’s banter is far more purposeful, performative. He’s dramatic, or maybe it seems like that in contrast to laid back Argyle.

They’re talking about music but suddenly switch to films. Bill & Ted. Even more suddenly, they break out into impersonations.

It’s too late to catch your laugh. Far too late to pretend it was a coughing fit. The man turns around. He beams as he recognizes you. It’s almost enough to keep you there. Almost.

“Hey-” Argyle goes to greet you.

“Sorry. Hi. I’ve gotta go,” you say.

“See you at Robin’s later?”

“Yeah. Yep. Bye!” and you’re out the door before Argyle can think to introduce you.

This feeling is so foreign to you. You feel all gooey and icky, like maybe your skin is going to start to fizz and slick off your body. Stupid, pretty train boy, you think.

It’s still too early for Robin’s, so you detour to a bar and order a drink in a vain attempt to settle yourself.

Stupid, pretty train boy.

Four hours later.

“I jus’… Can it come closer? It’s too… too far away?”

Robin looks at you. If you look back, you would see the face of a woman equal parts amused and bored. But you physically cannot look away from the television. And the television seems to be getting further and further away.

“Quick… Robin… It’s going!” you whine. The television set is as small as your palm. You hold your hand up to compare it. “So, so small…”

“You, my friend, are so profoundly high. Argyle gave you that new shit?”

“Says try with pineapple,”

“I-What? Pineapple?”

“Says try before you deny,”

“Alright. I’m calling it. You need some time out.”

Suddenly, you are floating through Robin’s place. A conversation about whether you are okay by yourself floats along with you. Yes, you would be okay. You like rolling around in bed, high as a kite. The party is winding down anyway. You’d not be alone for long.

Alone, you play three games of I-Spy. The loser and the winner. You starfish out on the bed and make imaginary snow angels. Time passes. Maybe. You’re not sure. Then, you see the room explode into view. The light has been switched on and you yelp, diving for cover under a pillow.

Voices. The weight of someone being dropped into bed next to you.

Robin calling your name. So far away. “You alive in there?” she asks.

“Ah-huh,” you confirm.

Then, quiet. You emerge from under the pillow like a field mouse from its burrow. They had left you in darkness but for him, a bedside lamp has been left on. He doesn’t know Robin’s bedroom like you.

He is lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. In profile, he is just as pretty. You want to drive a little Matchbox car down his forehead and use his nose as a jump. Evel Knievel style. The thought makes you giggle, which makes him turn his head. He looks at you, blinking twice.

“I wondered where you went,” he admits. He rolls onto his side, tucking his hands under his head like a pillow. “Hi,”

“Hi,”

“Bit weird seeing you again,”

“Bit weird,” you parrot.

He smiles. “Why’d you get sent to the naughty room?”

“Huh?”

Your answer, or lack thereof, answers the question.

“Argyle not warn you properly about the Californian stuff?”

You shake your head.

He laughs, so you laugh. He wriggles a little closer.

“Hi,” he whispers, sticking out a pinky finger. You watch as he hooks it around yours.

When did you move to mirror his body? When did he arrive at the party? Was he here for you? No. Silly. So silly. That would be silly.

“You’re getting small… Like the television,” you tell him.

“Oh… I don’t want to get small… If I come closer, will I get big again?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. This close you can see his pale freckles. The tired purple under his eyes. The almost-wrinkles that are born of laughter. Long eyelashes.

“Long eyelashes?” he asks.

“What?”

You snort, giggle, lost and happy.

“I need you to know I did not follow you here,”

“Okay,”

“I’m friends with Argyle,”

“Okey dokey,” you nod.

He holds in laughter, so you do too.

“I didn’t follow you either,”

“To Vinyl City? But you were eavesdropping.” It isn’t an angry accusation. It’s not really a question either. Still, you nod. “I’d be okay with it if you were following me. For the record,” he states, rather emphatically.

He watches you watch him. He makes you feel as if you are getting higher and sobering up at the same time.

“I’m Eddie,”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. Last I checked,”

“What’d you check?”

“Ah… Birth certificate?”

“Says Eddie?”

“Well… Edward.”

You giggle. Eddie’s heart flutters so hard it feels like nausea.

“Hi… Eddie,”

“Hi. Do you have a name?” He already knows it. He just wants to hear you say it.

You nod.

Eddie laughs. “Tell me your name?”

You do. Because he asked.

“So… Three times… Coincidence?”

“No,” you shake your head. You don’t know what three times he’s talking about. “That’s two. Two’s a coincidence,”

“What’s three then?”

You can’t remember. You shrug, which makes Eddie laugh, which makes you laugh. A repeated cycle.

“I think it means something,” he asserts.

“So do I,”

“Do you? Or are you just a little bit high?”

“Can it be both?”

Eddie makes a show of thinking. “It can. I’ll allow it.” He grins. “So, it means something?”

“It means something,” you agree.

End Note: I've been struggling to write post-Burning Yarrow. So, this was just a little something to try to get back on the horse. Soulmate meet-cutes are my bread and fucking butter.

I have some very vague ideas for a part two of this, but idk if it will amount to much. Lemme know your thoughts and feelings.

Eddie Taglist: solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel @dashingdeb16 @cultish-corner

#Mine #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/You #Meet-Cute

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nyoomfruits · 2 months

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For the Valentines trope: roommates to lovers, landoscar, prompt 4

Please Nyoom I’m on my knees begging your writing keeps me alive 🙏

“before you say anything about me being at home tonight, i want to remind you that you are too.”

He runs into Oscar in the hallway. Oscar’s dressed in his usual evening clothes consisting of a pair of loose sweat pant shorts and a well worn t-shirt, glasses perched on his nose and hair standing in every which direction. There’s a mug in his hand, empty, which means he’s probably on his way to the kitchen to refill it.

The kitchen Lando just came from, which is why he’s currently holding a bag of crisps and a can of coke. “Before you say anything,” Lando says, when he sees Oscar’s eyes swoop down to his slightly disheveled state and the snacks in his hands, “about me being home tonight, I want to remind you that you are too.”

“I’m always home,” Oscar says, almost on autopilot. His eyes zero in on the crisps. It’s a bag of Doritos. Nacho cheese, real brand ones, not the knock offs. Lando keeps one in the pantry for emergencies, likes to eat them when he feels down.

Oscar knows this.

“Well, now so am I,” Lando says, goes to shoulder his way past Oscar, but Oscar is too fast, grabs him by the upper arm, bring him to a halt. “What happened?” He says.

And god. Lando so doesn’t want to talk about what happened. Especially not to Oscar, who’s like. Way too sweet about everything always. In an ideal world, he’d be into Oscar instead of all these douchebags that keep breaking his heart. “It’s fine,” he says, but there’s a shake in his voice, and Oscar doesn’t let go, just keeps staring at him.

“Carlos broke up with me,” Lando eventually says, shoulders sagging. “Or well. Apparently there was nothing to break, actually. Apparently it was just a casual thing anyway. Which I wasn’t aware of, so,” he shrugs, and tries not to cry, all at the same time.

“Hm,” Oscar says, considers this for a second. “I don’t think the Doritos are going to cut it,” he eventually says, and then promptly turns and disappears into his bedroom.

