#Penn Station clock

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Thousands of travelers, most of them men in uniform, pack Pennsylvania Station, waiting for trains to take them home for the holidays, December 22, 1942. Railroads announced that record-breaking crowds were on the move, causing as much as eight-hour delays.

Photo: NY Daily News

#vintage New York #1940s #Penn Station #Christmas travel #wartime #Dec. 22 #22 Dec. #Christmas leave #Penn Station clock

[aphroditesbaby1616]

Sunflower 🌻

Syd x Carmy one-shot

♡ Summary: A/U where after graduating from the CIA at the top of her class, Syd goes on a food tour in NYC & ends up hooking up with the most talented CDC, at the best restaurant in the world.

♡ W/C: 3,434

♡ Posted Date: 04/12/2024

♡ A/N: This is pure filth I tried adding some plot- I hope it turned out the way I saw it in my head. As always requests are open - for SydCarmy, CarmyxReader as usual! I hope you enjoy :)

♡ Warnings for BTC: Smutsmutsmut nsfw 18+ - Oral (m receiving) , Barely edited bc we die like men.

➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡

Sydney Adamu had just graduated top of her class at the Culinary Institute of America. She’d been hunkering down with her dad, for a long four years, she was desperate to get out of there. She already had a plan all set up. 

She’d take the last bit of money her grandfather had given her for college, and make a catering business of her very own. It would be dedicated to her parents, (of course) Syd’s hopeless romanticism was thanks to their perfect, beautiful love story of course. She’d known since sophomore year of culinary school - Sheridan Road would be her baby. 

She’d settled on this idea - with any possible odd’s and ends money she’d made during her CIA training - she’d go out for as long as it would last her. She’d learn, study, and observe, then- create her catering business, with the confidence she’d gotten a taste of the very goal she had, a star. Well - three would be absolutely fucking insanity to her- but one? One she felt like if she had it? Her father would believe she was in a real line of work, instead of just happy she was perusing her own happiness. 

It was the perfect plan in her mind. She’d already set aside the amount of money, with extra safety net, for all of the licensures, and documentation she’d need- as well as her commercial kitchen rental she’d make the food out of. Then - with the extra 5k she had left over, she booked a full food tour of the most prestigious, luxurious restaurants in NYC. 

She’d planned the tour 6 months before she graduated, since the 3 restaurants wouldn’t even accept a reservation if it wasn’t made out any later then that, and when she walked the stage, 3 days later she was on the train into the city. 

She’d be staying at a decent hotel for 12 days. Each day, she’d be having one large meal including an app, two main courses, 2 cocktails, and 1 dessert from a Michelin starred restaurant. She would be staying 4 days for 1 star, 4 for 2 stars, and 4 for 3 stars. 

The schedule was as followed; 

Monday - Hirohisa *

Tuesday - Dirt Candy *

Wednesday - The Musket Room *

Thursday - The Red Paper Clip *

Friday - Atera **

Saturday - Jungsik **

Monday - Saga **

Tuesday - Daniel **

Wednesday - Per Se ***

Thursday - Le Bernadin ***

Friday - Masa ***

Saturday - 11 Madison Park ***

When she’d got off at Penn station- she was nearly vibrating with excitement - she quickly brushed passed people grabbing their obnoxious suitcases in the overhead compartments. 

“Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Fuck- shit sorry- exscuse me!!!- whoops! Sorry- scuse me- aah! Ugh- I Didn’t mean to- oop- oh- Jesus!! Excuse me!!” She rambled, frustration building in her chest. Getting off The L wasn’t this hard- why did Amtrak feel worse?!

She took a deep breath, her nose scrunching. 

Mm. So instead of cow shit - smog, I feel at home already. 

She’d thought to herself as she briskly walks with the crowd towards the exit she meant to take onto fifth. 

She slipped her wired headphones into her ears, texting her father 

‘made it!! Love you daddy!!’

Before opening her Spotify, hitting one of her comfort albums, Broken Clocks, as she walked briskly outside - the crisp city air hitting her like a ton of bricks. 

She leaned against the brick of the McDonald’s next door, avoiding the streams of people going down and up the sidewalk, taking a deep breath. She’d not been to New York before, she’d grown up in Chicago- been to the city more times then she can count, but the suburbs were her home. Being in the city- and let alone- a city like Manhattan versus Chicago- she was looking around, trying to gather her wits - and quickly.  She clicked the maps application on her iPhone 7, tugging her umbrella out of the water bottle pocket of her backpack and tucking it under her arm as she typed the address to her hotel and clicking for the walking directions.

It honestly kind of pissed her off that each day’s food was better than the last. She’d wanted to not give a shit about stars and just focus on giving people an experience to remember - but it was cut & dry that now that she’d tasted this kind of food - she was going to do whatever she could to become as talented as the chefs that made it. 

But - she hadn’t even tried the best yet. 

The best, the best, THE best. 

She honestly couldn’t believe she was going to be trying the food from Eleven Madison Park - but she couldn’t help but be so nervous. Every other Michelin starred restaurant she’d been to - the dress code was Formal attire. But this one? THE best restaurant in the fucking world? Oh- they just say on their website ‘many of our guests dress up for the occasion, but we do not have a dress code’  

Her entire trip, She’d been cycling through 2 very different floor length gowns. One of which she wore to her graduation, and the other she’d found at Windsor on sale but it did the job. She didn’t wear luxury attire often, okay? She was too busy being Culinary school for Christ sakes! And tonight she couldn’t for the life of her choose which one she’d wear. 

This being because she was attending a main dining room tasting, which was ten courses. Easy, luxury dining courses were stupidly small. But- she was also trying their bar tasting menu which was an extra four courses. Sitting at a bar in that stupid fluffy dress for two hours would not be comfortable. But- again- best. restaurant. in. the. WORLD!!! 

She knew for a fact that she would be mad at herself if she got there and everyone around was dressed to the nines, but - for comfortability sake she went with the simple silken red gown. 

The front of house service was literally perfect. She was glad she’d brought a new notebook, because she’d never have had enough space to take all the notes she was taking tonight in the one she’d been using the majority of the trip. Their staff was very casually mannered, and they made it very easy to order. Everything was very calm and comfortable, the furniture felt very luxurious in the sense of comfortability. 

After she just had the best meal of her entire life, she knew she had to speak with the person who made it. Her mind was blown for lack of a better word. The food was fucking incredible. She had a rule to keep herself able to taste as much as possible: she was only allowed one bite of each dish, but here- she couldn’t just limit herself to one. Each dish she was taking 2 even 3 bites- but when she got to the sunflower dish? It was brilliant. She finished every bite, she couldn’t not. It would be sinful to waste it. And the only thing on her mind was that she had to talk to the chef who’d made it.

Her waiter comes back to her table, giving her back her card and receipt. 

“Thank you for dining with us this evening, have a wonderful night” he told her 

“Thank you- Um- may I speak with the chef who made the sunflower plate please? I’d like to pay my compliments in person if possible.” She asked hopefully. 

