#by which i mean shes just good at finding enrichment for him

[anbaisai]

someone mentioned floyd on my last post and gave me the motivation to finally draw this image summarizing floyd & mayu's dynamic (although whether he feels up to it is like 50/50)

[tevanbuckley]

some low points from the ry*an g*zman interview because i need you all to feel my pain.

when talking about his celibacy (yes he uses that word): "I haven't entertained any interactions with any other females" — gave me the ick 0/10

uses the phrase "a woman's touch," to explain why women are inherently good at interior decorating(?) and that this skill is how women are able to enrich a successful man's life — side note: at no point do they talk about how men enrich women’s lives.

immediately after this the religious imagery takes a left turn and exits my frame of reference, bc instead of just asking "do you think you still have things to work on?" like a normal person, the host says "I want to know what one Thorn is in your flesh." — someone raised more religious than i was needs to chime in on if this is normal christian doctrine or a sign he might be in a cult. (is it a reference to the thorns in jesus' crown?)

ryan makes a weird comment about how "you've seen civilizations built on [a man in love]" — genuinely idk what the fuck this means — but it leads into a tangent about like, men as providers and how "I would do anything for my women."

"peace is key yeah we got enough problems in the world outside the house and so long as I come back to the house and I get peace," — maybe i'm being pedantic but the way he keeps framing woman as belonging in the home is 🚩🚩🚩🚩

"for the next woman I would have in my life I can see that they navigate their their problems and still offer peace to their men." — again 🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩

surprisingly claims he has been to therapy, which assuming is true, idk it worked.

the host: "women may be fighting internal battles you know kind of themselves do you believe that a woman still fighting those battles are able to still bring peace" — because remember ladies, no matter what you're going through your job is to bring peace to your man's home.

there's some more brief gender essentialist bs where ryan talks about how men "like to fix things," but are bad listeners, and how "problems within women are so specific to women that I wouldn't even try and and say that I have a grasp on them."

then the host randomly asks him if he thinks men need to be financially stable before entering a relationship or if dating a broke guy is a way to "present loyalty."

weirdly ryan actually kind of dodges this question, but ends up suggesting social media is a good place to get "great examples of what does and what doesn't seem to work." in relationships — and no. no it isn't.

oh and then he starts talking about conor mcgregor for some reason? and how it's bad he disrespected his wife by stepping outside their marriage — and i mean sure, although infidelity feels second to the rape accusations??

says it's harder for a woman to come into a man's life when he's already established because "now the man has proven to himself that he never needed a woman." — which, interesting given how later he talks about how women need to stop trying to do the independent woman thing.

he also gets weirdly possessive over his daughter at one point. does the classic "God forbid I find out that man disrespects my little baby." — idk, on the surface he talks about how he wants her to know her value, but it seems like he has a pretty limited view of what that value is.

the host drops lore about how she moved out of her parents house at 14/15 and how she had to "stop thinking like a woman and start thinking also like a man," but stay feminine and "know what a man wants and how to cater to that but also still be soft." — i mean good lord, i don't even know where to start 🤢.

this btw is the preamble to ryan's rant about "independent women."

and god the more i read the more i am deeply concerned about the woman hosting (i saw someone earlier say she's 21). this woman is barely an adult and has so much internalised misogyny, talking about how "us women don't know how to direct our emotions." and "in today's generation a lot of men are deprived of even the small things because a lot of women are takers."

this whole interview is utterly bizarre and i feel like it's taken years off my life. like i said earlier, this isn't a normal podcast he got weird on, this is straight up christian propaganda

[gay-dorito-dust]

consider: batboys reacting to their s/o who is fucking obsessed with Viktor. like they keep rewatching all of arcane and over analyze and froth over that man. (me fr)

Tim is equally as interested in arcane and in Viktor just as much as you were in all honesty.

So needless to say season two act two broth the both of you, but you were taking it much harder then he was as you swore that Viktor will return as the machine herald in act three, you were being delusional but it was better to be that then accept that your favourite character was gone forever.

Tim would retort and say that the Viktor wasn’t entirely Viktor and would make a fucking power point made with incredible detail pointing to the exact moment Viktor’s character changed entirely. He, like many others, firmly believed that Viktor was corrupted or playing host to the arcane and sighting as Salo as a major reason as to why that might be.

You two would spend countless hours rewatching season one a week before season two came out and cried…Only to cry again somehow ever worse after season two with Isha being the brave little soul that she was. You’re both very, very delusional and hope that she’s somehow alive even though she most likely isn’t, which means jinx will become a menace and make it everyone’s problem.

You also agree that the commune was too polished and perfect to not have something weird going on underneath the surface, while also agreeing that Skye is what the arcane is disguising itself in hopes of using the guilt Viktor felt towards her death to its advantage.

Damian doesn’t watch shows unless you force him to.

He doesn’t find any interest in doing such things but he had to admit the art style of arcane had him greatly intrigued. That and the story was well written as were the characters complex with their ambitions, motivations and actions that they thought were right.

You going apeshit over Viktor however, expect to be on the brunt of his side eyes when you openly simp for the man of science.

‘THATS MY HUSBAND!’ You yelled and Damian swore he had became deaf after that. So whenever you’d visibly look excited to see Viktor -even though it had only been a few scenes since you last saw him- he’s bracing himself for the outburst you’d let out each and every time.

He comes to adore the show but not nearly as much as you however but he has to applaud the writers and everyone involved with such an enriching story and three dimensional characters and how it seemly the story is. After all it takes a talented person with a good eye to pull together a perfect story out of thin air. But other than that he picks up on the finer details that you might’ve missed yourself and you rewards him with kisses and hugs for doing so.

Much like Tim, Damian believes that the arcane is using Skye’s likeness to manipulate and corrupt Viktor due to his guilt over her death. He was all about destroying the hexcore but all notions of that seemed to disappear not long after the commune he builds grows in concerning numbers. Almost like an unsettling hivemind especially when they all die the way that they did.

Dick finds your attraction and or obsession for Viktor hilarious and would record you every time he came on screen, especially so when he had grown his hair out a little.

You were barking like a fucking dog for that man, foaming at the mouth and going absolutely feral as though you were going to leap through the tv and tackle the fictional character. ‘That’s my husband!’ You’d yell the moment you see him and Dick is pouting like a child as he crossed his arms over his chest.

‘I thought I was your husband.’ He says and you’d have to console your pouty man with a bunch of kisses and reassurances that he was still number one in your heart. Dick had doubts as he once asked you ‘if Viktor was real would you stay with me?’

Your silence spoke volumes for Dick who only pouted even more and you had to console him…again. You love your dickie bird and you had to reassure him the Viktor was fictional and not real, thus your love and attention would forever more be his. Needles to say he was a happy little pup for the rest of the day…that is until he saw your eyes glued to the screen whenever Viktor came on and shushing him so that you could hear his soft voice speak.

You swore you’ve never heard Viktor yell, well other than that one scene in arcane where he’s running but then again you were screaming at the screen along with him. Needles to say you were inconsolable when he died and Dick had to deal with you making a memorial for a person that wasn’t real and praying for his return as the machine herald.

Jason loves the story arcane tells.

Probably sees himself in a lot of the characters from the undercity/zaun to be honest as it almost reminds him of his time in Crime Alley.

Jason is a fan of a well written story as a man who is a lover of literature and theatre, so when you shown him arcane his ass was sat on the couch from episode one and was immediately hooked.

So when you openly thirst over Viktor and scream ‘THATS MY HUSBAND! LOOK AT HOW FUCKING PRETTY HE IS OH MY FUCKING GOD!’ He’s chuckling at your enthusiasm and your obsession with the man it was downright hilarious.

‘Do you like men with long hair?’ He asks teasingly.

‘I like men with intellect, dignity, a good heart and a little softie.’ You replied as you poked his chest. ‘Long hair doesn’t suit every man unfortunately, I think it’s got something to do with the face shape but yeah…I don’t think many could suit it as effortlessly.’ You add with a shrug of your shoulders.

Jason will be more than willing to listen to you as you go on about the theories you believe might be true in regard to Viktor, the hexcore and the arcane itself. He loved it when you get this passionate about things you love that he couldn’t help himself but give you a kiss on the lips each time you seem to be tripping up on your word because you were that excited to have someone to talk to about all this, especially if it was your beloved partner. ‘What was that for?’ You’d ask after he pulls away from the kiss.

‘You looked adorable and sexy when you talk theories and speculations for what will happen next, it’s a good look on you and I couldn’t help but kiss you.’ Jason replied as he kissed you on the lip once again and you were quick to talking about how Viktor had to come back in act three and how you think Viktor was being used as a puppet.

Jason throws in his thoughts and opinions but he just loved to sit and listen to you and admire that beautiful brain of yours.

[yanderes-galore]

Yandere rivals between Vaggie and Angel dust who both grown attached to overlord reader ? Platonic please and hcs if possible 

I was a bit unsure how to do this at first... but I think there's some interesting dynamics between characters to explore here.

Part of me wants to write something separate for the dynamic you, Angel, and Val have in this. That seems good enough on its own to explore. ALSO! So sorry it got complicated... I had too many thoughts I lost the plot half the time.

@okchijt helped me enrich the rivalry portion near the end.

Yandere! Platonic! Vaggie vs Platonic! Angel Dust with Overlord! Darling

(FT. Alastor + Valentino + Charlie)

Pairing: Platonic - Rivalry

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Overprotective behavior, Trauma, Violence, Abuse (Angel and Val), Unhealthy coping mechanisms, Implied Manipulation, Dubious companionship(s).

At first it's a bit difficult to see where you can place another Overlord.

Vaggie would naturally struggle to trust another Overlord based on the ones she's seen/interacted with.

Same thing with Angel due to the fact his soul is owned by an Overlord.

So, both of these characters obsessing over an Overlord is... strange.

The only thing I can think of is you're an Overlord supporting the hotel.

One thing the two share in common is their care for Charlie, no matter how ridiculous her ideas are.

So maybe you're an Overlord who's investing in or just interested in the hotel and its inhabitants.

You'd often come to the hotel to speak with Charlie, not usually going out of your way to have soul deals with anyone there (as per an agreement with Charlie).

This could be a way to get you on good terms with the two.

HOWEVER, This ALSO creates unique relationships between you and Alastor/Valentino.

I imagine Overlords tend to have a territory.

They don't typically want free Overlords in their space or touching their property.

Which means, a new Overlord would catch the attention of Alastor and Val.

First of all, Alastor will notice you often around the hotel and Charlie.

While his role is being a defender of the hotel and yours is simply supplying it, Alastor may feel a bit threatened... or even interested when it comes to your presence.

There's a good chance you can actually get along with Alastor if you aren't a threat... maybe.

When it comes to Val, however?

None whatsoever.

Val would hate you interacting with Angel.

Especially when Angel gets attached.

So, I feel a rivalry like this might come off as complex.

Even more so with the fact you're an Overlord.

Vaggie becomes close to you because you both care for Charlie.

You're seen as an ally and she respects your abilities.

Plus, you're more respectable than most other Overlords here.

She's always found Alastor... shifty.

Vaggie comes off as an overprotective yandere, even if you're a strong Overlord.

Actually, that fact alone makes Vaggie want to protect you due to Alastor.

Alastor no doubt wants to make a deal with you due to your power.

Power is his end game and he isn't sure if Charlie would even need you to be an Overlord.

He can handle it, so why not make a deal with him to give over your power?

Vaggie is often the one trying to keep one (or two) Overlords off your back.

It's originally because she doesn't want Charlie to stress or worry.

But later it's because she genuinely cares about you, Overlord or not.

Angel is a bit more dependent when attached.

At first he pays you no mind.

Oh great, another Overlord to force their way into things.

As if Alastor and Val aren't enough.

He tries not to pay you any mind, often ignoring you.

However, maybe you comfort him after an argument with Val.

You notice him covered in marks and become oddly attentive.

He originally tries to push away, telling you off while he tries to isolate himself.

He finds the idea of an Overlord being caring odd.

Even Alastor does it to get his way.

Yet... You appear to be genuinely concerned...

He hates that he enjoys it.

What may solidify his attachment is you standing up to Val or something.

That or just defending Angel in general.

With you he feels less... guarded.

He knows being around you pisses Val off.

At times Angel gets concerned for your well-being because Val can be dangerous as a Vee.

Yet you try to reassure him you're alright with it.

Even though Angel tries to distance himself for your sake... He can never stay away for long.

Oof... Things just get messy when Angel's attached.

Mostly because Val is erratic and temperamental.

ALL OF THAT and I have yet to discuss Vaggie and Angel actually fighting.

See what I mean by this is more complicated than I thought it would be?

Vaggie and Angel can agree on one thing... you're helpful, sweet, and important to them.

The two also tend to keep you away from two other Overlords.

You're meddling where you shouldn't, even if you don't mean to, but these two act as good allies to you.

I don't imagine their rivalry gets too violent.

They wouldn't try to end one another, mostly it's just arguments on who cares for you better.

But it's not like you're all that vulnerable.

No, you're an Overlord, most of the time you're caring for them.

You help Vaggie be more confident in helping Charlie and even give helpful suggestions and supplies to Charlie herself.

With Angel you often try tending to his wounds, talking to him, and trying to help him cope in a less destructive way than vices (Alcohol, Drugs, Smoking.)

He doesn't listen all the time but he does somewhat appreciate the sentiment.

The two fighting is mostly due to you being occupied with the other or the Overlords upset with you.

Vaggie tends to blame Angel for Val's actions towards you.

It's often a heat of the moment kind of thing, she doesn't entirely mean it but it slips.