Lando is too stunned and confused to really react to that, so he’s still standing in the hallway a few seconds later, when Oscar reappears with a bag of gummy words and a packet of microwave popcorn. “My personal emergency stash,” he says, when Lando just stares at them. “Now, come on,” he adds, nudging Lando in the direction of the living room. “Go pick the worst action movie you can find. I will go make us some horrible cocktails. We need booze for this.”

The cocktails really will be horrible, Lando thinks, as he makes his way into the living room in a slight daze, still clutching the bag of Doritos in his hands. Oscar’s a good cook, in general, does most of the actual cooking in their little household, as long as you can call two people living together because housing prices in the UK are off the charts really a household, but he’s terrible at making drinks.

Lando’s just settles on the newest Ryan Reynolds movie, when Oscar reappears with a tray holding the snacks and two horribly pink drinks. At least he’s stuck umbrellas in them. “What do we have that’s pink?” Lando asks, holding up his drink.

Oscar pulls a face. “You don’t want to know,” he says.

Lando hums and takes a sip. It’s so, so incredibly gross, in a way that weirdly loops back to good. “God, you suck at this,” he says, with a little cough. “It even tastes pink.”

“I did promise you they would be horrible,” Oscar says, takes a sip of his own drink and grimaces. “God, that’s fowl. Alright, what’re we watching?”

They turn on the movie, and Oscar lets Lando talk through almost the entire thing, someone his other friends always find wildly annoying but that Oscar never really seems to mind much, smiling fondly at Lando and quietly chewing on his popcorn.

When the movie is over they put on another one, and then when that ones over, and the room has gone dark, and the snacks have all been finished, Oscar turns towards Lando, tucks his feet under himself, and says, “Okay, you want to talk about it?”

Lando sighs, lets his head fall back against the couch. “Not really,” he says. “I mean, what is there to talk about? Once again I thought I had found the one and once again they only saw me as a casual fling. Tale as old as time. You know, I’m starting to think maybe I’m not meant for love. Maybe I’m just meant to die old and alone.”

“You won’t die old and alone,” Oscar immediately counters. “Come on, no. You’re a catch.”

“Really?” Lando asks, lets his head fall towards the side so he’s facing Lando. “Why is no one catching me, then?”

Oscar bites his lip. “Maybe you’ve just been looking in the wrong places.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lando sighs. “Anyway, how’s your love life going. Now we’re on the topic.”

Oscar never talks about his love life much. Lando knows there was a girlfriend, but she left the picture long before Lando entered it, and there hasn’t been anyone since.

“Bad,” is all Oscar says.

“Aw, no, Osc, come on, you gotta give me more than that,” Lando says, poking Oscar in the knee.

Oscar shrugs. “I mean. I’m in love with someone, I guess. But uh, they’re not in love with me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lando says. “Who wouldn’t be in love with you? You’re adorable.”

Oscar smiles a little ruefully, ducks his head. “Yeah, well. They aren’t.”

“Blegh,” Lando says, picks up his third? Fourth? Suspiciously pink drink, holds it up to Oscar in a toast. “Well, here’s to shitty love lives. Let us stick together at least, so we might die old but not alone.”

Oscar’s smiles a little sadly. “To dying old, not alone,” he says, and takes another sip. “God, fucking hell, please never let me make another cocktail ever again.”

#here u go anon!!!#landoscar #mctwinks #twinklaren #god i really have to go to bed now #drabble

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swordsandholly · 4 months

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Keep it Casual

NSFW | MDNI

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x fem.plus size.Reader

cw: injury mention, death mention (in passing - no character death), brief weed smoking

Word count: 3.7k

One-shot/Drabble

Boy loves girl, girl loves boy. They’re not allowed to admit it, though. It’s good, right? All the benefits without any of the commitments. It’s what they both want, right?

Johnny MacTavish is an enigma to you in many ways. You’ve known each other for years - ever since you came over to the UK for Uni. He was in basic training then, out drinking when he approached you. His buddies were brutish and rude, only looking to add a soft American to their list of conquests, but Johnny… he spoke to you differently. Looked into your eyes, listened intently, gave you his full attention and nothing less.

You’ve been thick as thieves ever since. Beyond that, even. You and Johnny are entirely indivisble. Even when he’s gone for weeks, months, at a time, you’re inheretnly interlinked. Whether by phone calls or the matching tattoos you got on your ankles one drunken night, you’re connected.

There aren’t any labels for it. When people ask you default to best friends, but that doesn’t quite encapsulate it. There isn’t a word in the English language for what you have. You’re not partners - you’ve both had plenty of those each, however briefly. Even those always end. You and Johnny can’t be torn apart, though.

You know what the problem is. The reason you both keep it this vague, amorphous thing between you. Labels are frightening. Labels make things real. Labels mean you have to tell other people what you are, that suddenly there are expectations to live up to.

Labels feel like a death sentence in his line of work. Too many lost husbands, partners, lovers.

You lay on your belly in bed, legs kicked up in the air as you engross yourself in a book when the door knob clicks to the side. Johnny has a key to your place, of course, just as you have one to his. You don’t bother to get up. The chain always hangs loose when he’s gone - knowing he’ll come around at any moment. The door would stay wide open if it could, just for him.

You hear a thunk as as he drops his duffle on the ground. He didn’t go home yet, just came straight here. His boots fall on the floor next, then his jacket drops quietly in the hallway as he slowly makes his way to your room - to you.

“Bonnie lass…” Johnny greets, crawling across the bed toward you. He managed to get down to just his standard issue t-shirt and boxer briefs before climbing in. He knows you hate outside clothes on the bed.

“Johnny.” You smile, rolling onto your back as he climbs over you. Your fingers card through his mohawk, tugging gently on the strands curling at the base of his neck. “Need a trim there, bud.”

“Aye.” He chuckles. “Was waitin’ tae see ye. No one does it as good as my girl.”

His girl. Your boy. That’s the closest either of you ever get to tempting fate.

You hum. “How was work?”

Work. That word doesn’t even come close to what Johnny does. You can’t say more - can’t utter the word deployment. Coward.

“Ach no’ tha’ bad this time. Go’ my heid knocked around a bit.”

“So the usual?”

“Oi.” He scoffs in mock offense. “Donnae be rude.”

“I’m never rude.” You snicker, turning over and reaching for the top dresser of your nightstand. “Do you want to roll or me?”

“I think I’ve earned some princess treatment.” Johnny flops back on the bed, a finger hooking in the hem of your cotton panties as you sit up. He always does this when he first gets back - has to have some part of him touching some part of you. Not that you’d ever complain. You need it just as much as him, though you’d die before admitting to it.

Those blue eyes bore into you as you roll. It’s tradition - a celebratory joint when he gets back. Then you’ll binge all the TV shows and movies you saved up while he was gone and order an ungodly amount of take out. Indian. His favorite. Sometimes Johnny will go back to his apartment the next day to get some quiet time, maybe visit his parents, before he has to go back to work on the base but other times he’ll stay with you his whole time back home. Just taking up your space and being so domestic it makes your teeth hurt like too-sweet candy.

You always hope he stays.

“First hit for the guest of honor?” You smile, holding the joint out for him.

“Och, yer a blessing, hen.” His hand is warm as it brushes yours when he takes the joint from you, eyes locked on your own. There’s something intense in his stare that you aren’t used to. It makes you look away, almost shy under his gaze. He coughs suddenly, a harsh burst of smoke puffing from his lips.

You can’t help but laugh at him, “Getting weak lungs, soldier boy?”

“Oh, feck off.” He elbows you gently.