“Of course, that would be Chef Carmen- give me just a moment I’ll go get him for you” he nodded and headed back to the kitchen. She looked over her notes, remembering the questions she’d wanted to ask about the dish. 

Carmen, she wondered if he’d been named after the saint. His talent was surely straight from the hands of the Mother of Christ. 

Shes interrupted from writing in her notebook by a husky, silvery voice 

“Excuse me- I was told you’d like to speak to me, I’m Chef Carmen, I made your sunflower dish this evening.” 

“Hey- I’m Sydney - that dish was- ” she stood up to face him- and when she realized who was in front of her, her heart began to race. Of course, she’d thought, of course - only a JBA contestant could come up with a dish so ingenious.

 “Oh- um…Hi.. Hello- you’re like -” she blinked a few times, in utter shock. “You’re Carmen Berzatto“ She swallowed thickly. 

Sydney was obsessed with this industry- she stalked the JBA website every year to see who would be nominated, dreaming that some day she’d be on that list. Being even nominated would allow her to die happily feeling as if she’d won a fucking Nobel Prize. That was how much she respected those damn awards. 

“I am” he said and cleared his throat nervously. 

“Well- firstly congratulations on your nomination- you like- if it was up to me you’d win because that sunflower dish was-” they’re interrupted by one of the food runners coming over 

“Chef Carmen- Chef Daemon requests you in back of house now.” she said urgently, the girl looked like she was on the brink of tears as she continued taking the tray of food over to the table it was meant for. 

“So sorry, i’d love to hear what you have to say but uh…” he trailed off. 

“Yeah- yeah- sorry, sorry I wont keep you-” she said and he shook his head a bit 

“No- no- um… I mean -” he wouldnt usually be so bold, but his ass was going to literally be kicked if he didnt get back there in the next 5 seconds. “I’m gonna go out for a smoke at 11:15. If you wanted to keep talkin’ ill be there” he said before heading back to the kitchen.

Sydney was nearly shaking - there were so so many things she wanted to ask him. She also realized he was much - infinitely hotter in person - how that was even possible? She remained unsure. She had reapplied her lipgloss and her perfume, nervously pacing back and forth along the sidewalk. 

She hears the back door open and she looked over, out emerging the greek god incarnate she somehow got so lucky as to run in to tonight. “Hey!” she said with her famous warm smile. 

He didnt return it, actually- he looked pissed. She swallowed thickly, rubbing her lips together nervously “Hey - sorry again I uh- fuckin’ boss” he muttered, fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket. 

“No- don’t apologize please, I totally get it. I mean, you're the CDC at literally the best restaurant in the world. I wouldn’t have bugged you if I knew, I mean- my table, like- I’m not a critic..I guess I should have clarified cause of the notebook thing but they usually are more…low key? I thought? Do they usually just come and whip out a notebook? That would make it easier I think… But nonetheless I’m so so grateful to have been able to eat a meal that-“ she rambled on anxiously but he stops her.

“You talk when y’nervous” he said with a small smirk, lighting the cigarette between his lips and inhaling, leaning against the brick.

“Uh-” she stuttered, her face feeling hot suddenly. “Sorry- I’ve uh… i’ve been told” she chuckled a bit, taking a few steps towards him and leaning on the brick only 2 feet or so between them.

“It’s charming, y’smoke?” he offered her the pack with a red top, she looked down at it.

“I don’t- not- not yet anyways” she joked, crossing a slim arm over her waist. He couldn't help but realize how the action made her breasts more prominent. 

“You’re a chef?” he asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Yes! Yes- well.. Just graduated, not working anywhere yet- I’m going home soon to try and start my own catering thing…” she explained and he nodded.

“Where’d y’graduate from?” he asked, exhaling the smoke away from her direction.

“CIA - 2 weeks ago, Valedictorian actually, y’not the only chef around here with street cred” she joked and he chuckled.

“Really? Word. Thats sick, good job. Y’said y’re headed home? Where’s that?” he asked, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“Chicago! Can’t wait to get back, Hudson life is… not for me- I forgot how convenient public transportation was” she said. 

He raised his brows in surprise, “Chicago huh? Thats my old home base.” he said 

“I know! You’re actually… really famous did you know that? Like- they talk all about you during lectures, you’re the new golden child of the culinary world” she teased and he rolled his eyes playfully.

They’d been inching closer and closer without realizing throughout the whole conversation, she was now so close that she could see the barely there scar on his cheek, her focus locked on it. His gaze was locked on her plump lips and he was imagining how they’d feel around his cock.

“I do unfortunately - you’ll learn soon enough that praise means being a target in this industry.” He said 

She bit her lip, meeting his striking blue eyes once again. “I really meant to tell you earlier was that sunflower dish was the best meal i’ve ever had. And i’m not just…sucking your dick because you’re you - I knew that before I knew you made it” she laughed a bit.

He followed suit, “Well if you want to- i’m not gonna say no.” he said and her eyes widened a bit, feeling her core pooling with heat at the idea. Of course he was half joking. It was so sudden and out there he would have never expected her to indulge him. 

“I mean- here? What if your boss comes out?” she asked, a bit quieter as if she was trying to assure they’d not be caught.

He nodded towards the row of 12-wheeler trucks parked 50 or so feet away. “Haven’t moved in 6 weeks” he shrugged casually  “Lead the way Chef”  she motioned with her hand, a frisky smirk on her lips.

“Holy fuuuck” Carmy groaned, pushing his cock deeper into her tight hot mouth. “Y’like takin cock like this mmm? Y’like bein’ my little fuckin slut?” he muttered, thumbing away the warm tear that was gathering in the corner of her right eye. “So fuckin’ good f’me-” he growled, moaning at the wet gurgling noises emitting from her.

She swallowed around him, looking up at him with tear-filled dark lustful brown eyes, widening her jaw further and tonguing over the pulsing vein on the underside of his length, gently squeezing his thighs to urge him further. 

“Y’want me t’fuck y’throat? Mmm? Dirty fuckin girl” he gathered her braids into his fist, wrapping them around his palm and roughly tugging her off. 

She whined hotly, the sensation of his rough hand sending waves of pleasure through her being. “Please” she said wantingly, tonguing over his slit before wrapping her lips around the tip of his head in a sensual kiss.

He took his thumb, pulling her jaw open wide and thrusting into her mouth with a satisfied grunt. “Y’know-shhhit y’know what? I think this is the only way t’shut y’ass up? Mmm?” he inhales sharply as she pushed his foreskin back and spit on his exposed sensitive tip.

“Jesus fuckin-” he sharply inhaled through his teeth as she gently grazed her teeth over the sensitive head, his abs clenching in pleasure and hips quivering from the overstimulation “fuckin-h-aaaa-ahhh-mm-shhhhit-jesus fuckin christ” he whimpered, his head falling back against the metal with a sharp bang as she took the flesh into her mouth, flicking her tongue sharply over the weeping tip before smoothly sucking over the buzzing stimulation. He knew if she kept up the act he’d be filling her mouth with his seed within seconds.

“S-sooo fuckin filthy - y’want my cum in y’throat? Mmm? Little fuckin whore- h-holy-oh god- i-” he nearly suffocated her as he buried his cock further down her throat. He reached down, his fingers rubbing along his thick length buried in her warm tight throat. 