Meanwhile Angel thinks Vaggie only cares about you due to Charlie.

Angel may even say Vaggie couldn't defend you from Alastor or that you're being used in some way.

It's all mostly petty but it ruins the bond between them.

Much to Charlie's dismay.

Alastor may comment on their behavior with you.

He muses that they act like lost children in your presence.

He finds it all very amusing.

He also finds it strange you managed to get them to both like you... even more so to this point.

He may even ask if you have ulterior motives, which you don't share.

Motives or not, the two probably would still care for you if they bicker this much over your "care".

Val just seems to get aggressive with you.

He claims you're stealing Angel from him, to which you decline.

You're merely helping Angel, which makes Val more frustrated.

The Vees are never good with their temper.

It's so easy for you two to fight.

You may even come back to the hotel with wounds, leaving Vaggie concerned and Angel guilty.

You help the two in many ways.

Be it from actual care or benefiting yourself... it yields the same result.

Charlie congratulates you for befriending them and helping the hotel...

Yet she is concerned about them at times.

Charlie often has to prevent the two from fighting.

She'd also be concerned about you and Val's fighting.

Both yandere are mostly overprotective.

Angel may also be clingy when he's vulnerable but he tries not to be.

This rivalry, as petty or light as it is, comes with many moving parts.

You're less concerned with Vaggie and Angel... and more concerned about the other bonds they have and how you complicate them.

I don't know, I no doubt overcomplicated the request, but it's genuine thoughts and concerns I have when thinking of these two.

Overall, I feel their rivalry is more petty than anything.

They themselves wouldn't hurt you as you're an Overlord... but the two end up hating each other.

It's a bit difficult for me to see them fighting though... as due to how complicated these dynamics are, the two would probably just learn to share.

You help them both, they help you, they may not need to fight.

Even if they shared though... I can see arguments occurring due to Alastor and Val.

The two wouldn't be able to kidnap you or manipulate you too much.

Murdering people for you? Sure, I can see that.

They're both protective and capable... but would they need to?

Lesser demons don't come near you and they can't kill Overlords.

Oof... you having the Overlord title in general makes this complicated too....

Vaggie is protective and isolating, wanting you to focus on the hotel more than Angel to make Charlie happy.

She makes herself your personal assistant, ushering you to focus on her, Charlie, and the hotel. Not Angel or Alastor.

To her, this is how you two bond.

She doesn't mind sharing with Charlie... but she tries not to allow you any more time with the others.

Angel is not only protective and clingy, but possessive.

He loves it when you just come to see him because you're concerned.

It gives him an ego.

He likes the attention so much that he'll lie to make you stay longer.

He's never felt more comfortable... and he uses this time to mess with Vaggie.

He's a distraction and he enjoys it.

Vaggie thinks Angel is hogging all of your attention... You have other things to attend to.

Meanwhile Angel accuses Vaggie of boring you and not giving you a choice on what to do.

You have your work cut out for you at the hotel, especially with these two so close to you...

All I have to say is this... Good Luck.

[loveinhawkins]

Steve gets the idea from Dustin and Robin, in a roundabout way: Robin insists on buying a camping stove from The War Zone, which Dustin pounces upon with glee as soon as he notices it.

“Oh, we’re cooking with gas now,” he says, which is the worst pun Steve has heard thus far.

Eddie snorts, almost but not quite hidden underneath the sound of the engine. Steve smiles.

“Y’know there’s a stove right here?” he asks in benign exasperation, gestures behind him to the little kitchen area of the RV.

“Steve,” Robin says, “that’s not as fun.”

“Yeah, come on, Steve! It’ll be like at Camp Know Where—”

“Know Nothing,” Steve mutters automatically.

“—we oft dined al fresco.”

“Oft,” Eddie parrots, and Steve can faintly feel the movement of him laughing, from where he’s pressed up against the back of the driver’s seat. “Al fresco. Henderson, what lab did they make you in?”

“Eddie, either shut up or back me up, I wanna get a culturally enriching experience outta this.”

“Oh, excuse me, didn’t realise this was a field trip.”

“You’re excused.”

“Okay,” Steve cuts in, “have fun playing at camping, Henderson, but don’t come crying to me if you, like, blow yourself up.”

Robin chuckles. “Such a happy camper.”

“Boo,” Steve says flatly.

He parks the RV a little bit away from a store just off the main road—heads in alone as it’ll draw less attention. Out loud, he says it’s so he can focus without hearing whining pleas to buy junk food, whether Dustin-approved or not, but he already knows he’ll cater to each and every one of the group’s demands.

Eddie, surprisingly, doesn’t put in a request, says he’s happy to just go along with whatever everyone else wants—a far cry from when Nancy had relayed, with more amusement than frustration, “He said he wants a six-pack.”

Steve figures that the whole being wanted for murder thing would kill anyone’s appetite, but it still makes his stomach sink, that the most substantial meal Eddie’s gotten a chance to eat has been lukewarm Spaghettios.

They set up ‘camp’ in a field, and Robin’s the first to rush outside, shortly followed by Dustin, both intent on using the stove she’s bought.

Steve leaves them all to it, kind of enjoys the temporary peace of just messing about in the RV on his own—it gives him enough time to find where some crockery is kept, anyway.

He’s heating up chicken noodle soup on the stove when Eddie comes back in and tells him, “They got it working, no explosions yet.”

“Oh, miracles can happen. Good timing, by the way.” Steve switches the burner off, pours the soup into a bowl and sets it down on the table—where he’s already laid out a spoon. “Yours is ready.”

At first he doesn’t think the silence is all that unusual. He’s not really looking either, focusing on rinsing out the pan he’d used. But when he does glance up, it’s to see Eddie just standing there, looking at the bowl of soup and blinking rapidly.

It’s almost like… almost like he’s—

“Woah, hey,” Steve says, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Eddie says, even though he’s still quite clearly tearing up. “Absolutely nothing. Jesus Christ.” He groans, presses a couple of fingers to the inner corner of his eyes. “This is fucking mortifying, just pretend you didn’t—ugh.”

In barely a blink, he shuts himself away in the bathroom.

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “Hate soup that much, huh?”

A watery laugh from behind the door. “No.”

There’s a silence. Steve dries the pan and puts it away before calling, “It’s gonna get cold!”

It won’t for a while yet; he can still see tendrils of steam rising from the bowl.

There’s a long, drawn out sigh, and then Eddie opens the door, sidles in to take a seat at the table.

For a moment, Steve thinks he isn’t going to acknowledge it, which is fine. But as Eddie picks up the spoon he says, head down, “It’s just. That was, uh. Really��really nice.”

Steve’s concern abates a little; he can’t help giving a slight smirk. “Would it help if I was mean instead?”

Eddie laughs again, no tears in it this time. He shrugs with a grin. “Do whatever you want, man.”

He’s eating slowly, his spoon dragging through the soup. His eyes seem distant.

“It’s just… I miss—” His voice threatens to break, but doesn’t quite get there. “I miss… home.”

Before Steve can think of a reasonable reply, Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. He drops the spoon with a clatter. “God, that sounds so—”

“It doesn’t,” Steve interrupts.

“Yeah, sure.” Eddie picks up the spoon again, keeps scraping it against the bottom of the bowl.

“Dude, what did I tell you? You’ve gotta give yourself a break.”

Steve pauses, stuck on what to say next.

He can’t even relate, honestly. Home has long become something he couldn’t… Something he couldn’t really miss, exactly.

It’s ever-changing: the luxury of eating a late breakfast in History; the crunch of leaves underfoot as he walked the railroad tracks with Dustin; the chill of the freezer in Scoops Ahoy, Robin’s snorting laugh bouncing off the walls.

Now it’s his car radio playing as he gives rides on busy school mornings. A high school basketball game. A goddamn video store.

“I think you have this thing,” Steve says slowly.

“A promising start,” Eddie says, lips twitching.

He’s finished the soup. The sight spurs Steve on.

“I think you have this thing,” he repeats, more confidently, “where you think that, like, we’re seasoned monster-killers, and you’re—”

“Uh, speaking objectively, Harrington, that’s kinda what you are.”

“My point is,” Steve says, “that you don’t need to—shit, I don’t know, man. Just. You don’t need to apologise or whatever. You’re doing fine.”

Eddie blinks. He’s cupping the empty bowl with his hands, breathing a little deeper, like the residual warmth is calming.

And that Steve can relate to: in the days after Starcourt, when Robin pretty much dragged him to her house, empty thanks to her folks visiting extended family. They both pretended that they just wanted to stay up late because they could, because they were just teenagers enjoying the summer, and Robin had made shitty hot chocolate from a powder, heating up milk on the stove; when Steve complained that he could hardly enjoy it through a busted lip, she’d said, still jittery, “I just thought—it’s just nice to hold, y’know?”

She was right.

One of Eddie’s fingers starts tapping against the bowl, the underside of his ring making a series of restless clinks. Steve wants to still his hand, gently press it further into the warmth. Settle him.

Eddie stands up with the bowl.

“I can—”

“Nah, I’ve got it,” Eddie says, already at the sink. He turns on the faucet, smiles. “Thanks, by the way.”

It’s so simple, so domestic, and all of a sudden, Steve’s struck with a thought: oh, I want this.

“No problem. I’ll get you something better, after… um, everything.”

Eddie chuckles. “Oh, Jesus, I think I actually would kill for some fries.”

Steve clicks his fingers. “So we’ll make it happen.”

“We?”

“Yeah, I hate to break it to you, man, but as soon as they hear about free fries—” Steve jerks his head towards the chatter outside, “—they’re gonna demand to come with, they’re like piranhas.”

He expects Eddie to play up the joke, to groan and complain.

But while he does laugh, Eddie just sighs before saying in earnest, “That sounds fucking fantastic.”

And his eyes are warm and fond, like maybe he’s found another home in all of them, too.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

Summary: Upon the sudden stop of all their correspondence, Miss Lana Tierney finds herself bereft of her pen pal John Egan’s support -not however, without him first having made a heavy declaration and entrusted her with a precious bit of himself. Battling Tinsel Town’s awful labyrinth of censors, agents, and an ever disloyal mother, Lana seeks to find John, and having once found him, to remind him of his promise to try. Meanwhile in Stalag Luft III, Major Gale Cleven may loiter at his incriminating radio longer than strictly necessary in hopes of hearing a voice that would bring his best friend a shred of hope.

My many thanks to: Christi and Ashley for endless amounts of encouragement and advice and enrichment of the plot, y’all are invaluable darlings and precious friends. To Bri who has been the brains and requests behind the concept and the beating heart behind giving Bucky a love of a lifetime

Warnings: 18+ disturbing content. Not so much war focused but rather Hollywood in the 40’s which can be horribly gruesome itself. We are happily ripping off Lana Turner’s real story for much of this, and so in this chapter you will find mentions of certain harrowing abuses she endured. Such as: brief references to a forced, studio-required abortion, bugging of a woman’s room, arranged engagements, drugging, hinted sexual exploitation, willing current sexual favors in return for a role, Bucky going a little nuts as a POW, Lana’s mother being the worst, John Huston making a cameo that will probably make you wanna punch the guy. It’s ok, the real fella deserved it. Go ahead. Again, nothing explicit, didn’t wanna get all yucky but these themes are prevalent in here in passing.

Word count: a whopping 8k

Character name reminder: Julie Jean Turner goes by the Hollywood alias of “Lana Tierney”

Lana lay abed and stewed. She was past grief, or perhaps it was easier explained that Grief and her sisters, Denial and Betrayal, were more of Julie Jean Turner’s privilege. Miss Lana Tierney, academy hopeful and box office gold, had little left but rage and the moist silk of her pillow pressed to her burning cheek.

“What an awful few days it’s been.” she’d allowed herself to say a few weeks back.

The Julie Jean of that week didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Life was bad enough then, back when he called, but his voice cured everything from her terrible week. Vincent and the engagement and the studios, all of it. But then came a letter, one written awfully like a goodbye, and another one after it but all of them were little provisions for if he were to go down.

Scribbled hours before going up.

“I love you, I know it’s a lot to spring on a gal who’s just doing her bit and keeping me happy but I do. It’s an awful type of love, Julie, very tight fisted and I think I only love you because you love me so well in your way. I don’t think that’s the sort of love to do anybody any good, but I’d regret not saying it, beginners can’t be haughty. Here I wanted to stick my toe in and you gobbled the whole leg, and I love you. I love you for it. I love you.”

She’d rubbed over his signature, not a bit of cursive in that scrawled -John- a million times.

And then, just like that, just like what had happened to her friends and a million women across the world- his letters simply stopped. Julie Jean learned elsewhere he’d been shot down for weeks by the time she’d gotten the last one. It was hard to have finally heard his voice and known of his purpose, but now? -a dead silence that had a voice and face and love attached to it. It was agony of a sort she’d never known and was made worse by the loneliness in her secrecy of not being able to mourn it aloud.

She moaned into the mess of her pillowcase and ignored Bertha's fifth knock of the afternoon. Who’d recognize the glamorous Miss Tierney now? Pitiful and tear streaked and pale from blood loss. She still lay on a chucks pad the studio nurse had rolled her onto, a feeble trickle still seeping between her legs. Curled on her side with eyes glinting at the afternoon sun, she seethed at one more thing taken from her.

Lana could hardly stand it. But she had to try. She’d made John promise he would. They’d promised each other, and somehow she hadn’t any doubts that wherever he was, he was trying.

“Miss Tierney?” That was Herbert’s voice and Jean rolled her eyes at the predictability of this household. After not answering Delores they sent in Bertha and upon not answering Bertha here was Herbert and if she didn’t answer him, her mother might manage to rouse herself and drive over.