Somehow you’ve already got the giggles. It’s just something about being around him that makes everything feel better - brighter. More lively. Even the colors of your ugly little ashtray (the one you painted terribly when Johnny’s niece insisted the three of you go paint pottery while babysitting) feel so much more clear with him near.

“Oh!” His brows shoot up suddenly, as if he just remembered something direly important. “I got somethin’ fer ye. Be right back.”

You watch him jog down the hall - definietly not staring at his butt, no ma’am - and listen to the sounds of Johnny rooting around through his duffle bag. Your lips quirk up into a smile when he lets out a distant “aha!”

He comes back with a small, velvety box, flopping back into bed beside you and criss-crossing his legs. “There was this little artisan shop in a town we stopped through. The Captain wanted tae get his wife somethin’ an’ I saw this an’ thought of ye.”

The box slips into your hands. It’s small and light. You roll it between your palms a couple times before shaking it with a grin. Before you can make one of your usual silly quips about what might be inside, your eyes meet Johnny’s. They’re on fire, sparkling with anticipation for you to open the little gift. He’s gotten you things before (you actually have a shelf dedicated to his nicknacks from around the world) but this seems… different. There’s a heaviness to his expression that you’re not used to.

You glance between him and the box briefly - opening it slowly. Your eyes turn to saucers as you come face to face with a finely crafted silver necklace. A little four pointed star with a sparkling gem in the middle that looks the same icy blue as Johnny’s eyes. Little flecks of pink and green catch the light as you turn it between your fingers.

“Johnny-“ You gasp, at a total loss for words.

“Ye like it?” He asks with an uncharacteristically nervous pitch to his voice. His palms rub together absently as he glances between you and the necklace in your hand.

“I love it.” You smile softly, heart fluttering as Johnny breaks out in a grin of his own. “Put it on me?”

“Course.” He whispers, pushing your hair to the side and locking the clasp with deft fingers. It hangs perfectly underneath your clavicles, resting between the other jewelry you wear daily.

Those hands linger for a moment, before both slowly brush down over your shoulders. Rough, calloused fingers glide across your skin and leave an electric current in their wake as light kisses trail up your neck. “Missed ye, bonnie.”

You sigh and lean back against his broad chest. “Missed you too.”

Teeth sink into the crook of your neck, pulling a gasp from your lips. Large, rough hands grab and knead your tits through your thin tank top. He plucks at your nipples - rolling them between his fingers as he sucks deep marks into your neck.

You open your mouth to complain about leaving visible hickies but all that comes out is a breathy moan. You run your hands up his thighs on either side of you, dragging your nails across his skin in the way that always leaves him panting.

One hand travels down, grabbing onto the softness of your belly appreciatively before continuing. His fingers glide over your covered pussy, teasing you to gasp and squirm under him. Rough fingers continue to pluck at your nipple, eventually pushing their way under your tank top for better access. A low hiss escapes Johnny’s lips as your breasts fall free of the camisole.

“Fuck, bonnie. Can I taste ye? Please? Need ye so bad.” Johnny groans in your ear. “Please.”

How could you ever say no to him? He doesn’t even have to ask, really.

He repositions you on your back, tucking a pillow under your hips. Ever the considerate type. His fingers hook in your panties, a low, pleased rumble echoing through his chest as he shucks off the soaked fabric.

No matter what he’s doing, Johnny’s eyes always find yours. He could be across the most crowded room in the world and, imminently, they’ll find yours. They crinkle at the sides with his smile that pulls the scar on his chin.

“So pretty fer me.” He murmurs, lowering himself between your thighs as he bites and kisses up the soft flesh between your legs.

Johnny is a lot of things, and a total much is easily near the top of the list. Maybe number one, even. He presses his face into your cunt - mouthing over your clit and dragging his tongue down between your lips. It’s almost more for him, you think, the way he drags his tongue through the crease between your thigh and pussy. You can’t complain - you would be a fool to with the way he absolutely worships your body.

A harsh suck to your clit as your back arching. Strong arms wrap around your thick thighs to hold you down as he devours you.

“Taste so good, lass. Sweet as fuckin’ candy.” He moans against your cunt.

“Johnny!” You gasp, hand tangling in his overgrown mohawk. A low moan pulls out of you as he licks from your back hole to your clit before stuffing his tongue as deep in your pussy as he can. Chants of obscenities and pleading and oh, god, Johnny please you’re so good fall from your lips.

You know better than to try to hide your sounds. If he could he’d devour them just as much as he already does you - inject them straight in his veins to live there forever. Two fingers push into you, the stretch causing you to gasp. Johnny chuckles as you buck into the touch. The fingers curl directly up into that spot inside you as he nips at your clit.

Your climax hits you like a train - stars blooming behind your eyes and your back arching sharply. You’re always so sensitive after he’s been gone. So ready to have him again.

“Thassit, tha’s my good girl.” Johnny kisses up your thigh, working you through your orgasm with his fingers. “Ready fer me, baby? Missed this pretty cunt so bad - thought about her every day.”

You nod excitedly - mind too fuzzy and content to come up with the words to respond. Lazily, Johnny reaches over to the nightstand to grab a condom. He knows your home, like you, inside and out. Every nook and cranny might as well be his.

It could be his.

It should be his.

Johnny cups your cheek, kissing you slow and deep. His tongue parting your lips gently before exploring every inch of your mouth. Those rough hands trail down your body with reverence. One going from your cheek, to your sternum, over your belly to sink into the softness of your waist. The other holds tight on your hip as he lines up.

You gasp and moan against each other as he pushes in. The stretch is delicious. Your nails sink into his strong back.

“Practically made fer me, bonnie.” He groans as he moves. It’s slow, languid.

He’s so beautiful. Always has been. No matter how he changes - new hair, new scars, new tattoos - he’s still beautiful. The prettiest man you’ve ever met. You run your fingers through the downey layer of dark hair over his chest - tracing the outlines of his muscles, up over his thick shoulders to cup his cheek.

Your bodies move together easily - a well practiced dance that you’ve perfected over the years.

“Christ.” Johnny gasps into your ear - strong forearms bracket your head, burying you under him. “I lov-“

You turn your head, catching his lips in a kiss. It’s terrible of you, you’re sure, but there’s nothing those words can communicate that a well timed gasp or a perfectly placed caress can’t say better. His nose knocks against yours, your hands travel all over him, seeking out any purchase they can find.

It turns desperate. A clawing need as you rediscover each other for the millionth time. Wet, open mouth kisses against each others skin and bodies moving perfectly in tandem. The light high from smoking leaves your skin warm and buzzing with electricity. It borders on overstimulating - just barely this side of too much.

“Johnny…” You whine, tilting your head back.

“Aye?” He pants, laving at your clavicle. “Gonnae cum f’me? Cream all over my fuckin’ cock?”

All you can manage is a keen, teeth sinking into his shoulder to hide you face form him. A hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down to stare up at him.

“Eyes on me, hen. Want - ah - want ye lookin’ at me when I make ye cum.”

It’s too intense. It always is looking into those baby blues. As if they can see right through to the most buried parts of yourself. Johnny shifts your hips up ever so slightly, the new angle bullying his head against your g-spot with each thrust. Your nails claw across his shoulder blades.

It doesn’t take long before you’re careening over the edge with him, bodies tensing against each other. Clenching down around him like a vice while you gasp for air.