“F-fuuuuuck- ah- oh shhh- mmm- thats it- thaaaaaat’s it- good fuckin girl” he grumbled, roughly and sloppily guiding her head in such a way that the noises being made if it weren’t her he would think theyre overdramatic and disgusting. He also didn’t know where the hell all of this talking was coming from. 

Normally in the bedroom, he was quiet. Very quiet. The only way the women he was with knew he’d enjoyed himself was if he even came at all. Sex usually wasn’t about his own pleasure since in the presence of another he found it so hard to get off - it was more about giving him imagery that would help him later in regards to finishing. 

“You are so fuckin good at that huh? You take my cock so well such a good fuckin girl” his jaw goes slack as she put her hands on his hips to steady him and slowly sinks her mouth all the way down to the hilt, her eyes shut in focus. 

She gently rubbed her thumbs over his hips, swallowing around his length in a way that made whimpers fall past his lips he didn’t know he could make himself. “Holy shit y’fuckin- oh- ohhh fuck” he grunts as she takes one of her hands and begins massaging his balls and looking directly into his eyes, pulling off his length to breathe and gently pushing the foreskin back, kissing over the sensitive flesh with her plump lips. 

“You can fuck my face- but deepthroating after a meal like that is pretty hard, id love if I can keep it down” she said, even with spit running down her chin, teary eyes, and swollen lips - she still looked adorable to him. 

“Sorry- sorry” he muttered, loosening his grip on her hair “keep doin’ that fuck yesss” he breathed out as she swirled her tongue around his head. He thrust in and out of her mouth, gradually moving faster but being careful as to not slam into the back of her throat. 

She stroked the bottom half of his length with her other hand, eyes closing and doing her best to swallow around him all the excess saliva that was dripping down her throat. She hollowed out her cheeks, looking up at him as she slowly and carefully sunk down once again, keeping her eyes locked on his. 

“Mmm-shhhit-I’m fuckin-“ he groaned, his knees nearly going weak and head falling back with a thud. Blood roared in his ears, his hands shook slightly from the tension rolling off him in waves. 

She nearly choked at the amount rolling down her throat. She pulled off slightly, swallowing - more like gulping, assuring to hollow her cheeks and swirl her tongue as she pulled off with a pop as to not waste any of the sweet salty mess. 

“You- you- you are fuckin crazy” he breathed, looking down at her. 

She wiped off her mouth, chin, and neck with a tissue she’d kept in her purse before saying “I’d say you’re crazy, “ she got off her knees, picking up the chefs coat he had thrown down for her to kneel on, to which she insided it out before she did so it wouldn’t show any dirt. “If I had that coat? It would never touch the floor” she shook it off carefully. 

He quickly fixed his pants “he’s a friend it doesn’t matter I can always get a new one” he countered, putting the coat back on and buttoning it. 

Her eyes widened “friends?! How the hell did you run into him?!” She asked. 

“You- y’re into fashion ‘n shit?” He asked and she nodded enthusiastically 

“Are you fucking kidding me?! Thom Browne is insane all his shit Is absolute fire. I wish I could afford one of his jackets like- it’s totally a dream wishlist kinda thing” she took some gum out of her purse. 

“When do you uh…go back?” He asked. 

“Tomorrow. Headed to Chicago on Wednesday” she said and he nods. 

“Oh- yeah okay..It was uh…it was nice t’meet you” he said awkwardly “I should probably um..” he trailed off, clearing his throat nervously.

“Totally- yeah great to um…great to meet you too chef.” She nodded 

“Could I um…” he rubs the back of his neck anxiously “could I maybe get y’r…” he trails off, cheeks pink with embarrassment. 

“My number?” She asked, grabbing her phone out of her purse. 

He nodded, cheeks bright red with embarrassment “yeah sorry-“ he mumbled

“Yeah- if I can get yours” she teased, clicking open the blank contact screen

#carmen berzatto #the bear fx #carmy berzatto #the bear fic #the bear #the bear hulu #carmen berzatto fanfiction #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto fluff #sydney x carmy #syd x carmy #carmen x sydney #sydcarmy #sydney adamu #carmy x sydney #carmy #carmen berzatto smut #sydcarmy smut #sydcarmy fanfic #syd adamu #sydcarmy fanfiction #sydcarmy fic

[mtaartsdesign]

At 34 St-Penn Station (1,2,3) three mosaics by Diana Al-Hadid blur the boundaries between figuration and abstraction, with dripping linework and mark making that relates to the concept of time. "The Arches of Old Penn Station" (2018) is a gestural depiction of the grand interior of the 1910 Beaux-Arts Pennsylvania Station, while “The Time Telling” (2023) is inspired by Alfred Eisenstadt’s iconic photograph of the clock that hung at the entrance of the original station. These scenes invite viewers to travel into a moment in time, calling up collective memories of this historic space. "The Arc of Gradiva” (2018), features an image of Gradiva, a mythological character from Wilhelm Jensen’s 1903 novella who walks through walls. Rendered as a ghostly apparition with the flowing fabric of her garment stretching the length of the wall, her footsteps mirror those of the crowds in the station.

Al-Hadid’s sustained explorations of antiquity, folklore, and architecture across a variety of media are on view in her solo exhibition “Women, Bronze, and Dangerous Things” at Kasmin Gallery through December 22.

📸 1-2: Peter Kaiser, 3: Diego Flores, 4: Kasmin Gallery

#mtaarts #publicart #mosaic #permanent art

[meat-system]

Hello!

This is just a little intro to get to know us

DNI at the bottom

Our collective name is Fernn and our pronouns are They/It/Xe/He

Proud German Jew

We were born and raised in America (where we still sadly live) but our mother (and her side of the family) is German and we like to connect/stay connected with our culture

Other account: @fleischmarkt

We are a autistic+adhd, DID system with physical disabilities (hEDS, POTS, Asthma, and an IgA deficiency)

We are very pro mask, COVID isn’t over especially for your disabled friends and peers. Another booster has been recommended for the upcoming fall/winter season. Look here. It is never to late to mask up again.

Our likes:

•reading (horror, mystery, sci-fi, non-fiction)

•drawing

•horror

•Halloween (best secular holiday

•stuffed animals

•matching jewelry

•Star Trek TNG

•spicy chips (we have such a white person mouth but hot chip is so yum)

Our Dislikes:

•bright lights

•neon colors

•flashing colors/lights

•slow ass elevators in penn station

•judgmental people/ enforcers of "cringe culture"

•classic alarm clock sound

🌗————————❪⭐️❫—————————🌓

Do Not Interact:

DNI: basic stuff (homophobia, transphobia, racism, ableism, antisemitism, Islamophobia, “MAPS” etc)

more personal/specific DNI:

• ENDO systems, I understand that some of these systems do not know that they have trauma so they default to this label, but as a boundary I do not feel comfortable with people who use the label endogenic and would like if you did not interact. (I will not fake-claim any system Endo or otherwise I am just uncomfortable with the label and what it means)

• Any sort of fake claimer of anything, physical and mental illnesses or disabilities. You don't know anyone's situation and the system is not built to help people in the way that you think.(pro self-diagnosis)

• you are Anti-Marijuana in any capacity. you're just gonna be annoying to me, respectfully, don't waste your time.