“Come in Herb, if you must.” she groaned, hand outstretched and patting blindly for a cigarette on her nightstand.

Her old driver came in with an unusually light step, it bespoke a sympathy for her plight that Jean would have preferred a thousand times never to read on his usually persnickety face. “How are you holding up after -“ he stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed as Jean rummaged and when she sat back with cigarette and holder in hand, she found him looking down at her with such concern she nearly threw the lamp at him. “Tonsillitis, huh?” he hummed sympathetically.

“Oh yes, nasty bout.” she lied merrily, the ache in her violated womb protested her move to sit up. “They had to take them clean out.” it was the only printable explanation for her ailment.

“Yeah.” Herb had been a renowned stuntman before he’d been demoted to driver, and before stuntman he’d been a soldier in the trenches and before that he’d been a clerk. If anyone knew about coat hangers and poor girls held down to be kept forever virginal and ever in use, Herb knew. Herb had warned her even, told her what a sick racket they ran here in Tinsel Town. Much good it did her, she was in too deep before she knew she had so much as stuck her toe in.

Rather like Bucky in love, apparently, and that thought made her madly blink away a stupid rush of tears.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the parcel she just now noticed was tucked under his arm.

“Oh, this? Chocolates. Here, my lighter miss?” Whatever was under Herbert’s arm wasn’t shaped like any chocolates she knew and Jean was about to give him a talking to for being insipid when her mood was so poor but then she saw him press a warning finger to his lips. He walked around the side of her bed and indeed pulled out a lighter, metal and rude and no doubt a relic of the first war, and flicked it for her to light up. Bending down he smelled of tobacco himself when he took the unprecedented liberty of whispering in her ear: “They bugged the room during your operation, Miss. Must be careful. Especially if you want to keep your gift.”

He pulled away and looked down at her sorrowfully before quietly laying the dirty brown package atop her pristine sheets. Mother had them changed after the bloodbath of the…operation. They were spotless before and now they were sooty. That pleased her.

Jean forgot to look away from him. She was startled and upset by the news but she didn’t doubt it. They’d probably bugged the phone ages ago, god knows they’d stop at next to nothing and she did so want to keep something for herself. If she couldn’t have a baby, her baby, then she’d keep a parcel, damn them all. Then a cold feeling of dread filled her and she thought to grab at her books and look for the hidden letters.

Gone. Mother. It must’ve been mother, it was her sort of thing to have rifled through Lana’s things while she was being operated on and found them and took them and-

The rage spurred her to look down at what Herb brought her, cigarette forgotten between her quivering lips. She expected it to be from him, a little pep up. Perhaps a doll or a stuffed animal to cheer her. But no, this parcel in its plain brown wrapping had come from afar, smudged and delayed a million times judging by its redirected stamps -and she’d know that writing from anywhere.

Her Johnny.

Julie Jean’s little gasp let slip the cigarette from her mouth but not before Herb caught it from singeing the sheets. He was quicker than anyone gave the old man credit for, banged up head or not. “Thought that might cheer you.” he grinned in that begrudging way of his, as if he were cross at the joy made manifest on his face.

“I’m scared.” she admitted in a whisper, hands hovering over the brown twine strings. Whatever was inside was squishy and giving. And whatever it was, John had sent it before he’d been shot down. But still, somehow it felt like a gift from him on this, the worst day of her life. Like he was sending some comfort even from hell on earth and without a clue of her own dispair. Herb seemed to read it the same way, and that’s how Jean knew she wasn’t being a delusional, hysterical wreck, if that crusty old sod knew its significance in coming today, then it was plain as the irregular nose on his face.

“Scared of chocolate?” His tease covered a strong reminder for her to watch her words.

“Mm, yes, what if there’s raspberry filled ones?” she whispered back. “You know how I can’t abide raspberries.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be brave and see.” he nudged her.

Nodding her head solemnly, Jean tugged apart the twine that had kept John Egan’s package together for an entire transcontinental delivery. It fell away with a crinkling sound and she found folded upon it, without a bit of fuss or wrapping, the oddest piece of cloth. Almost a patchwork of pale leather and a zipper and -Jean’s throat closed as her hand descended and felt along the soft fluff of a sheepskin collar.

He didn’t. He didn’t send her his jacket? Surely —

Herb made a noncommittal noise beside her which sounded awfully like some touched sorta gasp at the sight, but as it was Herb and he had a tobacco wad where he should have had a heart, so he must’ve been coming down with the same cold that landed Lana in tonsil surgery.

Hands shaky and heart hammering, Jean reached in and pulled the garment out, a tiny little note fluttered out. Someone else’s penmanship. “To the care of Jean Turner, until it can be retrieved by Major Egan.”

“Oh god.” she felt like sobbing before pressing her face into the sweat fumed plushness of it. “Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.” she kept his name buried in his jacket, secret like his gift and his love and his comfort and her desires. Eyes and mouth muffled into the darkness of something that was his. She felt Herb’s gentle hand pat on her head and the following click of the latch as he went out.

“Mister Vincent called to say there’s dinner and photographs scheduled for tonight, Miss Tierney.” he informed her levelly before he left and her ears were not so buried in Air Force Shearling she couldn’t hear of her doom. “There’s been some speculations -they want to smooth it over. Bertha was trying to pass it on.”

Bertha wanted to wipe off whatever remaining blood was on her and primp all signs of coercion off her devastated face, that’s what Bertha was here for. Jean vaguely wondered if her mother’s clenching hand print still lingered on her cheeks, she rubbed John’s jacket against the soreness of her mouth, muffling her sobs the way her mother’s hand had stifled her screams of pain only hours ago.

Back to work, asap, it would seem. -Bleed down your nylons dear, it’ll be alright, so long as they see a happy face and a lucky new couple.

Vincent. She wasn’t sure how she’d face him, the weekend getaway and his little “test drive” of her had been bad enough, the fact he hadn’t the brains to prevent it from having consequences or the spine to stand up for the life of the child he made- oh, she wondered how she’d manage to down her asparagus in the face of it all. Acting, she presumed, a true talent that had suddenly become a personality since -since? -she wasn’t sure when.

Beside her for months now, stacked beneath the pile of new Runyon books she’d taken out of the library, had been a pile of letters that didn’t have a bit of acting in them. Raw and true and terrible and wanton, each of John Egan’s thoughts tumbled off their confining pages and into her heart in mirrored response to her own. Now mother had them.

Jean wondered where all her own letters to him were, now that he was gone and someone else was in his bunk.

Funny to think of that, the most honest account of herself was most likely moldering in the bottom of some MIA airman’s footlocker.

It was all a bit self indulgent, she admitted even as she stripped out of her bloody gown and down to her bare skin, but she had lost plenty and she needed him: so she slipped him on, soft wool caressing her and stopping the shivers of shock that had wracked her all morning. It smelled so manly and sweaty and terribly real she about swooned at the sensation of having a bit of him next to her. Now she’d seen him -all those darling candid photos in repayment for hers- and she’d heard him -oh that awful, wonderful telephone call right before he disappeared- and now she was smelling him.

Jean would have to bathe and take a handful of aspirin and cinch in her girdle and kiss her fiancée tonight, but for a brief hour she layed in bed naked as a baby with her gift wrapped around her like swaddling clothes.

Vincent came later with the car, one of his father’s for certain, and eyed her choice of outerwear with a sour mouth. Fleece and chiffon was an odd mix but Lana always had been a trendsetter and it was early November, even if it was Los Angeles. Of course, for her the jacket was John, and so she wore him like armor -and if she was wearing it, they couldn’t take it without her knowing.

“I’m cold.” she answered Vin’s unspoken question sharply on the ride over, “I’ve just had tonsil surgery, you may recall?”

“It stinks.” he huffed back, his nose presumptuously nuzzling under her curls and very near the sweat soaked fleece, “Smells like a barnyard.”

What it smelled like was a red blooded American man’s honest days work killing Nazis. But Vincent and his pale hands and arranged medical exemptions weren’t likely to know what that smelled like, so Lana felt compelled to give him a pass. “It’s for the war effort,” she sighed, “we must all make sacrifices. Mr. Warner told me it would be grand press to wear it.”

She’d never spoken to Mr. Warner about much else but weather and her tits, but growing ever more desperate as these days went on, Lana thought perhaps she’d pay him a visit.

“Great press?” Vincent seethed, charmingly one track focused, “The press should be about our engagement! Not the war!”

“Be a realest, dahling,” she soothed, “nothing, not even the great scion of a prestigious family such as yours is half as fascinating right now as ball bearings and top turret production in Greenfield. If we want them to print about our engagement, it’s got to have something to do with the general war, see?“

“Ah, ah I see.” Vincent swallowed her lie well enough, still perturbed at the fracturing of his beloved media attention but consoled that Lana was not aspiring to make him a fool.

Oh how foolish that was of him, Lana hummed to herself as they pulled up to the restaurant, perhaps not tonight or in a week's time. No, for now she was down and out and no doubt about it, but eventually, she’d scramble on top, she had to or she’d be offed eventually by it all. She knew that now, it was plain with each aching step on wobbly legs and each smile of her crimped, anemic face, Vincent’s pliable hand more vice than support on her elbow as she stepped out under Chasens’ green awning.

There was conversation and photographs all through dinner, her agent and a Warner Brothers executive kindly gracing the table with heavy, stilted and very implied conversation. Lana might’ve breathed better in her booth had they held an actual gun to her head and told her to finish her parsnips that way. They were very happy she had recovered from the tonsillitis so well, they were very eager to see her on set bright and early tomorrow, they were very eager that any doubt about how in love she was with the respectable Vincent be ameliorated -a very big word to say with a mouthful of steak- and very hopeful that Lana wouldn’t get any ideas about a repeat of the War Bond tour. Yes the last one had been very effective and the government was pleased, but too much exposure to common crowds had a tendency to lessen the goddess effect, she must be let out to the pubic sparingly, and they in turn must not feel entitled to her in any way.

Such as…reaching out through the post, for example, much less expecting to be answered with anything less standardized than what Bertha might write twenty times over in her name in an afternoon.

“I just want to do my part.” Lana demurred.

“Oh honey, you’ve done your part, and now you’ve got a new part. Make a wish.” And there before her was brought out a cake slice with much fanfare, icing making a pretty little drizzle of words -“speedy recovery Lana, love from everyone at Warner Brothers Studio.”

She’d seen actresses carried out plastered to the four winds on sedative from slices just like this one, chivalrously poured into a waiting backseat of a producer or studio head, taken back to be put to bed. God knows what else happened in those beds. Her nausea returned fourfold and it wasn’t acting when she gasped a need to go to the powder room.

Instead she dashed to the phone, the one in the cubby near the toilets, trying resolutely to ignore the spying eyes of waiters and curious waves of famous guests passing by.

“Pick up, Herb, pick up.” she begged, listening to it ring and ring, then suddenly felt a horrid fear at the realization she’d left the jacket slung over her chair at the booth, with Vincent. “Herb please, please.” she moaned, stomping one well shod foot against the marble floor.

“Hallo?”

“Herb, oh Herb!” Lana gushed urgently on hearing him pick up, “You must come pick me up, they’re onto me with the letters and they’ve brought out cake and- bring a car, Vincent brought his father’s-“

“-Thank yeeew, Herbert, that will be all.” Mother’s affected transatlantic sent shivers down Lana’s spine right as she felt the cold clasp of her rings around her wrist, receiver wrenched effectively from her nerveless hand, “This is a family matter, your services are not required.”

“Mommy dearest.” Lana felt her lips trembling in a odd way that fought against the creeping numbness, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Would that I could say the same, Lana.” Mother reproved, “To abandon your fiancé without thought? And to find you calling on Herbert, like this were some otiresome fundraiser from which you may carelessly abscond -really. Your behavior is nothing but deplorable lately, I hardly know you. The cost, Lana, think of the cost of it all, this recklessness.”

“Who told you?”

“That you weren’t appreciative of the cake?” Mother smiled shyly, “Alfonso.”

The owner, of course, when he couldn’t get a hand up Lana herself he had become quite partial to mother, loyal to an opulent degree. She suspected that cake more than ever, the phone, too. God there was no getting out of this town, this place, this life.

“Alfonso says you’re distracted,” mother went on, “pale and sniffing some jacket? What has gotten into you?”

“Vincent.” Lana joked miserably and if half of Hollywood wasn’t sat so near, she’s rather sure her mother might’ve struck her.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to smile for the pictures, and you’re going to like it.” Mother laid out the case, the plan and the rest of her life, “And when we go home you’ll be getting a piece of my mind.”

“Oh really mother,” Lana sighed heavily, “I couldn’t take the last piece.”

The pinch on her arm was familiar of when Lana was a child and refused to sing in yet another talent show - the fifth that weekend. “Your fault for falling ill, now we must make up for lost time.” they were gliding back to the table arm in arm with Lana’s pale skin pinched between mother’s manicure, “Smile, darling, smile and wave.” as they wove between one starry guest and another.

Mother’s gait stalled for one fraction of a moment upon coming up to the table and seeing the bizarre article of clothing hanging over Lana’s chair. “Works better than a mink.” Lana proclaimed quite loudly, giddy enough to attract most male attention around who craned their necks to watch her shimmy it on for a try-on, much to Mother’s feigned amusement. She shimmied in the fleece, chiffon doing little to hide the jiggle of her derrière beneath the jacket’s hem and the flash of a bulb cracked significantly amongst the dinner chatter.