“There she is. Tha’s my girl.” Johnny murmurs against your lips, still rocking into you in short, sloppy motions. Just to drag it out a little longer until you whine at the overstimulation.

You let yourself lay back to catch your breath, floating back to earth while Johnny disappears to toss the condom in the trash. He’s back nearly as fast as he left, pulling you against his chest and burying you both under the soft sheets of your bed.

“Shower?” Johnny whispers into your hair, eventually. You nod against his chest, slowly peeling yourselves apart. Your fingers remain tangled all the way to the bathroom.

He whirls you after you turn on the shower, kissing you slow and deep as you wait for the water to warm up. A warm hand splash across your lower back - keeping you close. You’re left breathless when he finally pulls back, pupils blown so wide in the low evening light that you can hardly see the blue of his eyes.

You sigh to yourself as you step into the shower, grateful that you splurged on the apartment with the especially large bathroom. It definitely wasn’t with Johnny in mind. You’d never make your decisions based around such a nebulous relationship.

Not the size of your bathroom - enough to fit both your wide frame and his broad shoulders.

Not the location of your apartment - only a few blocks from his.

Not keeping his favorite snacks stocked at all times just in case he comes home early.

Not referring to your apartment as his home.

“Lean down a bit.” You smile, pouring a glob of shampoo into your hand for him. Johnny’s always been picky about his hair care. You always make sure it’s on hand in your bathroom.

He does the same for you, of course, when he can, but somehow you both always end up at your place instead. Not that you’d ever complain. You like your place. It’s safe. Warm. A cocoon away from all the parts of the world that have scarred you so deeply.

Johnny groans happily as you scratch his scalp, the quality shampoo cleaning far more deeply than any of that standard issue stuff he gets on deployment ever could. You watch the suds slowly drip down over the lines of his back, breath catching as your eyes settle on a nasty, raised patch of skin you hadn’t seen before.

It looks like a chunk got ripped out of his back, right under his ribs.

“Johnny.” You gasp.

“Hm?” He looks over his shoulder at you, brows raising as he realizes what you’re looking at. “Oh tha’? It’s nothin’. Just go’ a bit knocked around, remember?”

You bite your lip, tamping down the rising fear in your gut. “D-does it hurt?”

“I’m fine, lovie.” Johnny turns, giving you that sparkling, million dollar grin. He knows it scares you, shakes you to the core.

You’ve already lost everyone else in your life, having the ever present threat of losing Johnny as well is too much to handle sometimes. It keeps you up at night, when he’s away, imagining all the worst that could happen to him.

How easy it would be for a simple bullet or knife to shatter your world.

That’s why the two of you keep up this little arrangement. This song and dance at arms length. To spare you. Both of you. Either when he doesn’t come back or you break and run.

You won’t run, though. As much as it hurts, the good is too good to give up. You’ll stay through it all, with just enough distance to keep your sanity.

“Ye with me?” Johnny asks gently, slowly pulling you out of your thoughts and back into the moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Long week.” You lie, leaning up on your tip toes to plant a small kiss in the corner of his mouth.

He hums, turning to meet your lips. You let yourself fall into him, fingers running through the hair on his chest, up to the back of his neck. He just feels right under your hands. Perfectly molded to press up against you - hard muscle to balance out the softness of your body. Angles and curves. Push and pull. Sun and moon.

Holy hell, you’ve become a sap.

“Sit.” You point to the chair you drug into the bathroom and Johnny happily plops down - big, fluffy towels tied around your chest and waist respectively. A content smile settles across his face as you slowly work your way across his scalp with the electric razor. You let your fingers to scrape along after you just the way he likes.

When you were young, you watched your mother cut your fathers hair. It seemed so subservient to you. Shameful, almost. You said you’d die before doing that for any man.

You carefully raise each section of his mo-hawk, cutting it down to the exact length Johnny likes to style it. A little on the short side, actually, so that it has time to grow before looking messy. Shearing the sides and taking extra care around his ears. He doesn’t need any more nicks or scars.

Johnny suddenly looks pensive as he watches you in the mirror - carefully taking in each of your movements.

“You’re worrying.” You murmur.

“I-“ He sighs. “It’s nothin’.”

“Johnny.” You level your gaze on his in the mirror, he looks off to the side.

“I’m just- I cannae-“ He sighs. “I miss ye.”

You snort. “I’m right here.”

Johnny shrugs. For once, he stops talking. You hate when he does. It’s the only true hallmark that something is wrong.

“Johnny-“

“Do ye want tae hear a new Ghost joke?” He interrupts. It’s an out. You’ll let him have it.

“Lay it on me.”

“Whit’s the difference between the bird flu and the swine flue?”

“What?”

“One requires tweetment an’ the other requires oinkment.”

A huffy laugh escapes you despite yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“Aye. Imagine listenin’ tae that in a life or death situation. Could be the last thing I hear!”

You giggle, finishing up with shaping the edges of his hairline. “How is it?”

Johnny stands, leaning close to the mirror and running a hand over his hair. Your eyes lock onto that newly forming scar again. It makes your throat feel tight.

He stretches his arms way over his head with a groan. “Think it’s time f’some proper lazin’ about.”

The rest of the night goes by as they usually do when he gets home. Indian take out, a romcom in the background, another round of fucking. Or two. It’s near eleven when you finally settle into the sheets, Johnny long asleep beside you. Comfortably snoring with that angelic peacefulness you only ever see in his sleep.

Will he look that peaceful if he dies?

The thought makes you want to throw up.

It takes all your mental fortitude to push that train of thought away. Opting to lay beside him, eyes flicking across his features as you attempt to memorize them all. The curve of his strong brow, the arch of his nose, the slight part in his lips as he sleeps. Your thumb traces the scar on his chin while you cup his cheek. As if sensing your current state - and, if you’re honest with yourself, you’re sure he can - a strong arm wraps around you to lock you against his chest. You let your legs tangle, breathing him in and following the pattern of the rise and fall of his chest. Real and tangible under your hands.

You’re just so glad that, at least right now, he’s home.

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theunderestimator-2 · 7 months

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Writer/photographer/performer/club promoter and legend of New York's art & club circuits Gerry Visco, here shot by her friend, DJ & photographer Bobby Busnach in a SEX Cowboys t-shirt and leather miniskirt at the Park Royal, NYC, back in 1976.

According to Paul Gorman 's source post on his site: "…We lived at The Park Royal,” says Visco, who later appeared in Woody Allen’s 1980 movie Stardust Memories. “It didn’t have a cool scene. It was a residential hotel in a neighborhood on the Upper West Side which at the time was considered somewhat dangerous, a la Panic In Needle Park, but we lived across from The Dakota, where we often caught glimpses of people like John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Mia Farrow, Lauren Bacall, Roberta Flack and other celebrities.” From the turn of the 70s Busnach and Visco socialised in Boston and Manhattan as prominent figures in the gay disco and post-glam/pre-punk crowds. Meantime Busnach’s experiences as a DJ placed him dead centre of the scene out of which hip-hop grew. Visco attended New York’s Fashion Institute Of Technology and wore her own designs. She also sourced clothes from such labels as Fiorucci, Charles Jourdan and Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s SEX, which was sold through Ian’s at East 61st Street and Second Avenue. “Keep in mind that I am an UPTOWN BITCH – always have been and always will be!”exclaims Visco. “Downtown is for POSERS. Ha ha. The Ian’s on the UES was really good – the owner was always there and I bought some great stuff. I also worked in Macy’s briefly in the early 1980s in the cosmetics buying office. “As well as Ian’s I bought a lot of my clothes in vintage shops and at Henri Bendel’s, Bloomingdale’s and Bergdorf Goodman,” adds Visco, who also visited the UK where she bought McLaren/Westwood designs direct at 430 King’s Road…"