• you openly engage in fandom discourse on your page... I just can't.

Thanks for reading my intro & DNI <3

#intro post #disabled #autism #actually autistic #did system #adult adhd #audhd artist #jewish

[omegaplus]

# 4,174

Cold Waves @ Warsaw; September 15 & 16, 2022.

If I told you that I was feeling shaky going into attending Cold Waves, you’d write me off instantly. Why would I still feel nervous about attending shows? Sure, the event is everything, but every trip to grandiose New York City is still a major thing for me. It’s still feels like uncharted territory and I’m still not over it but it has everything Long Island fails to provide: the venues, the people, the exciting energy, and an allure I still can’t put my finger on. It’s all for the taking, whereas on Long Island I had way more than enough. Also: anxiety. (Film at 5.)

I was only mere days away and I had to get ready for two straight nights of taking trains to and from Brooklyn. Cold Waves would be the third show I’d attend this year - fourth if I cared going to Ministry’s “Industrial” Strength tour which I didn’t go to. I was a frantic wreck anticipating this industrial legends / synthwave festival. The tremors in my black heart would stop only if I finally arrived at Warsaw. It’s my third visit there. The first was for Hospital Productions’ 20th Anniversary and the second was for Black Marble and Cold Cave on a hot June day - before my world, my momentum, and soul were all upended.

I don my black cap, a Clock DVA shirt, blue jeans, black boots and new black leather jacket. It’s sunny out, a hazy blue sky is being invaded by cumuluses all over the place - perfect conditions for an afternoon drive westward on the Long Island Expressway, down on Sagtikos Parkway, through Southern State to Rt. 231, and heading south to Rt. 27A to the Babylon station. I took no chances catching the earlier one-hour train to Penn Station, then hopped on the ‘E’ line to Court Square’s ‘G’ line to Greenpoint Ave. The train ride was bliss as hardly anyone was on it.

It was 6:15 PM when I stepped off the G and went upstairs to Greenpoint, my favorite Brooklyn neighborhood. It only took me 15 minutes to walk a few blocks down to Driggs Av. in Kings County’s Polish neighborhood. It’s only 6:30 PM and already I’m being greeted by a crowd of three at the very front of the line. One of them saw my DVA shirt and gave me two thumbs up. “Great shit, man!”, he said. I smiled and my heart rate went up 20.00% knowing I made the right choice of t-shirt for night #1 of Cold Waves. I found myself standing at the exact same spot on line more than four years ago when I waited to enter the venue for Cold Cave and Black Marble. It was that very corner where Wes Eisold stood with Genesis P. Orridge before that show. Doors open at 7 PM as all of us trudge towards the venue for our security checks before entering paradise where I’m immediately hit with the smell of incense, a special smell distinct to my Brooklyn travels and nowhere else.

The music existed before the beginning of time and it was pumping. No wonder - DJ Andi (Harriman) was behind the wheels of steel. She’s a fixture of the neighborhood where she fit perfectly with the industrialists and synth-wave demographic that populate there. With me being 15th in line, I won a spot up front. As always without fail. I was feeling great about what was about to go down for the next five hours. The first person I thought of was my Roman goth friend Lira* who I wished was there with me. She would’ve blended in with all these vampires, witches, and mistresses attending; many walking around wearing 242, Wax Trax, Pig, Pigface, Hocico, and Twin Tribes shirts.

7:45PM is here. The dee-jay fades out, the overheads turn off and the first act is ready to go. Cold Waves is finally underway.

Spike Hellis was the first of ten on the roster and kicked off the entire festival. The fresh Los Angeles duo have enjoyed a new sizable uptick of exposure. They were active and had lots of energy on stage; a theme that they’d set the tone for the entire program. Their fast-paced EBM, electro, and electronic hybrid was a fine example of the current sound that Los Angeles had to offer. Both Cortland Gibson and Elaine Chang traded instrumental and (screaming) vocal duties with each other while conveying themes of agony, control, rage, emotional despair, and submission that rubber-stamped their own pandemic-era, all accentuated at the end with an annoyed Chang dealing the finger to an audience member as the cherry on top. Who knows what happened there? What I do know was that someone threw an empty beer can at them during their set and security called him out on it; eyes and pointy fingers in his direction with a one-and-final warning not to do it again.

For those wondering why Rein is being highly praised all over, you’ll see why. One of two solo acts, Rein wasted no time taking the stage and it wasn’t long for her to show everyone why she’s one of the most talked-about synthwave acts of recent. It’s not just her razor-sharp EBM delivery and style but also her choreography which made her perfectly groove to the music. She can seriously move it like no other and also delivered plenty of hard-edged sounds of equal measure. It was more than enough to ask who the fuck Shakira was, because she’s got nothing on her. It wasn’t just Rein who was motioning to the music. I look to my right and seen a good number of people getting into it, too; such as the guy three spaces away from me who happened to be wearing a gas mask through her set. After she closed out her set came another intermission. The next three legendary acts have yet to come into play and right behind me are three belligerent drunks (one male and two females) fighting over who bumped into who, not saying ‘excuse me’, who stood where, and lots of name-calling and f-bombs lobbed at each other’s slovenly faces. Not a dull moment so far.

Portion Control was the third and most enduring act of the festival with their debut cassette release A Fair Potion dating all the way back to 1980. I’ve constantly heard of them through new-wave, industrial, and synthwave circles. It’s my first go at them and Wow. They. Nailed. It. They became one of the very few artists I ever discovered to give me a perfect example of everything I was looking for on the very first listen. Perhaps the hungriest, meanest, and venomous act I discovered live or not. I may have caught them at their best ever and it lead me to the three Seed e.p.’s. Onstage, Dean Piavanni was a vocally sinister, persuasive, and direct force who could’ve easily taken on the audience (and would’ve won); as Jon Whybrew was on the controls transmitting ultra-energetic and juiced-up EBM and industrial techno for the small masses. It was the most exciting payout of the night so far.

If there was ‘the’ reason that attending Cold Waves was an absolute must, it was the team of former Wax Trax and Ministry members Paul Barker and Chris Connelly. They are part of the reason why everyone had some of the best moments of their lives and made for some of the greatest industrial releases ever. Billed as The Revolting Cocks Corpse and in conflict with Al Jourgensen’s version of the band, it would be their last-ever appearance. I hate to admit, a scratch off the bucket list was long overdue and years in waiting. Now, here was my chance of seeing both of them live in one shot.