“It’s much too large for you -the sleeves, the shoulders-“

“That’s because it’s a genuine article mother!” Lana preened, satisfied to have caught the eye of the one she wanted as he sat in his booth.

Powerful and dark and lecherous, The Jack Huston stared at her unabashedly over the haze of his cigarette, his own date forgotten, taking in the way the man’s coat dwarfed her little body in a pantomime of covering her physically, masculine leather and zipper in stark contrast to baby soft skin swelling out of her neckline. She knew that look well, one of a man sizing her up for how she’d look beneath him.

Lana smirked at him significantly, squeezing the material around her dreamily and created a significantly more substantial amount of decollage for him to view upon doing so. “Lana, sit down for god’s sake.” Mother was hissing and Lana saw Huston laugh at it, she rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged, seating herself as asked but refusing to break eye contact with him until he raised his glass in a toast to her brazenness.

“Lana, photographers! Come now! Chin up, smile, smile darling.”

There were so many flashbulbs here it was obnoxious to not only Lana’s throbbing eyes but the other patrons, still a hard launch of a stilted, lab grown relationship was hardly an oddity in Hollywood or its most favored eating spots, and so it was endured.

“Doll, open up,” Vincent cajoled in Lana’s ear, hand kneading her waist and nose pressed to her hair, “practice for the wedding.”

It looked quite humorous if a little uncouth in the papers next day, Lana’s gasping and amused indulgence of her green boy fiancé as he playfully stuffed her mouth with cake in that pitiful tradition of marital provocation.

“Look at my dearest daughter, tonsil surgery yesterday and already, so eager, can’t be kept from dinner with her darling fiancé!”

The world grew fuzzy as Lana did her best to keep the wad of cake in her gums until she could spit the most of it out. “Tell your studio i want compensation for having to share press with the war effort.” Vin was complaining to the executive and Lana felt her world swim, only one single, dire hope remaining -Herb.

She gripped the edges of the jacket tighter and tried to focus. Mother was being called away, taking her leave with a photographed kiss to Lana’s clammy temple -some business with Aunt Lu and that promised check for her swimming pool. Lana had put in a lot of swimming pools for a lot of relatives, she was beginning to lose track between the pools and the houses and the cars and the wardrobes and always -“it’s family, Lana, they depend on you. Chin up, smile, smile darling, smile for the cameras, there’s my golden girl, box office magic.”

“Lana it’s very important you understand the role of an engaged woman-“ the executive was very insistent and Lana was very tired and very fuzzy feeling, which apparently Vincent could sense as his hands began to grow courageous in his petting, “-it’s a fine balance between respectability and attainability. The studio has worked so hard to give you this life, made enormous sacrifices so you could have a chance at this career, created an expertly crafted persona for you -if you were to jeopardize it all in any way, by inviting speculation about yourself or your lackluster roots-“

Lana was about ready to stand up and scream “I’m Julie Jean Turner from Broken Arrow Oklahoma!” and watch the deflated disinterest cover her audience like snow, it would ruin the effect -she wanted them to care that her life was a lie, but as soon as she told the truth, they’d lose all interest either way. Fame was funny like that.

“Mr Vincent,” Alfonso was most solicitous as well as perispring when he hurried over to her fiancé’s side, “there’s been an incident, your car, sir! The windows, they are smashed! And there appear to be eggs?”

Lana wasn’t sure she successfully suppressed the bubbling little laugh that flitted out of her leaden chest at Vincent’s deathly white pallor. There were two of him in her fractured, drug impaired vision and he acted like looney twins, scrambling up from the table in a flurry of hands and pomade, tux tails flapping like a frightened bird. “It’s my father’s car you idiot! Where was the doorman? Where?”

“Ooooh daddy’s gonna be mad.” Lana cooed to herself, amused at how this failure of a son couldn’t land a deal or a car or his own, only a troublesome actress who was in dire love with a man she’d never met.

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

The executive was waving off the cameras, this part of the night hardly suitable to be recorded. “Stewart, phone call for you.” A commanding, sonorous voice beside her sent goose flesh popping along Lana’s arms beneath the jacket, Jack Huston and his cologne suddenly pervading the place like an ominous deity casting its shadow over the now almost empty table.

“Mr. Huston.” Lana simpered sweetly when Stewart had left and it was just them alone with his hand on the back of her chair, thumbing at the lamb skin. There were two of Huston too, in her vision, and Lana gulped in trepidation of having to please both.

“Miss Tierney,” he replied, grinning a little too wide for her to focus, “you know what you look like you need?”

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

“What’s that Jack?” she tittered, happily courting ruin.

“A nightcap.” Jack declared and was extending a large palm for her before she could second guess. It was the choice of a lion over a wolf here in Hollywood, and Lana had such plans for Mr. Huston. But, like most things, Lana’s plans must wait until Mr. Huston’s plans for her had been satisfactorily met.

Of all the backseats to be poured into in Hollywood, Huston’s was rather plush and smelled nice and had a clinking little bar in the console, well stocked and vintage. Better yet, the car wasn’t his father’s, it was his. As was his mind and his time and his appetite. Lana could only dream of having that sort of brash freedom, for now she must attach herself to those who did if she so much as wanted a taste.

“So what’s with the jacket?” Mr. Huston had the liberty to be casual on a ride back to his house with a much desired starlet, after all, he had a slam dunk assurance she wasn’t going to say no on arrival.

“It belongs to a man who loves me.” she slurred earnestly.

“Pilot?”

“Yes. He writes the sweetest, filthiest things.”

“To you?”

“Only to me.” she whispered with drunken vehemence.

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

Mr. Huston enjoyed ribbons: tying them around her, to be specific but of all the novel and varied ways to be satisfactory it wasn’t so bad, and when he lay next to her afterwards as the drug began to take her fully under, Lana was pleased by the heavy arm around her waist. He didn't care about the tonsillitis. Bucky’s jacket hung carefully over the armchair in her line of sight, Jack had been nice about that, too.

Yes she could make some use of Huston and his ribbons and his new army uniform and his government contracts.

————————————————-

“I was insensible.” Lana maintained the following day at a meeting with Mother and Stewart and a slew of concerned agents and executives who were pleased enough by the engaged cake smashing photographs, less so by the discreet vandalizing of their blonde product by John Huston. “I don’t know what you put in that cake but it did the trick and I was as aghast as you upon waking up where I woke up.”

“And the jacket?” Mother had her priorities straight, troublesome memorabilia first, dear daughter’s virtue second.

“Shoot, I think Huston has it.” Lana whimpered, “I was in such a state, such a rush to leave-“

“Well that was a very unfortunate oversight, Lana.”

“I know.”

“He could use it against us.” Mother fretted.

“He’d make a fool of himself if he did,” Stewart shined best when full of his self-bloated importance and meetings such as these were essential fuel for that importance, “it would look like he took a pilot to bed.”

“Stewart, she’s all over the nation’s morning paper’s wearing the horrid thing!” Mother snapped and while she herself was admittedly awful most times, Lana never doubted she was shrewd, far more than Stewart and all the men in the room she jockeyed for lead with. “In fact Lana, this has really brought to a head a growing issue. Your restlessness, your ingratitude, it’s become insufferable and now it jeparadizes everything. I am speaking of the coat but also of the letters. Oh yes, I know all about those.”

A wise performance required Lana to play the frightened and shocked little miscreant and so she did, wide doe eyes looking beseechingly penitent and horrified in the face of having been caught doing a single independent thing. “Oh mother-“

“They are bad enough with their filth and their familiarity,” mother cut her off, “but to have written to him in your old name! Lana, the carelessness! It’s a mercy he’s dead, think of the presumptuous attitude he would have adopted had he returned. Unthinkable!”

“Dead?” Lana felt her throat close up, wishing desperately to be back in his jacket again, regretting most harshly her high-priced scheming of last night. All of it had been for him, and he was dead.

“Quite dead.” Mother was irritated by her crestfallen state but not so much as to prevent her crowing over little Lana’s misstep. “And now I am burdened with the necessity of tracking down his effects, getting your side of the correspondence back, think of the unpleasantness of contacting his family! Conversations with dead servicemen's families are always so tedious. You do recall what a bore it was for me to have to carry-on with them on your tour. And all of this to get back your filthy, perverse break of discretion.”

“Were they to get out they’d ruin your reputation.” Stewart put in the obvious, “They’d reveal your plain and common upbringing, your drab name and worse, you would be known to be a horny, hungry young woman.”

Lana stared at him across from his desk, that adrift feeling of aloneness taking over her, such as she’d only felt a few times in her life, like when her mother left her on her first studio couch for an audition, despite her pleas to stay. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, “it would be a terrible thing for an object of desire to appear willing. Or wanting, at all capable of their own needs. It would really ruin the shine of it all, I see.”

“Lana!”

“Oh mother, really, pimped out all my life -all for it to be ruined by the suggestion I might like it!”

“It’s worse than all that.” Stewart insisted gravely, immune to female objections and tantrums, “I’ve been contacted this morning by one of the branches of our government dealing with espionage and information,” -no wonder he was feeling so very important today- “and they’re concerned that the German Air Force is aware of your correspondence with Major Agen-“

“It’s Egan, actually.”

“-Agen and a tapped phone call as well, they have concerns, Lana, about the Germans using this connection as leverage on him, now they have him in their camps, under their thumb, at their mercy.”

Lana’s fractured world slid together again like a suctioned mosaic, one focal point of reason being clear. “He’s a prisoner of war.” she knew just the right inquisitive tone to encourage Stewart to keep blabbing.

“Yes.” Stewart was very grave and very important about being privy to this information, and Mother let out a fuming little cluck of her tongue at his fumble.

“So, he’s a prisoner.” she smirked triumphantly at Mother and was not corrected for once. “Not dead.”

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

Lana still smiled, she could work with “good as.”

———————————————-

“Jack?” Lana had timed her delicate attack most carefully, waiting until Huston was relaxed but not asleep, dressing but not in a hurry, happy but not restless, and most importantly, not remotely tired of her.

“What doll?” Jack had a broad back and nice hands, sometimes Lana imagined they were rather like Egan’s, or maybe that’s what she told herself to keep the tears at bay long enough for each amorous performance to conclude, “Your mother bitchin’ about me again?”

“Well,” she shied away into the bedding, “to be honest, yes.”

“Little rebel.” he praised her on his way to sling on his suspenders, apparently he was going out tonight, she felt a clench of panic in her gut at the need to throw her pitch before he left or hushed her.

“Jack I’ve been thinking.” She began again.

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

“No, true.” Lana was used to laughing at that same joke told by a couple dozen different men, “But is that skit competition still on? The one for the CBS slot?”

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

“Anything promising yet?” Lana ventured carefully, Jack was so very busy with all these government contracts for documentaries and proganada shows, and ever since then he’d had a very short fuse, fussy over his stalled artistic dreams. Not that he didn’t care about the war, he did in fact, and that’s why Lana liked him if she liked him at all. But he liked it the way a movie maker does, he wanted to tell stories and he wanted to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t going to be shot at he damn sure would be known to hang about the guys who were.

He was off to the Pacific to film some Marines mucking about on some godforsaken Atoll in a month or more. She had to make her move.

In the meantime, he was to organize a broadcast. Lana bad learned that from the grapevine at Warner’s, Betty D. dropping as much over her three carrots at lunch.

“I was wondering why we haven’t got ourselves an anecdote to Axis Sally.” Lana chose to be blunt, Jack was different from other men, he liked her babified act as much as the next man, but he’d belted her too for ‘playing dumb’. Since then she’d said her mind, as much as she dared and he called her idiotic often, but she’d not been belted again. “Our boys keep listening to that trash, and the housewives too, just to hear reports on the missing and the prisoners.”

“They listen ‘cause she’s sexy and funny.” Jack informed her with a pointed look.

“That too.” Lana contemplated the sheets before her, “But can’t we be funny and sexy too? Instead of demoralizing we could be happy! And we’d not have reports on prisoners but we could give them clues and hope, in case anyone's listening in.”

“Listening in.” Jack had stopped his halfhearted listening to her, wheeling suddenly with cuff links partway hanging, “You mean in camps?”

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

“They don’t let them have radios, ya know.” Huston pointed out, but it wasn’t said in argument, he was pondering too.

“You know they still manage.” Lana smiled softly and he smiled back.

“Ok, what’s the pitch?” He sighed and sat himself down again on the side of the bed, evening plans abandoned for the moment.

Lana’s heart swelled with hope and the delicious feeling of being taken seriously. Even if she was lying in his bed with hair a mess and dignity mighty rumpled. “Perhaps we could tack onto Fred Allen’s spot? Hasn’t he got a vacancy? A variety show? A skit? I don’t know, but we could have repeat actors and we could have guest stars. And it could- it could be a girl-“

“-Allied Sally.” Huston joked and Lana genuinely snickered at that.

“Something like that.” She agreed, chagrined at the need for a catchy, corney radio name, “And she could be waiting for her sweetheart, sending him messages and well wishes and jokes and -Oh! The score! The scores on everything! Baseball! Jack!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s decent.” Jack hushed her, waving her giddy self back down as she warmed to her topic, “And you could be her.” he stated the obvious.

“Don’t you think I’d manage it well?” She cajoled, cocking her shoulder in her best pantomime of a coquette. “Aren’t I funny and sexy, Mr. Huston?”

“Hmph,” he scratched his cheek and stared at her as if summing up the likelihood of this working, “needs another angle. Beyond skits.”

“Alright. Like what?”