(via)

#gerry visco #bobby busnach #malcolm mclaren #nyc #paul gorman #early punk sene #punk fashion #people

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timeagainreviews · 3 months

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Doctor Who isn't Dead Yet

Last month “Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga,” made headlines for having the lowest box office numbers on Memorial Day weekend. This is in spite of also being number one at the box office, just beating out “The Garfield Movie.” The movie was a certified flop, which is a shame because it’s stupendous (seriously, watch it sometime if you haven’t.) I saw it a week after its release and already it had been relegated to the smallest theatre in the complex with only two screenings on a Friday. This small theatre had maybe eight people in attendance. To look at it, you would have to agree with those who say cinema is dying. It’s ironic then that Sutekh’s gift of death is what appears to have breathed a lot of life into my local cinema over the weekend.

To celebrate the Doctor Who season one finale, the BBC opted to show it in theatres across the UK. The screening began at eleven o’clock with “The Legend of Ruby Sunday,” and followed into midnight with “Empire of Death.” As we arrived, I saw many happy Whovians in cosplay buzzing with excited energy. The lobby was full of people in Tom Baker scarves and blue TARDIS t-shirts chattering away about their fan theories while they loaded up on snacks. The person dressed like the Fourteenth Doctor sitting in front of me was bouncing in their seat so much that I kept getting glimpses of David Tennant hair in my periphery. Needless to say, people were very excited. I don’t know if it was the fact that it was nearly 1 AM, but I did not see that same energy on the way out. So what happened?

It’s no secret that the overall fan reaction to RTD’s finale episode is one of being very underwhelmed. I even used that exact word to my friends on the way out of the theatre. I chose that word carefully. I didn’t want to imply that I hated it, because I didn’t. But after an entire season of build-up, I expected certain conditions to have been met. I’ve mentioned in the past that one of the benefits of this new midnight release schedule is that I often watch the episodes more than once. I find this helpful because the second viewing always allows me the opportunity to view the story divorced from my own expectations. But I have to ask- were my expectations so unfounded to begin with? Where did they come from if not the show itself?

Recently in an interview, Russell T Davies stated that he has been writing Doctor Who in such a way that it would generate a buzz on the internet. If people were talking about it, then maybe people would start watching it. While I am sure this method can increase engagement, it also has its shortcomings. Trickling information is all well in good, but when is it not enough? There is a point where teasing becomes more tedious than tantalising. Just look at Steven Moffat and Trenzalore- a concept that got so dragged out that by the time we finally got there, it was hard to care. Another downside is that it also raises people’s expectations to such a degree that it can be hard to meet said expectations.

Had this episode been written by Steven Moffat, we wouldn’t have picked up right back where we had left off. We’d have probably begun the episode on Agua Santina with the Doctor receiving the spoon from the kind woman. But this is more of a classic Doctor Who-style episode where the cliffhanger continues along. Last week I had guessed that Sutekh was a sort of trinity of Susan Triad, his jackal aspect, and Ruby Sunday. But as we learn in this story, not only is Ruby not related to Sutekh, but Susan Triad is no more Sutekh than Harriet Argbinger. That is not to say that she is any less dangerous in this moment. She holds out her hand to spread the dust of death which quickly begins to envelop London, then the world, and eventually, the universe, or at least the places where the Doctor has visited.

I rather liked the getaway scene with the Doctor and Mel. It was great to see Mel taking control of the situation. The Doctor almost feels like the companion following her away from danger. Her “Come on, cowboy!” line was so good. Once again, I really like what they’re doing with Mel in this season. The fact that she could have been this person in classic Doctor Who really annoys me that she wasn’t. While I grew to appreciate classic Mel in her own right, I’ll take modern-day UNIT Mel over screaming Mel any day. Bonnie Langford is coming here to Glasgow Film and Comic Con in August and I fully expect her line to be longer than when I saw her in 2015. She has been a highlight of this season and I fully did not expect to love her return as much as I have.

As the dust spreads through London, UNIT is still reacting to the presence of Sutekh wrapped around the TARDIS. Last week my friend said to me about Morris’ segway “How much do you want to bet that thing shoots lasers?” And sure enough, it shoots something. The UNIT team unload holy hell on Sutekh and Harriet, but nothing lands. Before getting in a little reference to her father, Kate Lethbridge-Stewart and her team are reduced to dust. Even the Vlinx’s head pops off, so not even robots are safe. Once again, the RTD2 era has borrowed from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. As Sutekh’s dust of death spread across the globe causing people to disintegrate, I leaned over to my wife and said “Mister Stark, I don’t feel so good,” in reference to the Thanos snap. Whatever. Marvel doesn’t own disintegration.

We see Mrs Flood and Cherry get swept up in the dust. Before she dies, Mrs Flood delivers some cryptic words that lead me to think she’s more than just a Time Lord but something far more powerful. However, she’s not so powerful as to avoid Sutekh’s gift. It’s hard to say just what is happening there, so I am not even going to attempt it. The Doctor and Mel find their way through the dust back to UNIT HQ where Ruby is still standing in the time window. Last week I mentioned that the memory of a TARDIS could become the Memory TARDIS from “Tales of the TARDIS,” and boy was I right. I love being right, especially after being wrong all season. I still want someone to be the Rani. At this point, they’re just messing with me.

Before we move along, I do want to call out an aspect of the dust scene that bothers me, and that’s Carla. Last week we saw Ruby tell Carla that she needed to either help or get out of the way. Historically, this would be where someone like Jackie Tyler would find some way to be helpful. I half expected a moment where it feels like all is lost until Carla comes out of nowhere like Ric Flair with a steel chair, saving our heroes from certain doom. It could have even been a self-sacrifice moment where she is still turned to dust. It would have been tragic and fuelled the Doctor and Ruby’s resolve. Instead, we see her in a cab on her way home after having witnessed her daughter's memories invoke the devil. What was even the point of her saying “Well, if your mother's part of it then, Ruby, you can tell her your mother is too,” if they do nothing with it? It felt so out of character for her to up and leave Ruby behind like that, and I feel like that lies solely at Davies’ feet.

It’s funny to me that in the lead-up to “Empire of Death,” people were saying “I hope they explain how Sutekh escaped the time vortex.” Mostly because it hardly matters, but also because they rarely explain how the Master or Davros escape death time and time again. Why is Sutekh any different? What is funny is that Sutekh escapes dying of old age in the time vortex by hitching a ride through the time vortex for thousands of years. Instead of dying, this just makes him stronger. He goes from an Osiran to a full-blown Titan. Sutekh reveals to the Doctor that Susan Triad was an aspect of the Doctor’s granddaughter who he had learned about while integrating himself with the TARDIS. He peppers these aspects of Susan throughout the universe wherever the Doctor lands. However, other than sharing a name, I don’t understand what Susan Triad has to do with Susan Foreman. They’re both brilliant and kind, but is this implying that Susan Triad is what the Doctor’s granddaughter might regenerate into? It’s a bit confusing.