Want real-deal Cocks classics? You got ‘em. Paul Barker handled his iconic bass logo-ed with the Cocks’ Beers, Steers & Queers emblem on it before kicking off with “38” and brought out former Cock (Front 242’s) Richard 23 on vocals. After that comes Connelly onstage in casual wear in a trucker hat, jeans, and a shirt that’s scrawled “Strong And Pretty” on the front, so we’re getting the nutty version of him. Then the rest of the hits came rolling in: “Attack Ships On Fire”, “Cattle Grind”, “Crackin’ Up”. When Connelly asked himself out loud what else to play, the audience yelled “Let’s Get Physical” (rest in peace, Olivia Newton John). “Well, I didn’t ask for your help!” he said coyly to all of us and we couldn’t help but to laugh. They did cap off their monumental set with “Do Ya’ Think I’m Sexy” and it felt like a dream. Connelly leans on the speakers acting all cute and blowing kisses to the crowd with a smile. Before you know it, he’s laying on the floor with arms wide open like he’s just fallen in love as Barker and company call it a night. Nothing but good times and an ultimate culmination of their Wax Trax output as I hoped for.

Finally, it was Front 242’s turn to take the stage; the apex of an already high-flying night. It would be a bittersweet performance at that as this was one of many shows on what was their final U.S. tour. Many fans thought it was because of Jean-Luc De Meyer health issues but thankfully that wasn’t the case. No matter, it was everyone’s last chance in the states to catch them before leaving North America once and for all with no turning back. I considered Front 242 to be a bonus for me as I was heavily into their pioneering Eighties material during my community college years, their later albums, and C-Tec which De Meyer took part in. I had absolutely nothing to lose seeing them live. All throughout the night I’ve seen photographers-for-hire huddle around the space in-between the rail and stage getting their dozens of shots in. For Front 242, the three-song policy got extended to four. It had to be. Warsaw security managed to catch one snap artist who didn’t know better.“No flash! No flash!” they told him as they pointed at and called him out on it. Which also begged the question: where the hell is Brooklyn’s industrial / synthwave fixture-photographer Nikki Sneakers? It’s been at least five years since I’ve seen her shooting at venues.

Front 242 played their most-recognizable and popular classics that established and pioneered EBM with “Don’t Crash”, “Operational Tracks”, “U-Men” and many more. It was all Richard 23, De Meyer, and Patrick Codenys in their unmistakable iconic tactical outfits with a shirtless Tim Kroker on live drums. They took all the power and energy they had and kept it going all the way, delivering nothing short of a rhythmic and beat-heavy experience they were known for. One funny moment to be seen was when De Meyer stood cross-armed wearing his huge shades and had such a scowl on his face, looking all bad-ass as the other three carried on. After eight or nine songs, 242 left the stage - not to lock targets and catch men - but to gear up for their first encore. We all knew there was more to come and what came was “Headhunter”, one of industrial / EBM’s most historic songs ever written. Two more songs later and 242 left the stage again charging up for another encore. As soon as we all heard the soundbyte “Hey, Poor!”, it meant only one thing: “Welcome to Paradise”. Only then was the perfect Front 242 show complete. The team of 23, De Meyer, Codenys, and Kroker took in a lengthy applause and gave a standing ovation as they all thanked New York City and bid farewell. The lights turn on for all of us to head out of Warsaw. I turn around to get going and behind me I see a female fan being consoled by her husband - and she’s in tears. Either she finally fulfilled her life-long dream of seeing Front 242 or saddened that they would say goodbye and farewell to the states, never to return.

The first five acts were amazing. It felt like I did a great service to myself in attending. I already checked off all the boxes I wanted to: take mass transit, visit Greenpoint, see Barker and Connolly play, and be associated with my kind of people. A night out in Brooklyn never fails and the thrills would still continue after the show ended. There’s always the experience of taking the alphabet and number lines - taking the ‘G’ and then the ‘7’ line to walk from 10th St. towards the Empire State Building and then arriving at Penn Station all by one-in-the-morning. Like the ride from Babylon to Penn Station, the reverse ride was quiet and not as crowded as a can of sardines. More exhilarating was the ride from Babylon back home where all the roads were empty and quiet, leading up to driving east on a wide-open Sunrise Highway at three in the morning and getting home all in 25 minutes time.

Night One of Cold Waves was now in the record books.

**********

Friday afternoon? Well, what an adventure. I had no idea that traffic was literally paralyzed on Sagtikos Parkway. It was that point where I knew it would be down to the wire getting to the Babylon station. From then on, I was finding every inch I could to cut other drivers off, find detours, and get head-starts while waiting for green lights and cursing out turtle drivers. Traffic was tight and every decision counted. One minute I thought I was going to make it and the next minute I was doubtful. South on Commack Road, down Deer Park Avenue then Route 231, and finally to Route 27A where I was only a few thousand feet away from the station. I arrive at the parking lot across from the station, bolted out of my car, ran across the street and up the stairs like a motherfucker. I finally reach the platform and - it’s taking off. Fucking great.

I had one hour until the next train to figure out how to unfuck myself and get to Warsaw in time. I tried signing up for OMNY (New York City’s wireless transit pay) months ago but was unsuccessful. Now time to try again. I downloaded the Apple Pay app- and then had to call the bank to connect my card. Now that it’s tied to my phone, I tired again to sign up for OMNY. Success! The 4:35 PM Babylon train arrives and I had 55 minutes to map out the quickest path in getting to my destination. The train arrives at Penn Station and I waste no time hauling ass to the ‘E’ line. Here we go. I hover my phone over the turnstile and - GO. Raced up and down the flights of stairs and I catch the ‘E’ train by five seconds before its doors closed. I take another 20 minutes to cool down before the transfer to Court Square / 23rd Street’s ‘G’ line. I hop off, sprint, and find the ‘G’ train that would take me to the Nassau Avenue stop, the closest one to Warsaw. It took me about two minutes and 1,000 feet to get there. I finally arrive out of breath before I go through the security checks and magic wands before entry. All clear. It’s 7:40 PM. Five minutes to go and I’m at the exact same spot I was the night before. All worship to Lucifer that I made it.

And now, night two begins.

If there was any artist to kick off Friday’s festivities that represented his hometown and carried its flag, then Confines was it. The hard-hitting, beat-heavy industrial-techno / EBM project certainly had some punch to it. Like Rein, Confines was a one-person show who did all of his instruments and movements on his own. Not bad at all. At the time of this writing I learned something about him that totally kicked me off of my seat: Confines happened to be David Castillo, co-owner of Brooklyn’s Saint Vitus bar and venue, host of the Age Of Quarantine podcast, and lead singer of Primitive Weapons. Are you fucking kidding me?! I was on the lookout to spot him at my last visit to -Vitus to see Uniform but I was shit out of luck. Now I finally found him performing at Cold Waves and didn’t even know that was him until after the fact! Fucking right. And it doesn’t stop there. I also learned that both Geography Of Nowhere 1 and Work Up The Blood was mixed and mastered by Hospital Productions’ Kris Lapke / Alberich and laid out by Sannhet’s AJ Annunziata. Wow. Talk about getting five-in-a-row on that bingo card.