Huston secured his cuff links, smile broadening as his mind began to whirl, “Letters.” he stated and Lana’s heart froze, “Love letters, we gotta keep it sexy, you said so yourself. There’s nothing so funny as a redacted letter being read out over the censors. The constant beeps alone will get laughs, give it the right inflection in between and you’ll have a game on your hands with the listeners guessing and filling in.”

“Letters.” Lana mumbled in agreement, numb at the brilliance of it and filled with horror at the idea of monetizing what John Egan had given her -connection, love, devotion, grit, humor. But this broadcast, it might be the only way to keep in any sort of contact with him. At what cost? Would he care at all for her after it? Would he think she used him up for a little business inspiration? Oh she couldn’t bear it, yet worse, she couldn’t bear life as Vincent’s wife, locked in for another ten years at Warner’s under mother’s thumb. “It’s brilliant.”

“Almost uncanny how likely a story it is.” Huston grunted as he pulled on a shoe, sending her a sly look that broke her a heart a little more, “Nothing so powerful as a tale based on a real thing, Lana.” he reminded forcefully.

The letters, the blackmail her mother hung over her, all of it dealt with if this pitch became a reality. It would all fade into a myth. And with it all the realness John had brought her. “Yes, I said -it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, easy does it for now.” He cautioned, “Gotta sort your mother and let that contract expire gently. I’ll pitch it myself. See what CBS can wrangle up. Don’t get your hopes up and keep that jacket safe, it’ll be invaluable when we get you a storyline for it.”

“Right.”

“Well go on, tell mommy dearest.” he goaded, nodding to the phone.

“Oh they wouldn’t be approving.” Lana disagreed, referring to the whole pack of them, her mother and her lawyers and her agents.

“Why not? Sounds like great business. Solves all the scandal too.”

“Something like this part-“ Lana demurred, “-wouldn’t suit my image, mother says.”

Jack barked out a rough laugh, plopped back down on the bed and tugging the sheets from her clutches. “Your mother does realize you’re walking wank material, right? That’s your image.”

“Yes,” Lana sighed, “but…unwilling, she says. That’s the crucial part.”

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jack eyed her up, “you do make a great impression of a scared lamb in bed.”

“They’re concerned it’ll make me too independent. Like the War Bond tour,” she gave a wistful smile, “I kissed so many boys my lips swelled right up. It was grand.”

“Now Lana,” Huston cautioned, “I’m not on any crusade to liberate you, myself.”

“Oh I know!” She was quick to assure, ever the obliging little lady, “And I don’t want to be. Not from you or the studio-“

“-just from mother dearest?” he nodded knowingly, not knowing the half of it.

“Yes.” she pretended great relief at his perception.

“Huh, well, good. Because this idea would have a contract of its own, and it would be long if I’m any judge of the longevity of the project. You’ll be locked in for years.”

“But it’ll be my choice.” She reaffirmed, and this time she meant it.

“And you’ll look willing.” Jack grinned and she grinned back, compulsively like a child mimicking their threat. “Might take some practice though, to make you look willing. Get over here, doll.”

———————————————-

Major Gale Cleven was appreciative of the dangers of listening to the radio in camp, it was one of those necessary and crucial risks that required responsible stewardship and utmost care. It wasn’t a flippant pastime and it wasn’t a recreation, but then again, neither was it strictly business. Like much of their lives as prisoners of war, he and his fellow soldiers toed a strict line between honoring their captors’ jurisdictions while also thwarting their imposed restrictions at every possible juncture.

Sometimes one should listen to the radio because that is what free men did, and Gale Cleven tried by any means possible- letters, books, calculus or his frigid metal headset- to stay free in his mind, to comport himself with the same surety as his free counterpart.

Otherwise, you lived like a ghost in your own body. And that was no good for oneself or those around you. As everyone who shared a bunk and combine with John Egan was quickly learning. The immediate joy of reuniting with him, the fear of losing him to his wounds, the relief of his recovery, it had all leveled out at the end like a anticlimactic ride on a rollercoaster, skidding to a plateau where he was neither well enough to be exempt from Gale’s concern, nor ill enough to warrant the patience required to put up with his rabid moods. Always restless, being kept in the glamorized equivalent of a dog run was hardly fitting for his nature. It was hard on everyone, but Gale wasn’t such a relativist as to assume John Egan had it the same as everyone. Some folks required more miles and more sky to keep them sane, and Bucky was one of those.

It had tipped Gale into a habit that could no longer be qualified as strictly informative, nor could he defend it as necessary where he to get caught. It was undoubtedly poor stewardship to spend an extra half hour listening to the inane comedy of a BBC guest production. But he had started it to cheer Brady when Glenn Miller’s band was on, and it had done such good for him and Bucky as they crowded ‘round, that Gale had since stayed alert for any other such ‘triviality’ that might be of use.

If the Colonel walked in and demanded an explanation for this extra bit of carelessness, Cleven thought he might make a decent defense about waiting for Ed Murrow to come on, broadcasting for CBS from London, always with a decent take on what was happening in the war. The motivation of Murrow often having stars on his program was completely erroneous.

Or so Gale swore to himself for the tenth time as Demarco kept watch and he himself painstakingly tuned the dials and bent his ear to sort the static.

There was music and the typical overlap of voices for awhile until he honed it down, British and American accents floating in, obnoxiously layered all on top of each other still, yet this time intentional. He must’ve hit a variety show. He gave himself two minutes, that much he’d allow and if the thing he’d been waiting for in secret for months did not occur,

he’d move right on or pack up for the night.

“I’m not sure about no boy writing you letters!” a man’s voice crackled through, comedically irate.

The next voice was girlish, smooth despite the poor frequency and made the hair of Gale’s arms stand on end from universal male appreciation and a gut wrenching sense of recognition: “Well I don’t know any more about it, paw paw, except that he loves me and I love him!”

“Yeah?” -Gale thought perhaps that was Bob Hope’s voice, play acting as the fuming father figure, “Yeah, then tell me, dear daughter, what sorta fella calls the girl he loves: Acorn! Huh?”

Gale’s eyes bugged from his head, glassy and shocked and Crank rushed over in solidarity, terribly sure the whole continent of North America had just been reported as broken off into the sea. “What is it Buck?”

“Crank!” Gale croaked, “Go! Go get Egan, tell him his girl’s on the radio and to get his ass in here, goooo!”

“Egan’s got a girl?” Benny was bewildered.

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

“But that’s Lana Tierney.” Crank pointed over the spunk wall, or as it was called in more noble moments of higher aspiration, the Wall of Hopes and Dreams, where Lana and Rita smiled tantalizingly and warm from their crinkled posters, down on the men’s bunks.

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

Gale held his breath and listened harder, trying to gauge how far into the sketch he had caught them, wishing them to linger, as if by sheer willpower alone he could make her stay on until Bucky got there.

Fuck -acorn? Why would she use that? She had to be out of her mind to dare a thing like that, had to be just to get his attention, right? Surely? Had to be out of her mind, Gale decided, which was just another diagnosis for love. And that gave him pause.

“What’s your feller anyway? He a squirrel?” Bob Hope was pressing the issue right as Bucky burst in with a flurry of flapping overcoat and steaming breath.

“Get in here, come on, get over here.” Gale stood up and pointed to his vacated seat, shoving Bucky down for good measure and crouching to press the headpiece to his ear, wanting to share it for some idiotic reason, as if like a parent he could cut the cord if something sad or risky came on.

“Maybe he is,” Lana was breathily defending, “and we’ll live happily ever after in our tree. And there’s nothing you or Jerry can do to stop us!”

“Shit.” Egan breathed out reverently like he’d been punched real and good and an epiphany on life was brewing beneath his shuttering smile. “Holy hell it -it is her. It’s acorn.”

“On a show called ‘Dear Acorn’, Bucky.” Brady chimed in, face as lit up for Egan’s current happiness as if it were his own.

“So what’re you twos gonna live on, huh?” Bob Hope crackled through “Love and nuts?”

“Oh well dunno, I do so love my nuts.” Lana rejoined.

“Jesus!” Gale pulled away from the headset like it had personally accosted him for a tumble in the sheets.

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

“And there’s nothing you or Jerry can-“

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

“Pinky promise!” Lana chirped a couple thousand miles away, and John Egan obeyed her once more with a raised hand and a crooked finger.

That night at roll call they had something to whisper about, and for once it wasn’t half cooked schemes to climb the barbed wire or try smothering the commandant in his sleep. Instead Bucky was rocking back and forth joyfully on his heels in the bitter night air, trying hard to keep his grin in check as the spotlight swooped over, choosing the intermediate bits of darkness to nag Gale for any bits he’d missed.

“I sent for ya right away, Bucky.” Gale insisted in a gentle whisper out the side of his mouth, “They were just starting to joke about letters being written to an acorn.”

“Can you believe it?” Egan hissed, almost demented in his sudden good cheer, “She’s that proud of me, built a whole damn show on it. Fuck, it makes a man wanna fight a dozen wars.”

Gale eyed him up carefully, the inside of Bucky’s head a foreign place even to him, but if his friend was hopeful and generous enough not to mind his intellectual (or rather, lack of intellect) property being capitalized on for the war effort, then Gale wasn’t about to sow seeds of doubt. “She’s somethin’ else.” he agreed nebulously, and meant it, “Bombs Away Betty, huh?”

“Showing partiality to one branch of the armed services, Buck.” John was back to grinning, “She must’ve liked the jacket.”

Hope you enjoined, thank y’all for all the screams and thoughts you’ve sent through my asks, the comments and reblogs too, I treasure each.

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[maxdibert]

I once saw a really hot fanart of AU silco from arcane and I was like "this looks like Snape" and then from there I wondered if you liked silco. Then I stumbled across a post from you (I think, I'm sure it was otherwise this is embarrassing) simping for Silco so I was right I guess. My question is do you think you can draw any similarities between those two, if there are any? Maybe even talk about silco? You're pretty good at character analysis so..

Ahhhhh Silco, my problematic fave without a doubt. I’ve criticized Silco a lot, and I still do, because he represents a massive social and structural issue that also exists in the real world: the figure of the criminal who takes advantage of the vulnerability and lack of resources in his environment to enrich himself at the expense of the lives of the poorest, even though he comes from that same background. To top it off, he convinces himself that he’s some kind of solution for the society or community he inhabits, when in reality, he’s a cancer. But I adore him—what can I say?

It’s also true that it’s quite difficult to hate any of the main or secondary characters in Arcane, because it’s a series with a well-developed script that lets you understand everyone’s motivations and actions, even if you don’t agree with them or find them awful. A lot of people criticized Caitlyn this past season, but I’m a strong Caitlyn defender because I completely understand where her anger and radicalization come from. It’s not just about losing her mother in such a traumatic way, but also the disillusionment she feels when she realizes that her attempts at advocating for conciliation not only don’t work but also end in tragedy. She embodies the disillusioned idealist, and it’s really well done.

But anyway, let’s talk about Silco. First of all, I don’t see many similarities between Silco and Snape, aside from young Silco being super Snape-coded physically. I mean, I’d totally accept him as Snape’s image because he has features that really remind me of him (which clearly shows I have a type—shame, no shame lol). But beyond that, their backstories, personalities, and motivations are very different. Silco isn’t someone who’s manipulated or desperate to fit in and join a gang. Silco created that gang; he’s the one doing the manipulating. He’s the one promising young people a better future if they follow him, when all he’s really doing is spreading a drug that’s poison and leaving his city even more impoverished than it already was.

If I had to compare Silco to someone, it would be Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders, because of how both go from being idealistic revolutionaries to animated versions of Pablo Escobar. Both come from poor environments, both were ambitious young men dreaming of a better world, but those dreams were crushed by traumatic events. Both resorted to violence, coercion, and blackmail to achieve their goals, and both ended up as mafia leaders who climbed the social ladder but could never truly reach the upper classes because they didn’t belong in that world.

Silco is a very well-constructed character. His fight with Vander and the deaths of his friends, partly due to his own actions, shift his worldview from believing he can make the world better to seeing it as irreparably broken—but still something he can dominate, something he can reclaim if he becomes powerful enough. This leads him to become a drug lord. He’s not actually achieving Zaun’s freedom; he’s condemning it to drug addiction.

I always compare Silco to Pablo Escobar because it’s easy to see the similarities in their methods: both used the excuse of improving the people’s lives to exploit them for personal gain, both manipulated young people by offering them jobs or protection in exchange for loyalty, both turned their violent environments into even more violent war zones, and both justified themselves by believing the world owed them something.

Silco commits truly horrific acts. He uses children, spreads a drug epidemic to make his environment easier to control, and his relationship with Jinx is deeply unhealthy and manipulative. I don’t doubt that he loved her, but he loved her badly. He projected all his traumas onto her, turning her into an unstable, self-loathing ticking time bomb—so much so that she ended up causing his death (poetically brilliant, top-tier storytelling). I always say that loving someone doesn’t mean loving them well, and Silco didn’t love Jinx well. He loved her selfishly; he loved her as someone to mold in his image. But you can’t expect someone raised in that environment to know how to do things right.

People simp for him by absolving him of everything and acting like he’s just a sad boy, but he wasn’t sad—he was a massive bastard and a piece of trash. But you can love that piece of trash anyway, and I love him a lot because deep down, he’s just a pathetic man—and I adore pathetic men.

Silco’s tragedy is that his fall to the dark side is the root cause of most of the misfortunes in the story. In an ideal world, he would never have fought with Vander, and they could have been good adoptive fathers to the girls—something we see in the AU, which breaks all our hearts because it shows us what could have been but never was.

But oh well, I love him anyway—even if he’s a drug lord, a manipulator, has zero anger management, and is a traitor to the revolution. And that’s important because I don’t forgive traitors to the revolution, but I’ll let it slide this time.