After using Ruby’s memory to fully materialise the Memory TARDIS, the Doctor and his two companions escape Sutekh’s grasp, but even the Doctor senses that maybe Sutekh is keeping them alive. The visual of Sutekh sitting atop the TARDIS in his silent empire of death is an arresting one. I appreciated the sound design allowing the audience to really feel that silence. No music. No people. Nothing. Though on a scientific level, it does strike me as a bit odd that the entire universe is now dead. The Doctor may have had thousands of adventures across time and space, but I have to imagine there are countless planets out there which remained untouched by Sutekh’s dust. But I’m willing to suspend disbelief in this instance.

After tying the Memory TARDIS together with intelligent rope, the Doctor, Ruby, and Mel, drift aimlessly in the Memory TARDIS. It’s uncertain how long they travel this way, but they manage to fit a costume change for the Doctor and an entire episode of “Tales of the TARDIS,” in there. Carrying a television screen still linked with the time window, we learn that the time window is still obeying Ruby’s commands as it had last week. Originally I had suspected this was because she was some sort of aspect of Sutekh, but as we have now learned, it’s simply Sutekh aiding Ruby’s search for her mother. After using the screen to explain to Ruby who and what Sutekh is, the screen also begins to show the Doctor and Ruby a way forward in the form of Roger ap Gwilliam. Meanwhile, Mel is being tracked by Sutekh through the dead cells in her body.

The scene on Agua Santina with the Doctor and the Kind Woman played by Sian Clifford was one of the strongest moments in the episode for me. We had watched the death wave spread across the earth, but this was a way to see how it affected people on an individual basis. Because the death wave happened at multiple points in time, we were able to see how it manifests from multiple angles. Having established the analogous relationship between time and memory, we can see how memory may begin to fade before life. People may still exist, but they won’t remember the name of their birth city because the person who would have named it died before they were able. But even more chilling is how the death wave doesn’t just travel up through bloodlines, but backwards as well. There’s an undeniable cruelty to making a woman have to experience losing her child before experiencing the same fate. It’s evil for evil’s sake and proof that Sutekh isn’t just an arbiter of death, but a demon as well.

The Kind Woman gifts the Doctor a spoon which he promises her he will use to save the universe. Fans of the Twelfth Doctor will have gotten excited by this promise as we’ve seen what the Doctor can do with a spoon. Instead, the Doctor uses it for metal, and possibly not even for metal, but for the memories within the metal. I found this all very weird as they literally showed Mel holding the Thirteenth Doctor’s sonic screwdriver which is not only made of metal, but several spoons. Was there really nothing on the Memory TARDIS with enough memory to jam into that TV screen? It’s a weird series of events punctuated by yet another weird occurrence when the Memory TARDIS gifts the Doctor with a whistle like we’re supposed to know why it’s significant. Nothing in the history of Doctor Who has been controlled by a whistle other than K9. Yet the Doctor puts it around his neck like it makes total sense and isn’t just some non-sequitur moment.

I said last week that I was waiting for “Empire of Death,” before I could fully know how I felt about “The Legend of Ruby Sunday.” Sometimes, a follow-up episode can enrich the experience of a previous story, while other times it can sully it a bit. You can imagine then my surprise when the episode that was sullied wasn’t “The Legend of Ruby Sunday,” but rather “73 Yards,” instead. My takeaway from “73 Yards,” was that the Doctor stepped on the fairy ring, releasing Mad Jack and setting the events of the story into motion. Ruby would then use the semper distans woman to scare away Roger ap Gwilliam and then again to save the Doctor. The Doctor doesn’t stand on the fairy circle, and Mad Jack never escapes. So if Roger ap Gwilliam still exists in the future, what was the point of any of of “73 Yards”? This doesn’t feel “wibbly wobbly, timey wimey,” as much as it feels “wibbly wobbly, shitty witty.” It just feels messy.

The Doctor tells Ruby and Mel that in 2046, DNA cataloguing became compulsory to anyone living in the UK. It feels on brand with Roger ap Gwilliam’s xenophobic platform, so no problems there. Meanwhile, Mel is being used like a spy, but the Doctor has been wary of her since she started appearing exhausted on the Memory TARDIS. The Doctor takes a blood sample from Ruby but just as they get a match on the DNA database, Evil Mel takes the wheel and transports them back to UNIT HQ leaving the Memory TARDIS behind. Finally, Sutekh has the information he needs to learn the name of Ruby’s mother. He will now learn how this unknown person has been able to thwart his gift of death and avoid detection.

What happens next is probably the weakest part of the entire episode. The Doctor and Ruby manage to fool Sutekh into thinking they are about to tell him Ruby’s mother’s identity, but it’s only so Ruby can get close enough to slap some intelligent rope around his collar. Why this feels weak to me is that it means somehow the Doctor and Ruby managed to squirrel away intelligent rope before exiting the Memory TARDIS. This means they would have had to do this without Mel noticing. And while I get that it’s intelligent rope, they basically pull it out of their asses because it’s nowhere to be seen. The fact that intelligent rope is a McGuffin that’s a callback to a pair of gloves many of us will have forgotten since the Christmas episode makes this moment all the weaker. The Doctor then uses his whistle in yet another McGuffin moment that allows him to control the TARDIS and shoot Harriet out the door. With the TARDIS finally back in the Doctor’s control, it’s time to take doggo for walkies!

The Doctor drags Sutekh through the Time Vortex bringing death to death, which causes life. Miraculously, if not luckily, people who we had watched die to the dust are now alive again. Colonel Chidozie is back. The Vlinx’s head is reattached somehow. And Cherry whose final memory of Mrs Flood was of her being cryptic and creepy is so happy to be alive again that she’s hugging the creepy old freak regardless. Cool. Not weird at all. Just people acting like real people. I don’t understand Cherry. She thinks the Doctor is trouble, but Mrs Flood is totally normal. What is it with these last two episodes and getting both Carla and Cherry’s characters so wrong? What gives, Russell?

The Doctor then does the right thing and cuts the intelligent rope, causing Sutekh to burn away in the Time Vortex. I guess this time it’s deadly because he’s not integrated with the TARDIS. That’s my best bet. I’m also willing to bet that the reason it snowed around Ruby and played Christmas music in her presence was due to Sutekh’s influence. He wanted to know the answer so badly that the memory manifested around her any time she got close to it. This is just speculation on my behalf, but it makes enough sense.

Speaking of Ruby’s birth mother (and not her real mother as they kept calling her) UNIT is able to find out who Ruby’s mother is, and she’s just some lady. I know some people were mad about this and I guess I can see why. There was so much emphasis on who her mother was that for it to be nobody special must have been a disappointment. Personally, I thought it was the least interesting mystery of the entire season. I get that she wanted to know who her birth mother was, but I was never emotionally invested in the storyline. The only thing that made it sort of interesting was the idea that there was a reason it was a big deal. You can’t feign surprise when audiences expect something to be big when it’s you who told us to feel that way.

What I find strangest about Ruby’s mother is the way she points at the sign that says Ruby Road. First of all, why the hell was she standing like that? As body language goes, she looks less like she’s naming her child, and more like she’s marking the Doctor for death. Furthermore, why is she dressed like she’s about to hitch a ride on Shai-Hulud? But even weirder is how Ruby even ended up with the name Ruby. Ruby says “I always thought I was called Ruby because the social workers chose it or the paramedics or whatever. But, no, it was her.” But literally the only person who would have seen her pointing was the Doctor, and he left immediately after. So it really was the social workers who chose it or the paramedics or whatever. It feels less like she was pointing to name Ruby, and more like she was pointing to get the internet rumour mill buzzing. It worked, but at what cost?

