#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.

[tactical-jellyfish]

Watcher 1-1

Part Seven <3

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (I will cover the symptoms as well as possible, but any and all corrections are welcome) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

Warnings for this specific chapter: (technically) main character death, written descriptions of injury, gore and blood talk. Included reference and experience with post-surgery symptoms of various degrees of seriousness. One character affectionately refers to another character as "slutbag"

Keegan is a good man.

You learn this quickly, as you get into moderate, common spats with the United States healthcare system.

In the days that narrowly follow the surgery, when you're more often unconscious than awake, you often wake with the nurse (technically certified, but you really have no idea if he actually works here) at your bedside who's just... doing whatever in the corner.

You're lucky you haven't been snippy enough to shove him away from you, just yet.

In your own defense, your dignity has been directly removed by most of this terrible shit.

You can't even get up to use the bathroom, anymore. It's a bedpan.

And apparently, you're still lucky. Because you're going to get your drainage tube out of the lovely leg wound in a few days.

You are, for all intents and purposes, about to kill someone or yourself. But Keegan is still often there, answering your questions or giving you just a bit of humor to hold onto as you go increasingly stir-crazy from waiting for Laswell to finally come and give you the rundown of the tatters that must remain of your career.

If you got lucky, she wouldn't be too upset. Maybe, if you were really lucky, she would tell you where the boys are. Why none of them have dropped in to see you yet.

It'd only be another week. You weren't sure you could last that long.

As if an angel somewhere has answered this thought, the door opens again.

"Hey, slutbag. I finally found you some enrichment."

Keegan's voice is playful, and he wears a shit-eating grin as he tosses a small bag to your bed, hitting you almost-square in the chest.

"Mm. Poor aim, Mr. Russ."

You may be tired, in pain, and you may be in a frankly terrible mood, but that doesn't mean you're not funny. Your name isn't Price.

Still, you open the little bag, and there's a box inside. You open that too, as Keegan plops himself in the chair that hurts his back because he can't be assed to bring in something better.

It's... a lock, casted out of clear plastic, with a small set of tools to pick it. Also a set of keys, which you already know you'll refuse to use for pride's sake.

Two watchful, fond blue eyes are scanning your motions and you can feel him smile, without even looking.

"I could have given you a manual, but I think you'd like it better to do it all yourself. Was I right?"

The tool's handle is smooth as you hold the lock steady, fighting to not immediately fiddle with the thing in front of Keegan. He would be too damned smug about it.

"...Thank you, Russ."

He did deserve that thanks, as far as you thought. You were pathetic right now, useless and bed-bound and panicky. And still, Keegan was willing to look upon you, he still willingly chooses to see you.

This thank you encompasses all of those things. You know you've been less than fun. Less than useful. And you know Keegan deserves to know that he's been good to you. Better than you've ever deserved.

He's quiet, for a time, but then you hear a warm chuckle as he reaches forward to give you a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Don't say that like you owe me anything, kid," You really should interrupt him, tell him that, if you're not older than him, you definitely outrank him, but you don't. "You're much better than working in a shit-hole like this."

Your eyes find his, and you can see him smile as he lowers his mask. You're noticed that he only seems to do this in the room, with you. And only when you're both alone.

"...I know some people who could change that."

"Really?"

"I'm missing my leg, I still have my connections, Keegan."

His smile is worth the scolding you know Lawell will give you for trying to promise to pull him into the service.

You don't care. He's medically smart enough, and pliable enough to train into shape.

Maybe, if you can't serve anymore, you can bring someone who was more brilliant that you ever were. Maybe, your debt is still something you can repay.

His smile isn't wide, but it's happy. Something in your chest squeezes too hard, but he's kind enough to ignore how your heart monitor beeps faster. You know he notices, because his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"D'you want me to give you some hints to pick that lock faster?"

For once, you see that offer for help, and it doesn't strike you as a direct insult to you. You can see, right there before you, someone who wants to get close.

And it's so very stupid to trust someone. But something tells you that you will never be too slow for Keegan.

He seems fine with waiting for you to catch up.

Maybe that's why you nod at that question.

Maybe that's why he sits on the side of your bed, and starts to explain the basics, gently leading your hands into proper position as he starts to gently wriggle the tool agains the pins.

You would have never allowed this, otherwise, but it feels surprisingly good to have him there. Not because he thinks you're weak. Not because he thinks you'd be better if he taught you this.

Keegan is teaching you this because he thinks it's something you want to learn.

The tool turns before you're ready, and the lock pops open under your hands. Keegan's hands too.

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[thyras]

→ of the song of mairon & ilmarátâ (bonus chapter)

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 1.6k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → no warnings for this chapter

SUMMARY → what would it be like to have your tale told by the generations after you? what would they say about the being you loved and were created for? would your tale end in tragedy or would it be of redemption? even in the darkest of shadows could there still be light?