My opinions on Silco are always very contradictory, but that’s because I like making it clear that he’s a piece of crap, even if I like him a lot.

(And even if he turns me on, what can I say.)

[yandere-daydreams]

i swoon at your power to take ideas and make them great fanfics. the lyla one was awesome, whoooo! 😤 thanks for running with my suggestion. perfect for my wlw wednesday

i love imagining those little tense moments before the pictures and videos appear that miguel KNOWS somethings up and lyla looks SO SMUG while glancing over at darling and they're (maybe ever so slightly) shivering. but is much too afraid to say anything out loud.

oh especially if in the beginning of their capture (before lyla actually began her sessions) when miguel was out darling hoped lyla could offer a sense of reprieve and friendship, hell, maybe she could help darling escape!

and that was their first mistake, hoping.

it's almost perfect, the unintentional good cop bad cop dynamic lyla and miguel had. if only they had planned it earlier, coordinated better darling could have been mindbroken even faster. but it's mors fun when they struggle, isn't it? Lyla thinks so.

tw - non///con, kidnapping, physical/sexual abuse, and consensual recording.

difjisjflksjdflk i actually usually hc that lyla's the one who takes care of, like, the majority of your upkeep while miguel's off repressing his emotions and fighting anomalies, so i can picture a scenario where the reader is desperate enough to try to befriend lyla despite knowing she can't go against miguel's orders and is very likely reporting everything you do or say back to him. you know she can't help you escape, but with such limited options, you're forced to confide in her, to treat her as something resembling a friend, and to rely on her as your only real support in this fucked-up scenario. it's not much, but it's what you have. if that means you have to trauma-bond with your kidnapper's alexa, then so be it.

which means it really, really hurts the first time she pins you down with mechanical arms and makes you cum until you go blind on a vibrating attachment, all while recording a little something to make sure miguel doesn't feel like out. you can't be sure if it's something he asked her to do or just a robotic whim meant to pass the time she has to spend with you, and so you're trapped in this bleary, constantly exhausted twilight zone between begging him to make her stop and not wanting to put yourself through the punishment that'd follow trying to avoid his twisted affection. the result is, unhelpfully, not saying anything at all and trying to recover in the few, sparse hours can find between lyla's sadistic "enrichment time" and miguel's never-ending lust. they might eventually come to a consensus, be able to talk about the way they both treat you openly, but there's a good chance that you'll just find yourself caught up in a cycle of being fucked unconscious by lyla and her toys, having her send pictures of your ravaged body to miguel, and finding yourself speared on his cock a few minutes later when his hand inevitably fails to sate him - a reaction which, of course, just makes lyla want to rile him up more. either way, you're not getting a break anytime soon <3

[paradoxlemonade]

Like a Flower in Bloom; chapter 1/3

Summary: Doc Monster is a many things: he's a tinkerer, a college graduate, a creeper hybrid, and a husband to his wonderful spouse, Ren. Most importantly, he is a father. And he would do anything to make his trans daughter Scarlet happy. Even if it means becoming a Buttercup Scout troop leader and herding a trio of middle school girls.

This is my @mcytblraufest fic, made in collaboration with my artist @watchmewhirl and beta-read my @raivaughn. You can find the masterpost for the art here.

Warnings: minor transphobia

Ao3: Here!

Next ; Last

---

Violence does not solve very many problems. It usually just creates newer, more complicated problems. As a rational person, Doc understands this. 

As an animal, however, he wants the Buttercup Scout troop leader in front of him to be eaten by hyenas.

The meeting wrapped up a few minutes ago and most of the girls and parents already filtered out the door. Doc told Scarlet, his daughter, to hang behind and talk with the other girls. She's more than happy to do so, chatting away with the Symmetry twins. 

He has a few concerns about how she was repeatedly sidelined during the badge event and wanted to ask about that. She hadn't yet joined the troop and was only there for a preliminary meeting, yes, but the adults could have stood to be a bit more welcoming to new members. 

Which led to him hunting down the troop leader, tapping her on the shoulder, and asking about her meeting policies. Which led to her trying not to sneer and just dismissing him out of hand.

Ms. Reflecta Symmetry doesn't bother to face him as she gathers up tubes of decorating frosting and glitter sprinkles and returns them to their original packaging. “I'm busy. Could you please wait a moment?”

Doc shakes his head. “I just have a question about how meetings tend to go, and then I'll be out of your hair. Nothing big; it’ll be quick.” 

Reflecta drops the decorating supplies back onto the camp table with unnecessary force and finally turns to face him. She gives him a plastic, simpering smile. “I think I can help you! Were you here to check out our troop and think about joining?”

“...Yes, that's correct.” Something about the way she carries herself sets Doc's nerves on edge. “Scarlet wanted to be a part of the group that was piping frosting onto the sugar cookies. But every time she asked you if she could switch groups, she got ignored or told to wait her turn, but she never got to be a part of the piping group. It seemed like she was… forgotten during the group changes.”

How does he phrase this diplomatically? 

“I was wondering if this was how most of your meetings run, or if you were just distracted. There were a lot of girls to keep from making messes, after all.” He's had long days before. It would be nice if that were the case here; this was the only close option for a troop in the area.

“Uh-huh.” Reflecta’s arms cross, fingers tapping away. She switches her expression to an equally-fake one of hyperbolic sympathy. “You see, I'm just not certain that your… child is a good fit for our troop. I’m concerned that they won’t have very much fun; we have a specific culture here. I'm sure you understand?” With that, she spins on her heel and continues packing up the materials from the meeting into an oversized patchwork tote bag.

Doc stands there for a moment, frozen stiff. “Excuse me?” What exactly did she mean by that? He steps to her side, working himself back into her line of sight even as she works and attempts to ignore him. “I think I misunderstand you. Could you explain what you mean?”

 She glances over to give him another apologetic look, but her lip is curled back just enough to show teeth. “It just takes so many resources for a Buttercup Scout troop to make sure all girls involved have an enriching experience. We've just had a few new girls join, so I'll need our treasurer to reassess the budget. Perhaps you should look into some other organizations in the area? I'm sure there's plenty that they would like elsewhere.”

Doc grits his teeth and wills himself to silence. Budget problems and personality are two different issues. That leaves one conclusion: Ms. Symmetry is full of shit. She just doesn't want Scarlet to join the troop. He'd hoped her earlier curt attitude was just her being busy with other kids—even gave her an out to claim that—but that doesn't seem to be the case.

He clears his throat. “Sure, yeah, I understand.” Before she can get another word in to affirm his agreement, Doc barrels on: “It's just a little surprising to hear, considering how well Scarlet seemed to get along with the other girls. The advertisement your troop posted on Facebook the other week also seemed so welcoming; was that scheduled in advance before your means were clear?”

Reflecta's smile remains, though the bottom of her eye twitches ever so slightly. “Something like that.” It's her turn not to give Doc a chance to respond as she jerks to face the remaining girls in the room. “False! True! Get your things. We're leaving.”

The two blonde girls that Scarlet is talking to perk up at the same time, like prairie dogs out of a burrow. Aside from the longer hair and extremely thick glasses that nearly resemble goggles they both wore, they were spitting images of Reflecta. One just nods without emoting much, while the other brightens and responds, “Yes, ma’am!”

The smiley one clambers to her feet, buttercup guide book clutched to her chest. She waves farewell and says something else before bounding over to her mother's side. The stoic one bumps a silent shoulder against Scarlet’s and follows a moment later.

“Ah, Scarlet,” Doc calls out. “You come on as well. We finished speaking, so it's time to go home.”

She nods and scoops up her cat plushie backpack.“Okie-dokie, dad!” Once it’s on her back and she gets her crutches situated, she’s by his side as he guides her out the door.

“Did you have a nice conversation with the twins?” Doc asks, a bit louder than necessary in the hopes that Scarlet won’t hear Reflecta hissing ‘I don’t want to hear about you two talking to that one again’ to her daughters. He directs Scarlet along a little bit faster.

“Yeah, they were really nice to me!” There’s a bounce in her step as she chatters away. “True didn’t talk very much, but that’s okay since False talked enough for both of them. I think she talks when she’s nervous and when she’s comfortable. And then she asked about my Jellie backpack, and—”

Doc ushers her out the doors of the community center, but his eyes can’t help but fall to the trans flag button on the strap of her bag. 

Truth was, a gnawing sense of dread hollowed out his chest when she insisted at age ten that she was a girl.

It’s an ugly thing to think, but it’s not because Doc doesn’t want her to be herself. The world can be mean, and the people in it even meaner; Scarlet suffering unnecessarily because she’s different from her peers became a regular staple of his stress dreams.

He hugged her worried, helped her pick out a name worried, went shopping for new girl clothes worried, met with her school teachers and the principal worried—

Today he drove her to a Buttercup Scout troop meeting worried.

Beyond the obvious of names and clothes and telling family members, the one thing Scarlet wanted was to become a Buttercup Scout.

Doc pulls his keys from his jacket pocket and unlocks the truck while they walk. Scarlet takes that as a cue to rush ahead and climb inside without assistance—door open, crutches against door, Jellie bag tossed into the seat next to hers, hands on the seat for stability, one foot on the running board, push off and lean forward, wiggle into a seated position, pull the crutches in and close the door. She has it down to a science at this point, though Doc will occasionally still offer her help if she’s having a bad pain day. He doesn’t have to worry much about Scarlet hurting herself.

And yet, now he has to drive her home, worried about disappointing and hurting her.

The air inside the truck hits him like a wall of heat when he opens the door, though he pays it little mind as he slides into the driver’s seat and puts the keys into the ignition. Until the air conditioning fully kicks in, he cracks the back windows just a touch.

A glance in the rear view mirror shows Scarlet looking out the window with a slowly slipping happy mask.

He’s pulling out of the parking lot before he can bring himself to say anything. “Did… you have fun at the meeting?” 

“Oh! Yeah, I did! False and True and me were talking, and they—”

“No, not near the end of the meeting, or after it.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens minutely. He makes sure to take the next turn carefully in spite of that. “I meant all of it—the badge work, the other girls, the adults—how do you feel?”

Another stolen look, and this time she’s pulling her knees to her chest.

“I mean… the girls were nice to me.”

He’s always been worried about her peers ostracizing her. Their parents hadn’t even come up on his radar.

Doc presses down on a sigh. “I’m sorry that troop wasn’t what you were expecting.”

“It’s fine!” she blurts out. “They’re fine! I want to be a Buttercup Scout!”

His heart twists. “I know you do, and we’re trying. It’s just… maybe we should keep our options open, sweetie.” The gentle comfort in his voice sounds fake, even to himself.

“What? No, no!” She leans forward in her seat to grip the passenger headrest. “I’ll make it work! It'll be fine!”

“Scarlet.” He's firm, but so tired, tired, tired. There's no way he's letting his daughter put herself in a situation where she regularly has to interact with transphobes. “I know you want to be a Buttercup Scout, but tonight wasn't fun for you, and it wasn't fun for me to watch you be upset. We'll keep looking, okay?”

Despite herself, she sniffles and hiccups. “But, but, there aren't any other troops in the area that work for us. You said that! I heard you and Papa talking about it!”

Fuck. He didn't think she overheard that conversation. She was supposed to be asleep on the couch after a movie, he and Ren sequestered in the kitchen to discuss in hushed voices.

 “All the others are too far, or they meet when I have physical therapy, or they aren't accepting new members, or, or—” The words seem to flood out of her before abruptly stopping with a sharp inhale of breath and another wet hiccup. “I just want to do what all the other girls get to do. I don't understand why I can't.”

With a grimace, Doc changes lanes and turns into the parking lot of a fast food joint. This isn't a driving conversation. 

Once stopped, he gets out of the driver's seat and opens the back. He slides in next to Scarlet and puts an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, mein Schatzi…”

She sniffles and presses her side into the hug. “S’ not even that bad. I dunno why I'm crying.” 

Doc picks up the Jellie plush from where it fell into the floorboards. Sure, it may have a few notebooks in it, but it's still a plushie and Scarlet sure seems to need one. He sets it on her lap and she has it squeezed to her chest in a blink. 

“This is something you really wanted for a long time. It's normal to be upset when stuff doesn't work out.”

“I wanted it to work out.”

“I know, I know.” He runs a hand through her hair. “Your papa and I will see what we can do, okay?”

“But—” She sniffles again. “I thought that—”

“I know what we said,” Doc murmurs. “We’re going to look into other options so you can be a Buttercup Scout. I cannot make any promises, but I can promise to try.”

She looks up at him with wounded eyes, shining with unshed glass tears. It seems that this cry was a long time coming. “O-oh.” Another sniffle.

She twists to the side and he's suddenly engulfed in a hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

He holds her close.

“Always.”