Ruby finally meets her birth mother in a coffee shop. She’s a nice woman named Louise Miller who looks a lot like Lucie Miller, but I’ve learned my lesson this season with getting my hopes up. While Ruby and Louise embrace for the first time, the Doctor looks on remembering the granddaughter he left behind. Divorced from the hype, I’m fine with Ruby’s mum being nobody special. While I wasn’t a huge fan of Rian Johnson’s “The Last Jedi,” one aspect I really enjoyed was that Rey’s parents were just a couple of nobodies. It reinforced the idea that a Jedi can come from anywhere. Ruby doesn’t have to be anyone special for us to care about her. Unfortunately, so much of her story was tied up in this because ultimately, it did hurt her character development. I’d like to think that this is all part of the growing pains in finding a new equilibrium of fan excitement and good storytelling.

The Doctor knows he and Ruby must part ways. She has a whole new chapter of her life to explore and he would only get in the way. I mentioned after “Rogue” that Ruby was reminding the Doctor to embrace his human side, and here it is all over again. She has reminded him of the importance of family. He lets Ruby go because he can see that her need for a place to belong is greater than his need to have a travelling companion. Even if Ruby can’t see it right away, the Doctor is right. Their time together has come to an end. While Ruby has left the TARDIS, you do get the impression that we’ll see her again. There have been rumours that Millie Gibson has filmed some of season two, so don’t be surprised if we do see more of Ruby Sunday.

On a second viewing, I liked this episode a lot more than the first time. Like I said, divorced from my own expectations, I could see the episode for what it is. But the audience’s underwhelmed reaction is partly the fault of Davies’ machinations to get the internet talking about Doctor Who. He spends an entire season talking about the Doctor’s granddaughter Susan, but the only time we see Carole Ann Ford is in a flashback of her face with zero dialogue. We’re led to believe Mrs Flood is going to be something, but every time we feel like she is about to reveal some more information, she gives us more of the same tired bullshit she’s been doing since the first time we saw her. It begins to feel like television done in the same model as live service games. Keep subscribing. Stick around for additional content. Things trickle out over a gruelling pace. They gave us answers, but it feels like they could have given us more. Who was the Boss the Meep referred to? Is it the same Boss as the one giving Rogue so much paperwork? Will Susan actually appear at some point? Who is Mrs Flood and why is she always dressing like the Doctor’s companions? Instead, we learned who Ruby’s birth mother was, which, as I said, was the least interesting mystery of them all.

I do hope that these are just Davies and Co. finding their footing. The previous first season with Christopher Eccleston had a lot of experimentation as well. I somewhat wish that they had waited to see fan reactions before filming so much of season two. It might have done them some good to see people’s reactions to some of their big changes. I’m as rainy day a fan as rainy day fans get and even I felt they missed the mark on occasion. I think in trying to court a younger audience they lost a little of the essence of what made the show so appealing in the first place. Good writing and unique situations are the bedrock of Doctor Who. It doesn’t need to be Star Wars or Marvel. The fact that Doctor Who isn’t those things is why I love it so much. I can’t be alone in that.

The Christmas special is next. Followed by season two. After that, who knows? While Doctor Who has been number five in streaming drama, it hasn’t quite done the numbers Disney and Davies were hoping for. The show haemorrhaged viewers during the Chibnall era and even more when culture war pissants cried foul over trans actors and Davros redesigns. But it’s also just a symptom of the times we live in. Television is changing. People prefer short-form videos in portrait mode. The glut of streaming services is pushing away consumers while AI threatens to replace writers and artists alike. I’m reminded of Alan Moore when he said “I believe that our culture is turning to steam.” It’s important now more than ever that we continue consuming art made by real people. Regardless of whether you felt underwhelmed with the finale, keep watching Doctor Who. Show it to your friends. Host watch parties. Go see it when they play it in the theatres. Rewatch it when you’re feeling blue. Keep making fan art. Keep writing fanfic. Keep voicing your reactions, good and bad. Get over petty fandom squabbles. Because there may come a day soon when there is no new Doctor Who to get upset over.

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datadegroove · 2 months

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people in american movies and tv always dress like they live in like iceland or the uk or something it's very stupid for as often as everything seems to take place in the summertime it's fucking hot pretty much everywhere in the US in summer you'd be fucked to not wear a t shirt

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sweetdreamsjeff · 1 month

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Jeff Buckley: They Don't Even Know Me Yet

Martin Aston, MOJO, January 2003

In 1992 Jeff Buckley gave his first ever press interview. A decade later, MOJO unearths this incredible, little-seen document.

AUTUMN IN NEW YORK, 1992. A tiny East Village cafe, the Sin-e. It's packed, but there's a seat near the very front, under the singer's nose. His, eyes are clenched shut. He's nervous, edgy, but it's a truly memorable show; jittery, comical, thrilling, mesmeric. When he's singing the voice is pure, stretching high-low, curling around a song. He closes on a song that could very well be a lullaby, and your eyes close with his.

Three days later, in another tiny cafe, via a mutual friend who knows Tim Buckley is your all-time favourite singer, and who told you, 'You gotta hear his son', you meet Jeff. He's dressed down — plaid shirt, jeans — which draws you to the face; short, thatched hair, looming eyes, rich lips, a wary expression. It's his first ever interview, and he's nervous, defensive. The first thing he says, almost before handshakes, is whether you're here purely because of Tim. No, but then again, yes. He accepts that there's little point writing about Jeff simply because you love Tim, any more than you can avoid Tim because of Jeff. In the end, only Dutch magazine OOR takes a chance on an interview with a total unknown: based, of course, on the familial connection to Tim. The interview is never published in the UK. By the time everyone catches up with Jeff the interview is out of date. But now, given his death and enshrined appeal, it's timeless.

When did music first make an impact on you?

As a child. There was my mother's breasts and then there was music. It felt like another person in the house that floated with me everywhere. All my life, I've sung along to the radio, stuff like [Spiral Staircase's] 'I Love You More Today Than Yesterday'. My mum would drive me to school, playing mellow Californian radio, stuff like Chicago, Crosby Stills and Nash, Blood Sweat and Tears, Sly and the Family Stone, James Brown, The Temptations, every day! She married a car mechanic, who couldn't carry a tune, but he had amazing taste and he turned me on to Booker T, Led Zeppelin and Joni Mitchell, Hoyt Axton and Willie Nelson. My mum pretty much sung to me — she's a classically-trained pianist and cellist. So it was mainly me and my mum, because my parents split before I was born. I hung around my grandmother too — she'd play me stuff like The Chambers Brothers.

It's rare to hear someone smitten with both traditional blues and modern blues. I'm thinking of your cover of 'Fare Thee Well'.

That's Dink's Song. It was originally written by a washerwoman. That's where the best music came from, from old European-American criminals bringing Africans to America. My favourites are Robert Johnson and Bukka White, The Staple Singers, Billie Holiday. I cover 'Strange Fruit', too. I figured I wouldn't be able to meet these people, so I learn from them by hearing them sing. Some of the coolest music is Johnny Cash, which isn't a black or white thing. I love Mariachi music, Ray Charles, Edith Piaf, the Sex Pistols, Muddy Waters…I just saw gifts dangling from them and wanted to take it. I guess I want to be an archetypal entertainer, an archetypal bard, a minstrel. I guess I have a romantic vision. Even though punk happened to me, and Robert Johnson, I want to be a realty good storyteller, and those songs have great stories.