Fans of Vancouver musicks enjoyed a two-for-one approaching the middle of the night’s bill. We were all treated to Leathers consisting of Shannon Hemmett (vocals), Kendall Wooding (synths), and Adam Fink (drums). For anyone who wanted the 2022’s tense of what an Eighties’ synthpop / new-wave show would look like? Well, now you have it. It was a treat seeing them perform and also seeing the slender Hemmett as an Eighties dream while Wooding and Fink played a smooth mid-tempo set. But with a wardrobe change and Jason Corbett coming into play, Leathers became Actors and Artoffact’s flagship band was the iteration that appeared on everyone’s radar as of late. They traded in their Eighties’ synthpop and new-wave cool for heavier rock. This time Hemmett took over synth duties and Wooding wielded bass as Fink stayed on drums and Corbett helped Actors push more power and electricity into their second set to keep the excitement steady from start to finish. I tried out both Leathers / Actors before and for some reason they’re not my type of heavy-rotation listening. However, there’s no denying that their talent brought them their well-deserved fanfare and exposure.

Not since Merzbow’s personnel bringing out his gear at Output have I been bracing myself with another artist’s set-up. Lighting fixtures attached all over and bulbs placed in front of huge cymbals might’ve told me that the next set would burn my eyes right off my face. Luckily, I was wrong. That was Kite’s visual set-up and a precursor to their performance. The Swedish duo of Niklas Stenemo and Christian Berg were another act I never heard anything of, and afterwards tilted me to give them a shot. Both were skilled in playing two keyboards at once (or keys- and knobs in Berg’s case) as they delivered a lively performance and Stenemo a few kicks, switching between synth-wave and synthpop. Their latest single “Bocelli” was the highlight on the night, showing their dramatics while also providing a soulful, heartfelt, and at times acclaimed power.

While Kite tore down their equipment, I thought of something. It’s been five years since I attended Hospital Production’s 20th Anniversary. I remember one moment near the end of the showcase when Bone Awl was playing their set - where all of a sudden Dominick Fernow (Prurient and Hospital- label-head) runs to the apron, stage-dives over the pit, and into the audience for a crowd-surf. It was a moment that never escaped me since then. Here I am back again at Warsaw for Cold Waves five years later and I’m at the rail for both nights. During one intermission, something dawned on me - I look at the rail, then the edge of the stage, and then the rail once again. I thought to myself: how in the fuck did Dominick have enough clearance to fly in the air, avoid banging into the rail, and land safely on top of the crowd? Good thing he successfully pulled off that spectacular feat.

Asterisk: New York City was supposed to receive Stabbing Westward as the closer to Cold Waves but had to bow out. That’s where Cold Cave gladly stepped in and ultimately sealed the deal for Cold Waves’ entire New York City stop. “Remember when we last played here?” lead singer Wes Eisold asked the audience. Yes I do, Wes. Yes I do. Seeing Cold Cave again for the second time in the same venue was another special bonus to me, and always a welcome one at that. I walk through previously-ventured territory and this time it was just as exciting as the last. All hits and zero misses from Eisold, his lady Amy Lee, and company. “Glory”, “People Are Poison”, “A Little Death To Laugh”, “Confetti”, “Rainbow Girls”, “Godstar”, “Theme From Tomorrowland”. You named it, they played it. For 50 minutes they kept a steady upbeat energy of synthwave and classic goth pedigree; not to mentions tons of smoke and fog fired towards our way to where I’m seriously considering getting myself screened. The only difference between their 2018 appearance and this one at Cold Waves? No sign of Max G. Morton, and Eisold’s heroine Genesis P. Orridge who joined him on guest vocals had sadly passed away since then.

But there was one shining onyx that fit the head jewel of the crown: when Eisold and Amy Lee brought their daughter out on stage. How fucking amazing was that? The audience collectively melted. Imagine being in your single-digits and having an amazing story to tell your friends back in school about how your rock-star dad brought you up on stage to sing for the crowd. Through their entire set, Cold Cave never let up and missed any of their targets as Eisold, Amy, and the rest played through their last encore and that’s all they wrote.

Before I knew it, it’s 12:20AM. Cold Waves in New York City was now history.

**********

I walk out of Warsaw and away from the busy volume of the patrons standing around in front of it. The night skies changed their tune to a purplish overhead. They were nice enough to wait until my moment was over to return. I’m now processing how to put the last 48 hours into words and also my place in the universe after being where I wanted to be. I head west on Driggs Street through McCarren Park weaving through the pedestrians walking towards me and observe a few small groups of people congregating and chilling on park grounds with their portable speakers. It’s only a few more blocks before I enter the ‘L’ line that will connect me to the ‘2’ line.

If only I can tell you the city’s delights that I’ve seen during my travels to Penn Station. I’ve seen female torture artists and double-pigtailed mistresses in their black onesies and shiny knee-high boots. There’s an Asian girl my height in a low-cut purple dress and her thigh is all bloodied and bandaged up; situated below her very visible purple underwear. Across from me was this gay guy who was the stunt double for The Ukiah Drag’s Tommy Conte, kissing his boyfriend on the cheek and sad-gazing in his boyfriend’s eyes who boarded off the ‘L’, but not before he blew Tommy a kiss goodbye. Another couple hopped on our crowded car. His blonde girlfriend’s neck and chest were literally covered red with hickeys and didn’t give a soaring aerial fuck about all the eyes and stares aimed at her. The ‘L’ ends and I transfer to the quick ‘2’ which only took five minutes to get me to Penn Station, leaving me with a half-an-hour wait for the Babylon train to arrive. Lather, rinse, and repeat with a left-hand forward ride to the station and another Sunrise Highway night drive back to my quiet-as-night neighborhood. A return to silent normalcy.

**********

Chicago has been widely known as the industrial capital of the U.S. It’s where Jim Nash and Danny Flescher established Wax Trax as a record store and the label that’s given birth to the careers and legacies of Ministry, KMFDM, My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, Meat Beat Manifesto, and countless other acts. It’s also where Public Image Ltd.’s Martin Atkins created Pigface and Invisible Records and gave life to Chemlab, Damage Manual, Dead Voices On Air, Murder Inc., Ritalin, Sheep On Drugs, and Test Dept. All these artists made my identity, or part of it. Throughout the years I’ve followed all of my favorite artists and have never given up on them. They were there for me during my difficult times at community college and to this day I’ve never tired of their projects. It wasn’t until recently when I revisited the classics that I realized that these artists and labels were in my heart all along. Millions of industrialists join each other in various online groups to share their stories and live memories and say “hi!” to the many legends who lurk around and keep that cameraderie going. I see the company around me in Greenpoint who share similar interests, qualities, and aesthetics and those are the people I want to be associated with.

I thought attending just one Boy Harsher show was a rite of passage. Yes - more in the synthwave world. I’ve also attended shows for Nine Inch Nails, Ministry, and Killing Joke and that’s more than enough for me to hoist my flag for this genre. (Naysayers will wave their filthy unclean fingers at me and say “not so fast” because I wasn’t able to go to a Skinny Puppy show.) I’ve heard many great things about Cold Waves that I’d be a fool to miss out. Mutuals who went told me it’d be amazing and they were double-right. With Front 242’s final American appearances and with Braker and Connelly having to quit the RevCo name, this year was a non-negotiable. What started out as a one-night benefit and an honor of Jason Novak (Acumen Nation, DJ? Acucrack) and David Schock’s fallen friend Jamie Duffy evolved into an (almost) annual round of the best and legendary industrial, synthpop, and synthwave acts. Like my attendance with the previous Cold Cave and Black Marble shows, attending Cold Waves was a thank-you to the scene that gave me an identity but also to a certain number of acts that helped build it.