[cleverusername01]

just heard back from the studio that they won’t make incomplete unless i agree to have chris pratt voice the lead. yeah incomplete my animated children’s movie about the magical world of Peano Arithmetic whos inhabitants are the sentences of that language. yeah they want him to voice G, better known as Gödel’s sentence, which he constructed in his proof of the incompleteness of that system, our clever starry eyed protagonist who seems to be able to prove any sentence but himself. which is of course troublesome because everyone in that world wants to be allowed into the elite metropolis of “Tarski’s Truth Set” into which entry is only granted to those who have proven their own veracity. yeah so the inciting incident occurs when G discovers his own undecidability, which causes mass panic and chaos throughout Peano Arithmetic. they wanna put james corden in it too! yeah as G’s best friend and bumbling sidekick, the trivially refutable 1 = 2. no i actually dont have a problem with the names they threw out for the love interest, a reasonably complicated but ultimately provable sentence who draws a line over her equals sign every morning because she finds Tarski too stuffy and prefers to live in “The Complement”, their name for the areas outside of Tarski, they mentioned sarah silverman who wouldnt have been my first choice but yeah i think she could probably pull it off. they also wanna do sir ian mckellen for the axioms, yeah the antagonists of the film who rule over and maintain the strict hierarchies of their world and who upon learning about G’s undecidability seek to induct not G, G’s negation and rival who, yeah would also be voiced by chris pratt, yeah i know, among their ranks to make G trivially refutable. no i mean i love sir ian mckellen dont get me wrong its just like, its an awful lot of characters for one guy to play i just dont know if he has enough voices in his back pocket to make them all feel distinct. yeah especially the axiom of induction who gets a whole subplot about his inferiority complex over being in a distinct group from all the other arithmetic axioms. oh good question, yeah all the axioms have to be voiced by the same person so that said person can play Peano in the climax, a lego movie-esque talk to god scene in which G watches Peano scold Gödel for ruining his beautiful formalization of arithmetic, and Gödel explains that it really just enriches our understanding of mathematics to see the incompleteness of the system. this scene is also where G learns that he actually is true, even though that fact cannot be shown within the confines of his world. yeah that does mean that they’re gonna have chris pratt play kurt gödel. no man i know it fucking sucks but they wont make it otherwise. oh yeah and modus ponens is gonna be disney’s first openly gay character.

[indelen]

The plot kicks off in earnest and the midnight hour is close at hand, it's time for honey cake (medovyk) and tea.

This is my reread of the Lockwood and Co. Books, organized by @blue-boxes-magic-and-tea, I'll make a general summary of several chapters and then post bits and pieces that jumped out at me.

Part III, Chapters 9-12:

Things continue to go pear shaped. I find it interesting how Stroud manages to thread the needle of reader sympathy towards the protagonists. The writing makes it clear that they did mess up and the house fire was avoidable. And this is not all on one person - Lockwood could have pulled rank and insist they leave but didn’t, Lucy had the chance to leave after the first manifestation but didn’t. Lockwood forgot the chains. Lucy lobbed Greek Fire indoors. All of this is bad. And when you meet Barnes you sort of agree with him to a point about them being irresponsible, but he’s so high handed and dismissive of the trio you can’t help but be on their side. The government keeps telling these kids they should listen to the government, because the government is full of adults that know so much better than they do. But if this was really the case the government would not allow children to do this dangerous work at all. You can't have it both ways! Either these kids know nothing and adults really are smarter, in which case let them go study trigonometry and pass notes in class already and, as smart adults, find some different way to battle The Problem that doesn’t involve high mortality child labor. OR. Let the kids do their job and admit you’re not operating within some perfect and fair system where the presence of an adult magically fixes everything or makes anyone safer. We meet so many adults in this universe and the majority of them are awful and take horrific advantage of children to enrich themselves on The Problem. None of them are sufficiently controlled in this universe because it is not in the government’s interest to do so. The kids sense this and revolt, if they are to die they want to die on their own terms! This is what happens when governments fail the people they are supposed to protect and when the desire to make money trumps acting in the interests of the public good.

Odds and Ends, Side A:

10/10 chapter opening. On par with “the building was on fire and it wasn’t my fault”. Reader attention fully captured.

Lucy “no I totally don’t care how I look, I swear” Carlyle maintaining if she ever came back as a ghost she’d be a hot cool ghost thankyou very much is so funny to me, just peak teenager insecurity and vanity but in a very endearing way.

There’s the thing about George – he can learn. Not just from books but in real life he can take criticism to heart if it’s laid out plainly. Even if it’s mean. This is probably his most amazing attribute. He dislikes hypocrisy and doesn’t have time for any kind of jabs or hints that are difficult to interpret. But someone lobs a criticism straight at him, he won’t dismiss it outright. In so many ways he is the most emotionally mature of the trio.

I’ve been thinking a lot in this reread about why George was so hostile to Lucy from the start and I think it comes down to the fact that he saw Lucy as someone who would make Lockwood more reckless. She is a gifted Listener, George knew Lockwood enough to realize this will make him more likely to rush off into the fray without research and Lucy being not especially academically minded would not stop him. I think he was worried that they would feed negatively off each other and outvote him. Which … they did at first, it’s true, George was completely right. Lucy goes along with whatever Lockwood says because she trusts him, because she admires him, because she doesn’t want him to think less of her. This behavior continues later too - she snarks at him plenty, calls him names, makes fun of him, sure. But ultimately she has a hard time saying “no” to him. And finding that balance of how much to go along with Lockwood’s plans and when to contradict him is I think a huge part of her arc in this series.

This pantomime of Victorian gentility is hilarious. The year is (arguably) 2013 and yet this sounds like a scene from Agatha Christie. Barnes knows Lockwood is home, Lockwood knows Barns knows he’s home but this presenting of a visiting card and “show him in” ritual has to be observed because this whole society hasn’t moved on from 1953 in six decades.

I am not the right person to give a post-colonial literary analysis of the Lockwood books but I would be the first to want to read it. There’s a lot there in terms of portrayal of indigenous beliefs, what colonial powers learn and refuse to learn from them and how they appropriate them. Barnes sees a collection of artefacts from all over the world meant to deal with ghosts and immediately dismisses them, seeing only the methods he’s familiar with as correct. He does not stop to appreciate the fact that the idea of contacting the dead and laying them to rest is an issue that in some way or another humanity has been dealing with for millennia and all around him is evidence of the fact that not one of these cultures resorted to shoving their young to act as meat shields to do it. The variety of the artifacts speaks to the idea that there may be different approaches possible, different avenues to explore. On what basis but good old-fashioned racism is this dismissal of a ghost catcher in a universe where ghosts are real and do real harm to real people? Does a country dealing with such a crisis not owe it to its citizens to investigate every possibility instead of just consigning a large proportion of their children to a very high possibility of death and telling them that they can’t even do it on their terms, no, the government and large corporations must manage how they die!

And the idea of “it belongs in a museum” is especially laughable in this context. Presumably he means a British museum despite the fact that all these artifacts are foreign. There’s something so on the nose about a very British man dismissing knowledge from other cultures as useless and indicating he views those cultures themselves as extinct when he himself lives on the bones of a long dead empire enforces the practicing the most barbaric shit imaginable.

There is also something so very sad about Lockwood’s encyclopedic knowledge of every gord and mask in the house. Like he never to a chance to know his parents to he memorized everything about their research to get as close to them as possible.

George is the most verbally brutal of the trio and I love that for him

Here again is that Lockwood duality. We later learn sleeps in his parent’s old room - the ultimate symbol of his attempts to play the adult. Like the suits, like running his own agency, like his many successful and unsuccessful attempts to mimic adult behavior. How successful he is really is … not certain. Lucy is not a reliable narrator and even she is clearly unconvinced sometimes, but he clearly can pull it off to some extent. But every now and then we get a glimpse into the fact that he also, in a very sad and stubborn way, clings to a childhood that was horrifically and unfairly ripped from him. The baby mobile in his seemingly adult bedroom is a neat encapsulation of Lockwood himself.

This man is incapable of staying angry at his beloved for more than like … 15 mins tops.

Please turn the cassette over to side B (see reblog for more)

[embraceyourdestiny]

Tbh, I get lauraryan, they’d be cute and I am intrigued by their angst potential, but it bothers me when people insist they are lovers because they found “The Lovers” card when that’s not what the card means. Tarot are symbolic, not literal.

“The Lovers” actually represents balance. Balance between the masculine and the feminine (Ryan and Laura are the respective ‘leaders’), balance within your relationships, being reflective of said relationships and your place in the world… there are many meanings to “The Lovers” and most all of them apply to Laura and Ryan’s character as individuals, not necessarily them as a pairing.

For relationships, Laura and Ryan are both trying to pursue a lead about someone they care about, Max and Chris respectively. To support this even more, they also find the “Emperor” card as well, which represents masculinity, stability, and paternity, aka Chris (and to a lesser extent Max, who is Laura’s rock and her entire reason for going on). Tying into being reflective, Ryan is having an upheaval of his emotions because he’s realizing the man he cared for, his father figure, is not who he said he was and he has to reevaluate the faith he has in him and honestly his entire emotional world inside himself.

As for Laura, though it’s not stressed as much because Ryan is the main focus, she’s also going through some heavy shit not only being a werewolf but also the fact that she killed someone and both those things obviously change your place and feelings in the world. Just like she says, if Laura let her conscious get in the way everything is a lot harder. When all this is over, Laura is going to have to wrestle with all the shit she did and determine what that makes her and if it was worth it in the end.

Additionally, like Eliza says, “there is harmony in disagreement, brought to light by the sparks of passion.”

This isn’t saying Laura and Ryan are enemies to lovers, it’s saying that spurred on by their goals, they have to work together in order to accomplish their mission, which is the only reason Ryan came with Laura in the first place, to dissuade Laura from harming Chris because he’s good. They have to balance their anger and each other’s emotions in order to successfully complete their mission, otherwise if they don’t get along it could get them killed. They gotta put their shit aside and be a team, even only temporarily, because one slip up and it’s game over. And who wants to die over being petty and stupid?

There’s nothing necessarily wrong with taking the card at face value, but I personally feel that does a disservice not only to the narrative but to the developers efforts as well because you’re essentially diminishing all the thought and hard work they put into where each Tarot goes and why. It’s also not very good analysis to only go with the surface interpretation when narratively this shit runs deep.

Like I said, Tarot aren’t literal, and it’s far more enriching to really dig in deep and think of all possible meanings. It’s easy to make a quick judgement, but it’s far more rewarding when you piece it all together and realize, if even for a moment, Laura and Ryan are tied together by fate and they have to work together if they want to make it out alive, and “The Lovers” represents that perfectly.

Plus they literally exchange blood, so, how much more “in harmony” can you get 😝

[sweet-beezus]

@khoc-week

Man, the final day already...

It's been so fun to poke around all those OCs, always a pleasure to experience and makes me excited for next year!!

I've been busy, so I may go back in to reread all the posts and appreciate them in full, but just know I absolutely adore everyone's OCs and thank y'all for being unashamed to post and talk about them!!! ♥ ♥

Genuinely, it's so enriching for me-

Without further ado, the final prompt!

Day 7 - Future

Considering that Myst gets trapped in the Realm of Darkness with Lugh before Aqua's sacrifice (I say as if I'm not the only one aware of this information, but the time frame is vague so far so who even knows when it happens-), you'd probably imagine that her future would end up lonely, especially if she and Lugh got separated for... mysterious reasons. ([cough cough] another old man bites the dust, my condolences to old men enjoyers.)

However, she finds herself running into Aqua at some point and the two traverse the realm together until they reach that fated shoreline, waiting for someone to come get them.

The both of them do end up caving in to their individual darknesses, Myst having to face a sort of guilt for losing Lugh (situation pending, I'm leaning towards her striking him down herself in a fit of darkness induced hallucinating) and it corrupts her in a way that will definitely haunt her forever.

Oh, yeah babey we're making the decade in the dark truly mean something this round-

This makes them a girlboss anti duo of some sort at the end of it all, and this is where their story merges into the wider span of my extended sorta canon-compliant timeline! (which I still have yet to actually write, it just exists in my mind forever now-)

However, if we're talking the actual future beyond that, I anticipate she takes some time to heal and eventually finds an apprentice of her own!

I feel like she would take a page out of Lugh's book with her teaching style, but would make it fun and engaging yet respectful to the places she would travel to.

That aside, she'd probably hang around the Land of Departure from time to time and travel for more out of the box lessons, but most of it would be there to at least bring some use back to the place. She never had a more permanent training ground, so this is the closest she's got, even if it carries memories that haunt everybody.

She'd be a very interesting mentor, especially since a decade in the dark makes it so you miss a lot in terms of what's hip and what's old fashioned, but even with the healing time it's not quite clear whether or not she'll actually go anywhere to find out. That's what the new young people she'll meet are good for!

She'll be like a grandmother in a 30-something's body, more or less. Just depends on how she'll go about it and if she'll understand, it's all about breaking down those trauma walls.

I feel like she'd get a kick out of being the fun aunt to all these weird kids she gets to meet, maybe to a degree where it annoys Aqua juuust a lil bit.

Anyway, that concludes this year's KHOC Week!!! It's been a blast to participate again and I can't wait to hang out again next year!!

She deserves a bit of whimsy in her life-

Speaking of Aqua, I anticipate them getting happily married, and once they're mentally well enough for that, or temporarily retire, perhaps starting a family!

Even more whimsy!!! Which will benefit them in the long run most certainly!