What do you love about 'Twelfth Of Never'?

I cover the Nina Simone version. It's just the way she does it. I can't get into Elvis's version, it doesn't capture my imagination, though he had a beautiful voice. Every time I hear 'Can't Help Falling In Love', I cry. I can't separate Charles Manson from The Beatles or the Clambake movie from Elvis, though. But I love all music. I'm the Cocteau Twins' biggest fan, too. They allow their deepest eccentricities to be the music itself, and not just something they want to project. Liz Fraser is one of the only originals. They're just regular people, too. I got to meet her once, she was very shy, which puts a weird curve on music as well. Imagine that sound coming out of her mouth when she's in the kitchen scrambling eggs.

Was music your first true love?

Besides sex? One surrounds the other. I can remember being obsessed with my stepfather's stereo, getting into trouble for using it. He was really possessive of control over it, like a car. It was expensive equipment, so I was really careful. Then one day, I wanted to listen to a live bootleg of Jimi Hendrix, and he went mad. I had a tape player in my room, I shared it with another kid in the family. You had to stick a hanger in it for it to work.

How do you feel when you open your mouth and sing?

Like it's real. I feel like crying. I feel like I am crying! It's the middle point between laughing and immense joy and crying. I feel the best when I'm singing.

When did you start?

In front of an audience at a family get-together. My stepfather got drunk and fell asleep in front of everyone, and my grandmother got really embarrassed, so to direct attention away from him, I sung every Elton John song I knew. I was a huge fan then. They gave me some silver dollars for doing it. I was 13 (laughs). My friend and I started play electric guitars, you know, 'Stairway To Heaven', for a talent show at junior high school. We lost…We were living in southern California then. I later had a band in northern California, in Willetts, called Axxis. It wasn't my idea. It's one of the 19 cities I've lived in, I attended four high schools. One I spent two weeks in. My mum was quite a gypsy.

What did you make of your own voice?

I hated it, but I got over it. I'm horribly self-critical. I think the first time I heard it, I thought no way could I ever keep anything from anyone, it was all there in the voice. Some ways that people sing, they put it across in language, and it's almost impossible, because they have a wall between them and the expression. I'm trying to get deeper in the hole, trying to learn things when I hear voices.

Did the concept of singing on a stage come easily to you?

It was totally natural, I just did it. It was like going to the beach, like, I'm going into the ocean! I never thought about it. I first sang at a dance in Northern California Methodist Church, to high school kids. When I was 13, I already knew what I wanted to do. My all-time favourite was Led Zeppelin, and I knew I wanted to belong to that. In the '70s, there was an overspill of rock life, which becomes coffee table material, with books on Kiss and rock stars on TV. I knew it was possible for some people to do it for a living. I spent hours listening to Magical Mystery Tour. I felt like an archaeologist, which is fine, because I liked dinosaurs! But that was the wrong direction.

I left home when I was 17, because I was tired of moving around. I played in lots of LA bands, just to make money. There was a reggae band for a while, The AKB Band, a rag-tag motley crew, with one rasta guy. I played guitar. We ended up backing up U-Roy, Shinehead and Judy Mowatt, and at the Bob Marley day at Long Beach. We did cheesy session work for demos, too.

What did the experience teach you?

The simplicity. I guess it didn't teach me much at the time. It's like your parents telling you what not to do. But Pablo, the rasta, everything he said about playing makes sense now. Forget the next band. I then decided not to spread myself that thin. I didn't like southern California, LA especially. Hollywood isn't a real town, but that's the reality of it. I'd wanted to see New York since I saw it on TV when I was 12, to experience the energy, so I took off in 1990. I got a couple of jobs, and went hungry for a long while, before I got an offer to record songs in LA, so I flew back, and recorded four songs. I went back-and-forth a bit, before I met Gary Lucas at a show in New York, at a tribute show to my father. I thought playing with Gary would be interesting but it turned out to be a disaster. We had two completely different paths…the cart was before the horse. But I learnt to go out and sing, in impossibly intimate settings, when guys are right up against you. You learn how to move a room. The biggest challenge is to put a song across live. The audience shouldn't see your face, or your body, they should just hear you.

Do you enjoy the New York scene?

I dig it. If I was in LA, I wouldn't be doing anything, but here, there's a real respect. There's a respect for anything original. Maybe I'm overpoweringly romanticising New York, but so many amazing things happen here on an ordinary level, like Lou Reed lives here, wow! I first heard him in '76 but he got into my soul, it just takes one time, like Helen Keller…it's just the sound of the song. I was in somebody else's car, feeling lonely. Heroin is so beautiful, like a big black kiss, the way it builds. He sounds like a punk who knows everything. He's got such erudition, but he's not too smart.

What stage are you at right now?

Always at the beginning. I'd love to make a record. Clive Davis at Arista wanted to sign me but he hadn't heard me, it was just on the basis of what his right hand man, the head of A&R, had said. I plan to start from what matters. In September, I'll perform all new material, a lot of covers, and I wanna find people to play with. Yeah, a band, just because of the certain feeling I need. An energy.

Can I raise the delicate matter of your dad, Tim?

Sometimes, with people who knew him, they've come for a nice night out, but they see me, they don't think about him. Those who do, I don't hang around them. We're different. The people who knew him, they have apparently a very magic memory, but it's been a claustrophobic thing all my life. I knew him for a total of nine days. He never wrote, never called.

Do people claim that you're just your father's son?

If anyone mentions that, I walk. If I go to a club, and some writer uses that area, then I rip the shit down and say, Fuck you, see you later, we can talk about this next time, because I'm on my own.

Do you listen to his records?

Yeah, mostly to learn about him as a person. He wrote a couple of songs about me and my mother, which is sometimes tough. His style has nothing to do with what I do. It's funny that we were born with the same parts, but when I sing, it's me. Technically, I can do what he did, but our expression is not the same, it's a completely different sphere. His was a different time, influenced by Dylan and the folkies. I don't even talk like him. But I can do a good impersonation of him, knitting up my eyebrows, which makes people laugh.

As far as music goes, so many people who I know and love, who give me so much, they don't even know me yet. I want to make something completely new. I was into Miles Davis in 1984, he said he could tell when people were paying tribute to him but it was just copying. The only way to pay tribute is to bring something new to the fold. I want to work so hard that everything of me bums away, like the chemical in the match. Which leaves what really is me, or what I think is me. It can be such a joy. Like the Beatles, they were geniuses, you know? Music's like a sign language between people, so when a guy from Iran or America hears The Beatles, they go 'Wow!' They don't think of killing each other. There's something about music that hits the cavemen in us, even more than a speech or painting. I just want to achieve my own vibe. I want to go someplace else. There's more ways of saying 'I love you', more ways of saying 'where the hell do I fit in?', more ways of saying 'why doesn't anyone love me?, 'when is somebody going to want to kiss me?' I'm sick of waiting, waiting to be understood. And it's nothing arty, nothing lofty, it's just fucking different, and I want to leave this world behind a little so that maybe I will see that it's bigger and I haven't left it at all.

#jeff buckley #jeffbuckley #Jeff Buckley: They Don't Even Know Me Yet #Martin Aston #MOJO #January 2003 #1992

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