It’s been one of the best and most exhilarating moments of the year, ranking as high as Sacred Bones’ 15th anniversary. If the line-up for next year is as good or better (how could it?), then I guarantee you I’ll be returning.

#Cold Waves #industrial #synthwave #NYC #New York City #BK #Brooklyn #Spike Hellis #Rein #Portion Control #Revolting Cocks #Front 242 #Confines #Leathers #Actors #Kite #Cold Cave #personal #Long Island #omega #music #mixtapes #reviews #playlists

[drskuter]

New Year's Day ... delayed

I'm always a tad thrown off when the Rose Parade is postponed until a Monday. I do understand and appreciate the tradition of never having the Rose Parade (or Rose Bowl, for that matter), on a Sunday. But now I have no idea what day of the week it is.

I've just finished watching the live broadcast of the 2023 Rose Parade, and here are some of my observations:

Our family has almost always watched the parade on KTLA Channel 5 because it's the local, hometown station. But I really miss Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards. The hosts today were a tad insipid. Their narration and side bar comments were, at time, like nails on a chalkboard.

My favorite floats: a) Blue Diamond Almonds with the bees playing at an amusement park (that little guy at the front of the roller coaster!); b) La Canada Flintridge with the raccoons at the yard sale; c) City of Torrance - that caterpillar! It's the funny, animal-themed floats that always make me smile.

Best band - hands down, Norfolk State. OMG, they brought it! Best marching band uniforms, best drill team/dancers, best performances. Totally gobsmacked at their talents.

Gabrielle Giffords - fellow Scrippsie - was the Grand Marshall! Well deserved, Gabby! We intersected at Scripps for only one year, and I never really knew her well, but I've remained in awe of her for years.

Louisiana! The state to which my son is moving in two weeks!

And I'm rooting for Penn State today, if for no other reason that a former colleague of mine attended university there, so I'm cheering with her!

So now, the family room television is tuned to the Cotton Bowl, and we're cheering on Tulane University (see #5 above). Of course, I admit that I'd likely root for any team playing against USC, given that I attended UCLA for graduate school and I'm a committed Bruin (with apologies to my friends who are dyed-in-the-wool Trojans. No disrespect meant).

Looking at the clock on my laptop, I have exactly 8 minutes if I want to grab a sausage burrito at McDonald's before they shut down their breakfast service. Don't think I'll make the cut-off. My cholesterol, I am sure, will thank me.

[learnphotoo]

Penn Station Is a Perpetual Mess. Change May Be at Hand.

By Michael Kimmelman There may finally be hope for New York’s busiest, dreariest train hub, with a new plan to improve it, the stars aligning and the clock ticking. Published: July 7, 2023 at 08:00AM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/M32oxml

#NYT

[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: Penn Station Is a Perpetual Mess. Change May Be at Hand. by Michael Kimmelman

By Michael Kimmelman There may finally be hope for New York’s busiest, dreariest train hub, with a new plan to improve it, the stars aligning and the clock ticking. Published: July 7, 2023 at 05:00AM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/S2YBp73 via IFTTT

View On WordPress

#antonio velardo #IFTTT #NYT

[eugenelacroix]

Reposted from @life Crowds of commuters gather under the grand clock in Pennsylvania Station, New York City, 1943. To view more portraits of Penn Station, a…#eugenelacroix1 @eugenelacroix1 #photography https://www.instagram.com/p/Cf80VYZIQ32/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#eugenelacroix1 #photography

[mtaartsdesign]

Diana Al-Hadid’s new #MTAarts permanent artwork, “The Time Telling,” is now on view at NYC Transit 34 St-Penn Station. Inspired by Alfred Eisenstadt’s iconic photograph of the famed clock that hung at the entrance of the original Pennsylvania Station, Al-Hadid captures its prominence through her expressive gestural mark making. Installed within the new ADA-accessible street level station entrance at 33 St and 7 Av, the glass mosaic stands at an impressive 14’-9” high by 14’-1” wide.

The large-scale work features a scene viewed from above. Light pours through the windows, forming a veil of mist or fog. Below commuters rush across the station floor. The rising architecture draws in the viewer, but it is the clock at the center that looms large. Its power is clear even though the precise moment is obscured. The artwork connects the past and present of this important station and offers a space for today’s riders and those of an earlier era to briefly meet in passing.

“The Time Telling” joins two other #MTAarts mosaics by Al-Hadid installed in 2019 in the control area of the 1,2,3 trains at 34 St-Penn Station, directly below the new artwork. All fabricated by Mayer of Munich, the trio are rendered in a palette of shimmering aquas, metallics, and iridescence. Each one captures Diana’s gestural linework, signature drips, and speckled fogs – marks designed to relate to the concept of time.

Photos:

MTA Arts & Design/ Alejandra Hernandez

MTA Construction & Development/ Matthew Zettwoch

MTA Arts & Design/ Cheryl Hageman

MTA/ Marc A. Hermann

#mtaarts #publicart #permanent art #mosaic #Diana Al-Hadid #penn station

[paulpingminho]

#rafters #glass ceiling #skylight #Moynihan Train Hall #Penn Station #New York City #travel #clock #purple light

[bm-american-art]

Night, Clock Figure from Pennsylvania Station, 31st to 33rd Streets between 7th and 8th Avenues, NYC, Adolph Alexander Weinman, ca. 1910, Brooklyn Museum: American Art

Clock figure. Semi-nude allegorical figure depicting night. The female figure is draped in the enveloping cloak of night, with eyes closed and an oriental poppy drooping from her hand. The figure of night and the figure of day (symbolized by sunflowers) flanked the clock, which was encircled by a laurel wreath. There were four identical clocks on the exterior facades of Penn Station. Size: 132 x 86 x 42 in. (335.3 x 218.4 x 106.7 cm) Other (with base): 152 x 86 x 52 in. (386.1 x 218.4 x 132.1 cm) Medium: Tennessee marble

https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/objects/90654

#adolphalexanderweinman #americanart #brooklynmuseum #museumarchive

[novoaa1writes]

valentine’s

pairing(s): yelena belova x reader

summary: 

you’re already having kind of a shitty day to begin with. hell, you don’t even realize it’s valentine’s day until—

well, that’s not important. 

the important part comes later, when yelena shows up unannounced on your doorstep beaten half to hell and clutching a mangled bouquet of white roses. 

contains: fluff

word count: ~1,000

rating: teen

warnings: sleep deprivation, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of drunk and disorderly arrests, implied/referenced police brutality, guns, mild blood

notes: reader is explicitly stated to be not only poc but also non-white-passing.

— —

edit: this was written before it was brought to my attention that yelena is canonically asexual (and arguably aromantic). i will not be writing any other yelena fics which feature her in a non-platonic dynamic for the time being. please feel free to private message me if you have any questions, or wish to shed some light on this discourse!