[jennycalendar]

gje ask: how long do you think it takes before Ethan stops being utterly horrified by the concept that he actually genuinely likes Jenny as a person? bc i feel like that would be A While but also it would probably be very... a year in, a switch flips in his brain and she's suddenly his favorite non-Ripper person ever, but he still isn't going to SAY that so he's just. causing problems for anyone who annoys her as a weird fucked up form of affection.

so i think that initially ethan approaches his deep interest in jenny with horrified anthropological precision. like he is obsessively going out of his way to spend time with her and spying on all of her dates with giles and he is very clear to her, giles, and anyone who will listen to his loud and dramatic protestations that this is because he just Doesn’t Get what giles sees in jenny, but the reality of it is that he (like giles) got trapped in the That Woman Is Too Hot And Can’t Be Real sinkhole and (like giles) is handling it with all the maladaptive coping mechanisms that 20+ years of unaddressed emotional baggage have created. except with giles it’s all about I Don’t Deserve Jenny, but with ethan it’s I Must Undermine Jenny. he HAS to find the flaw in her code and prove that she’s not actually that hot and interesting and perfect, and OBVIOUSLY that means spending time with her because he is RESEARCHING, and eventually + inevitably he will find out the truth and bring this fakey too good to be true relationship CRASHING TO ITS KNEES. he is a genius.

meanwhile, jenny has started taking ethan to her favorite bookstores “for enrichment” and is debating him because she thinks chaos as a concept should be ambivalent to the notion of causing harm, not averting one’s eyes from it, which is what ethan does, which sure does seem like he cares!!!! so maybe he’s not that good at his job!!! and ethan starts fighting with her all the time and giles in the background is like Oh Fuck I See Where This Is Going and starts trying to frantically stop it from happening solely because he doesn’t think he can psychologically take having ethan and jenny as partners at the same time, BUT if presented the option will immediately grab it without hesitation, because something is clinically wrong with him.

in my head there is at some point an accidental kiss that absolutely fucks up both of them and both of them agonize over what giles will think. probably, because they are both so clinically stupid in the exact same way, they kissed in giles’s apartment, giles saw them, giles went “well, i really am at the whims of the universe and my two incredibly hot partners are definitely going to murder me,” and then giles went grocery shopping to give ethan and jenny some time to freak out as individuals.

i think that the switch gets flipped the instant the romantic component comes into play, but you are so right that the horror is immediate and perpetual. suddenly this is the most perfect person outside of giles and ethan would literally die for her in a way that is sorta very different from his experiences with giles??? because jenny is SO VULNERABLE in a way that means ethan’s usual brand of Emotional Violence As Romance is going to go SO BADLY and also make giles literally kill him. he knows from minute one that digging his claws into her insecurities is the very fastest way to lose her, simply because her heart is so so on her sleeve, and once she knows that you know that, if you do it deliberate and calculated damage for no other reason than Showing Her Up, you are done. i think he would be most horrified of the fact that he recognizes there are limits with jenny and feels a desire to respect those limits. (giles thinks this is fucking hilarious btw.)

there is probably this transitional period where jenny is emotionally vulnerable with ethan and he is awkwardly sweet in response and then as soon as she’s settled and it’s over he has to go outside and burn down half the front porch just to make himself feel better. giles is kinda like ok i guess i will take up gardening so you have more things to burn or something. they are developing a system.

so to answer your question ….. a year. that sounds about right. i do think that a year in someone makes jenny make a slightly hurt expression and ethan MASSIVELY overreacts and fucking stabs the guy with an actual knife. jenny is like “wow :)” and giles is like NO DO NOT ENCOURAGE THIS. NO MORE STABBING. WE DID THIS ONCE ALREADY I LITERALLY CANNOT TAKE THIS AGAIN.

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #70: Game of Thrones, but make it time travel

I have a terrible weakness for time travel stories - especially when it leads to massive sprawling changes from the moment of divergence. So I thought to myself: which character would be able to most change Westeros through the simple act of time travel?

The answer came easily. Or: What if Ned Stark time traveled from after his death to the middle of Robert's Rebellion?

Just imagine it:

Ned Stark dies in the OT as per canon. He watches the events of canon unfold fold from the afterlife and has a crisis of faith.

For here is a man who has been nothing but an honorable, faithful, just lord. He served his realm in the best manner he could, was a dutiful husband and loving father, and put the good of others above personal advancement or that of his family. He even stained his honor to raise his sister's son as his own and give the boy the best protection he could - and yet.

And yet the gods allowed his son, wife, gooddaughter, and unborn grandchild to be murdered at a wedding. They allowed his oldest daughter to be used and abused by those that should have protected her. They let that thing take over his second son's body-

So when Ned finds a means to return from the afterlife or is allowed the chance tor return and fix things, the Ned who arrives on the morning of the Sack is a very different man than the one who went to bed the night before. Though they are the same at heart, Ned no longer believes or trusts everyone around him to be good, honorable, or want the best for Westeros.

In the New Timeline, Ned tries to prevent the deaths of Elia and her children - he's too late to save Aegon and Rhaenys, kills Gregor Clegane as he tries to force the princess, and though Elia is alive when he finds her, she dies of her wounds soon after - and gets Jamie to give up the Wildfire Plot after murdering the Mad King.

The fight he has with Robert for refusing to condemn the royal family's deaths is even worse than the OT and threatens to bring down the Red Keep.

Afterwards, he races to Lyanna's side... but though he arrives a week earlier than canon, he's still forced to fight his way through her protectors and she still dies in childbed. He does have enough time with her to get her side of the story - that she loved Rhaegar until he went to war to keep her, and has been a prisoner in the tower ever since she said she wanted to go home - and say his goodbyes.

He returns to Winterfell a little more mindful of his wife's feelings - Ned still passes Jon off as his son, but makes it clear that he has no intention of shaming her again, while also making it clear that the North would shame him if he sent Jon to be raised elsewhere - and sets about strengthening the North.

The next few years should be a montage of Ned making alliances and enriching his kingdom: 1) He talks Benjen out of joining the Night's Watch, sends him to survey all the empty keeps in the North, and grants him Queenscrown once the coffers have had a chance to refill after the war; 2) He gets White Harbor and Bear Island to start trading lumber and peat up and down their respective coasts and across the Narrow Sea, which enriches the North; 3) When Catelyn announces her second pregnancy, he starts work on restoring Moat Cailin, claiming that their second son will need a seat someday; 4) He finds some excuse, if not to get rid of the Boltons, than at least keep such an eye on them its next to impossible for them to continue as they have; and 5) Making tentative moves to court the other Great Houses. Doran Martell, grateful he at least tried to save his sister, arranges a betrothal between Arya and Trystane? Sansa gets a fostering in Highgarden? Bran is sent to foster at Storm's End?

Regardless, the North should be in a better position when Robert rides north after Jon Arryn's death - by natural causes this time, Ned having shared with his foster father stories Catelyn told him about Littlefinger's obsession with the Tully girls.

Meanwhile, Ned also tries to do a better job with Jon this time around - make it more clear that he is loved and valued, and that a good post or even a holdfast will be granted to him if he earns it. Ned does not want to place him on the Iron Throne, but it becomes increasingly clear as time goes on that war of some kind will inevitably follow Robert's death and so it's best all his children be prepared.

(Sansa and even Catelyn are taught how to use a knife to protect themselves, Ned honestly claiming he wants what happened to his sister never to happen to another woman in their family.)

King Robert rides north, gets a stiff, "No," for both his propositions - and might actually have come to blows if Ned hadn't arranged for Jamie and Cersei to be discovered in flagrante delicto in the First Keep. Robert rides back south sans a wife and heirs, short one Hand and Kingsguard. Cersei is beheaded, Jamie and Joffrey are sent to take the Black, and Myrcella and Tommen are left to be fostered at Winterfell until they're old enough to have other arrangements made.

Tywin is naturally unhappy about this turn of events and rises up in rebellion. The Iron Islands use this as an excuse to start reaving again, while the Reach withholds their support unless Robert promises to marry Margery - and Dorne merely withholds support.

Almost three years into the conflict, news arrives during the wedding of Robb Stark and Alys Karstark that King Robert died in battle without any heirs. His brothers have gone to war over which of them should succeed Robert to the Iron Throne. Tywin continues to claim that his grandson Tommen, safe in Winterfell, is the rightful heir. Baelon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands... and there are rumors of Daenerys Stormborn gathering forces in Essos for an invasion.

Into this Ned - having realized it was the best choice he could make for the safety and security of his family and the North - declares that Jon is really the trueborn son of his sister Lyanna and her husband Rhaegar Targaryen... and as such has rightfully been Jaehaerys III since birth.

The war which follows is swifter and less devastating than the OT War of Five Kings, but is still war. By largely staying out of the fight between Tywin and Robert, the North has a large army of fresh soldiers and, by marriage, the support of the Vale and the Riverlands. Stannis has Renly assassinated via shadow, but few chose to follow a follower of the Red God. The Stormlands end up throwing their lot in with Jon, as do Dorne and the Reach once they see which way the wind is blowing.

In a situation that should very much echo the situation in the British Isles in 1066, Jon's forces should be in the southeast of Westeros preparing for Dany's invasion when word comes of Tywin leading his forces north to capture Winterfell. Royalist forces should race across the countryside, win a magnificent victory at the Twins, and still be celebrating their success when news arrives of Essosi troops landing in the Crownlands. Jaehaerys' exhausted forces race back across the country... and manage to win the first engagement by the skin of their teeth.

When Dany brings her dragons to bear in the next battle, Rhaegal defects to the other side - and rather than pursue another Dance of Dragons, aunt and nephew come to an arrangement.

A Great Council is called. Jon is elected Lord of the Seven Kingdoms by overwhelming numbers. Sansa is his queen. Dany is named Lady of the Rock after most the remaining Lannisters are exiled or take the Black.

Bonuses include: 1) OT trauma for Ned, who never quite moves past what happened to his family then; 2) Dark horse romance between Jon and Sansa, fueled at first by the comment that Ned would like his daughters to marry good men - like Robb or Jon - and Catelyn encouraging it once she learns Jon is really her husband's nephew; and 3) No one ever learning Ned traveled through time.

And that is legit all the space I have. As always, feel free to adopt, just link back if you do anything with it.

More Terrible Fic Ideas

[mariana-oconnor]

The Abbey Grange pt 2

So, last time we had a woman who claimed to have been assaulted by burglars who then murdered her abusive husband and her stoic and devoted maid.

I think that she killed him and used the burglars, who had apparently been in the newspaper, as convenient scapegoats, but I also think that was a good move on her part, so I'm fingers crossed that she gets away with it.

And Holmes spotted something weird with the glasses the 'burglars' had been drinking out of, then immediately dismissed it and left Stanley Hopkins, who seems to work purely on cases where the victim is an old and violent man who nobody likes, to hunt down the burglars.

During our return journey I could see by Holmes's face that he was much puzzled by something which he had observed.

I may have been wrong about Holmes realising it was the lady of the house. This does seem at odds with that.

"...on my life, Watson, I simply can't leave that case in this condition. Every instinct that I possess cries out against it. It's wrong—it's all wrong—I'll swear that it's wrong. And yet the lady's story was complete, the maid's corroboration was sufficient, the detail was fairly exact."

Right, so no, he hadn't figured it out. The wine glasses do still vex him.

"...dismiss from your mind the idea that anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be true."

That is, indeed, how you should approach every witness statement to every crime ever. Like, even if they're not lying, they might just be confused. The woman had a blow to the head (apparently) that discombobulates a person.

"Some account of them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which imaginary robbers should play a part."

Precisely.

And my theory with the glasses is that she and her husband were having a drink. Or just her husband was having a drink. And she had to add a third glass to corroborate her story and that didn't match or hadn't been drunk out of. Maybe she drugged him so she could kill him, but that doesn't really fit with the way the body was found.

"The most unusual thing of all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair.”

Really, Watson? Why?

I mean... that seems fairly self-explanatory to me. Is it just because you could never consider tying a lady to a chair, in which case, I guess we know more about your sex life than we did, but really?

Watson is baffling me here.

“Exactly; but there was bees-wing only in one glass. You must have noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

wtf is beeswing?

beeswing. / (ˈbiːzˌwɪŋ) / noun. a light filmy crust of tartar that forms in port and some other wines after long keeping in the bottle.

(from dictionary.com)

Okay. I remember being told off for shaking a port bottle as a kid, so I guess that was what I was being told off about.

“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression that three people had been here. In that way all the bees-wing would be in the last glass, would it not?"

Three things:

That's what I said.

Would none of the beeswing stick to the glasses it came from?

Why not just pour some more from the wine bottle? It has been specified that it wasn't empty.

Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to report to head-quarters, took possession of the dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations which formed the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of deduction were reared.

He was crawling around on the floor like a worm again, wasn't he?

Then, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on to the massive mantelpiece.

Crawling and climbing. It's like a crime scene adventure playground. He must be having so much enrichment today.

“We have got our case—one of the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the blunder of my lifetime!"

Or maybe you could just... let her get away with it?

"Strong as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker. Six foot three in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers; finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story is of his concoction."

Was the lady's height specified? I feel like if she was 6'3" someone would have mentioned it.

So she got a friend to come and help her kill her husband? Good for him, too, I guess.

THough she was sitting down through the whole interview, so maybe she is 6'3" and it's just that no one noticed because she was sitting down.

“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not dare to speak so if her brother had been there."

Ah, there we are. The missing piece is a brother. That makes sense.

“I have told you all I know.” Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said, and without another word we left the room and the house.

Ah, I think that, right there... was the point of no return. If you'd just told him, he probably wouldn't have done anything about it.

But now he's gonna do something about it.

The first officer, Mr. Jack Croker, had been made a captain and was to take charge of their new ship, the Bass Rock, sailing in two days' time from Southampton.

Not the brother? A friend from the ship? Modern travel times have made me forget that the time since the marriage probably isn't long enough for a message to get to Australia, let alone for her brother to receive one then get on a boat and come to the UK.

Unless he was already following her before that.

“No, I couldn't do it, Watson,” said he, as we re-entered our room. “Once that warrant was made out nothing on earth would save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime."

Aw, Holmes, you're a big teddy bear really.

“I am very glad if I have helped you.” “But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far more difficult."

Yeah, he knows.

"The Randall gang were arrested in New York this morning.” “Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory that they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

This entire conversation is gold.

“The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of a remarkable little drama.”

Cliffhanger time.