— —

It’s something like 8:00 on a Sunday night, and you’re absolutely exhausted. It’s been… what, a solid 36 hours since you last slept? More, maybe?

Saturday night saw you cancelling last-minute on a highly-anticipated (and much-needed) girls’ night out in favor of going to bail your younger brother out of jail. Your younger brother, who lived in Providence, yet had somehow found his way to a police district in the heart of Boston before nightfall. 

The charges weren’t anything crazy—just public intoxication and resisting arrest… stupid stuff, really. Though, considering your brother’s visibly non-white complexion (a near identical match unto your own), that second one easily surpassed stupid to border on downright imbecilic. 

Needless to say, you were at Penn Station by 7:00, and on a train to Boston by 7:55.

You didn’t sleep on the train. You couldn’t. 

11:30 saw you disembarking at South Station, then taking the T directly to the precinct, ice-cold dread chilling your body from the inside out.

You were there by midnight, and when you finally laid eyes upon him—hammered and a little banged up but ultimately alive—you felt a weight lift from your chest. Stacks of endless paperwork and five-fucking-grand later, you were finally permitted to leave. 

You took his ass straight back to South Station and dragged him forcibly onto the next Providence-bound train. One hour later found you sitting side-by-side in a waiting room that reeked of antiseptic at something like 2:30am—waiting for his intake papers to go through. 

He’d been there before—Greener Pastures, an addiction recovery treatment center. (AKA rehab.) Twice, actually. 

You couldn’t help feeling like an idiot for praying it might stick this time. 

Intake was slow, but they’d accepted him into the program (again) by 3:15. 

You were back at Providence Station by 4:00am, and on a train back to New York City by 5:00am… just in time to clock in for work at 8:30 sharp. 

You were so out of it, you didn’t even think to realize that it was Valentine’s Day until one of your coworkers—a boastful, obnoxious man named Kade—dropped a pale-pinkish note atop your desk that read ‘You + Me. Dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up at 7:00’ in messy scrawl. It had a silver Hershey’s Kiss taped to it and everything. 

Perfectly juvenile. 

Following a very uncomfortable one-on-one with Kade during your lunch break, you made it a point to keep your head down for the remainder of the day. 

You were exhausted, and worn-out, and worried about your brother; you couldn’t possibly have cared less about candies and flowers and being someone’s valentine. 

So, yeah. 

You’re here now, alone in your apartment on a Sunday night, and you’re just ready to sleep, goddammit. 

So of course, why wouldn’t there come a heavy-handed knock on your door at precisely that moment in time? Why wouldn’t there be someone on your doorstep—likely with yet another pressing problem, judging by recent incidences—to keep you from conking out into a blissful sleep and forgetting (even if only momentarily) that the past 24 hours ever happened?

You’re originally planning to stomp over to the door like you’re upset, then yank it open and greet whoever’s feeling audacious enough to disturb you this evening with a succinct “What ?” that borders on a snarl. 

As it is, you’re far too drained to do anything but shuffle over to the door, undo the deadbolt, and tug it open with a defeated scowl to see—

Oh, what the fuck?

Yelena Belova stands directly outside your door looking like she got run over by a freight train… twice. Blood and soot streaks her pretty features; she’s wearing her tactical suit, still—though it’s singed and torn in various places, dotted in sprinkles of pale-grey ash. 

She’s got twin holsters on either thigh, only one of which still carries a Škorpion machine pistol—two guns she never leaves HQ without. 

One blackened hand is pressed urgently into her side—staunching what looks to be a rather serious flow of blood from a potential gun-shot wound in her lower abdomen—while the other… 

A bouquet of flowers—white roses, to be exact—clutched in her bloodied fist, thrust out to you as if offering you to take them. 

You blink—once, twice… thrice. You look up to the grim expression splayed across Yelena’s dirtied features, then back down to the flowers. Their pretty white petals are mangled and discolored, blotted with black soot. 

You look back up to Yelena once more, jaw slack with wonder. 

“Yelena, what…?”

Yelena glances down to the flowers and back to you. “It is February 14th, да?” At your blank look, she frowns and clarifies, “The day of Valentines?”

Your jaw snaps shut with an audible click! “I… Yes, but—” 

“They are for you,” Yelena says flatly. She thrusts out the bouquet a little further, silently urging you to take it. 

After a moment’s hesitation, you do. The cellophane whines and squeaks around the sad-looking flowers as Yelena relinquishes the bouquet, her catlike eyes intent upon you all the while. 

You look down at the mauled, singe-ridden flowers. You don’t dip your jaw to smell them.

“Thank you, Yelena,” you whisper out, finally looking up to meet her determined gaze. “They’re lovely.”

A spark of something warm flits through Yelena’s stormy gaze—here one second, gone the next. It makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. “С Днём Валентина,” she murmurs, sounding just the tiniest bit out of breath.

Despite the exhaustion weighing heavy on your thoughts, you feel the corners of your lips tugging up into a bashful smile. “Would you, um…” you trail off, stepping aside and making a vague welcome-in-esque gesture with your free hand. “Would you like to come in?” 

Yelena’s lips twitch, and she nods. “Да.”

— —

да | da | yes

с днём валентина | s dnyom valentina | happy valentine’s day

— —

tagging:

[marvel]: @normanijauregui​

— —

end notes: yelena 100% would pull this shit

also i never realized how nerve racking it is to bring flowers to a girl you’re not dating on valentine’s day. what the fuck. i felt like throwing up the whole time. why are girls so SCARY

link to masterlist

#stuff i wrote #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x f!reader #reader-insert #marvel fic #yelena belova #valentine's day fic #vday fic

[magnetictapedatastorage]

if i had somebody to help me get to all the stations, i’d love to do one of those longwinded youtube train channels but all about the LIRR. but it would just be such a nightmare to get around that it wouldn’t be worth a damn minute of my time to be honest. i’ve checked out of caring abt hometown stuff lol but here’s an impression of what it’d sound like.

Before the pandemic (and probably still) Ronkonkoma Station was/is the most used commuter train station in the entire United States, serving easily over 17,000 passengers per weekday, overwhelmingly this would be people commuting an hour and a half west, into Manhattan’s Penn Station to go to work. 

Ronkonkoma Station has some fascinating architecture, including a covered footbridge. The protection from the elements is extremely useful in the winter. There’s a sense of vastness, and beauty to be sure, but if you went inside that “clock tower” you’d find an incredible degree of deterioration, to the point where you may not want to use that staircase. There are cracks in the concrete steps that you could stick your hand into up to the wrist, and there are glass antibird spikes festooned with anarchical nests lining the walls.

It’s a lean year for the LIRR, but I doubt there will be lasting damage to its business model. Many of the commuters, contrary to what you’d expect, do work that simply can’t be done from home. Hard hats in laps, and the like. The question for Ronkonkoma Station is how well it will stand the test of time. Not weather it will survive, but if it could become something more than point A to Penn Station’s point B.

#LIRR #Long Island #Trains #Ronkonkoma