AUTHORS NOTE → so this has been in my drafts for a while and i needed a little filler as i worked on the next chapter, i thought i'd share it as it is what i wrote as kind of an inspiration for rewriting my dark!reader series and creating of sauron & the moriquendi. i had just finished the silmarillion and i had a good grasp on the style, so i tried to imagine what marion's and mori's story would sound like if it was among the pages of the book. the name for mori used in here is ilmarátâ which means radiant one in valarian and is the inspiration i got for her sindarian name. grammarly HATED me so much so I had to turn it off so I could write in tolkien's style. boy was this a BITCH to edit without it. funny enough i submitted this to for one of my creative writing assignments at school and got a B on it 🤭 my professor apparently did not like the fact that i used mairon in my writing 🤣

PARTS → masterlist

Great was their love, for Ilúvatar in his thought sang their fëar into being. Yet sorrow touched his heart as he perceived the shadow growing in one of his servants—a spirit once radiant, who, in his striving for perfection and dominion, turned to darkness. Moved by the discord and foreseeing the strife to come, Ilúvatar wove a new theme into the Music: a being of light and grace, a counterpoint to the shadow. Ilmarátâ he named her, a maiden of the Quendi, fairest among the Children of Ilúvatar.

Ilmarátâ was set apart, destined to awaken in the appointed hour when her presence would be most needed. Unlike her kin, she would not feel the call of the Valar to the West, for her heart and fëa were bound to another purpose. She would not find fulfillment until her fate intertwined with the being Ilúvatar had fashioned for her—a light against the encroaching dark.

Her beauty would rival the stars, for her spirit shone with an untainted purity. Her heart would remain steadfast, her mind unyielding to shadow, and her essence unsullied by the marring of the world. For no great darkness, however vast, could overcome the light Ilúvatar had kindled within her.

Ilmarátâ was blessed by Varda, who set her among the stars as a daughter of their light, and by Yavanna, who wove into her the harmony of nurturing things. These two among the Valar watched over her, guiding her steps through the long path of her fate. Yet, even their wisdom could not foresee all, for Ilmarátâ’s tale was destined to turn toward shadow as the Ages unfolded, her light tested by the gathering dark.

When Ilúvatar conceived of Mairon, fairest and most potent among the Maiar, he entrusted him to Aulë, the great smith of the Valar. To Aulë, Ilúvatar gave the task of teaching Mairon the crafting of wonders, that through his skill the world might be enriched. And for a time, Mairon walked in the light, delighting in the works of his hands and the wisdom of his master. Yet Ilúvatar, in his infinite thought, knew that the notes of Mairon’s song carried a strain of sorrow and disquiet, for within his heart lay a yearning for great order and harmony that would draw him ever closer to the shadow. 

Thus Ilúvatar brought Ilmarátâ into being for this purpose: that she would remain untouched by shadow, her fëa unyielding and pure, beholding only the light of Ilúvatar’s creation. In her, the harmony of the Music would find its fullest expression, and through her, the beauty of the unmarred world would shine. For in Mairon, Ilúvatar had woven the potential for great light, though it was veiled by the discord of his own desires.

Ilmarátâ was destined to perceive in Mairon the light and harmony he was meant to walk among, the path for which he had been created. Her unshaken purity, shaped and blessed by the Valar—by Varda’s light and Yavanna’s nurturing wisdom—would stand as a beacon to temper the shadow in Mairon’s heart. Through her steadfastness, Ilúvatar foresaw that the dark threads of Mairon’s song might yet be woven back into the greater harmony, if he would but turn to the light she embodied.

In the light of his being, Mairon felt a great yearning, a longing for something unknown, a void in his fëa that he could neither name nor understand. Ever he sought to grasp the source of this incompleteness, to craft wonders so perfect and resplendent that they might fill the ache within him. And so it was that, in the secret depths of his labor, he forged a ring of surpassing beauty—a work of flawless design, imbued with his greatest skill. As he gazed upon it, joy kindled in his heart, for in its perfection he glimpsed something of the harmony for which his fëa yearned. Yet he knew not for whom this gift was wrought, nor why he had shaped it. Thus, he kept it hidden, guarded from all eyes, and continued in his toil.

But in time, Melkor came to Mairon, weaving dark words and promises into his thoughts. Melkor spoke to the hidden places of Mairon’s heart, to his longing for order amidst chaos and his desire to fulfill the emptiness he bore. With every word, the shadow grew stronger, and Mairon, drawn by the promise of answers, found the yearning in his fëa begin to fade, though it was but a fleeting balm. Believing that the Valar themselves were flawed and their works disorderly, he turned to Melkor, imagining that through the might of the Shadow he might impose order upon the world and, at last, quench the fire of his unfulfilled longing. And so, Mairon followed Melkor into the darkness, abandoning the light of Ilúvatar for the promises of power and purpose that Melkor offered.

The time came at last when the Quendi awoke beneath the starlight, the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, wondrous and unmarred. Yet Melkor, filled with hate and jealousy at the beauty of their creation, sought to taint them and draw them into his shadow. Knowing the Valar would summon the Quendi to Aman, he set himself to hinder their journey and poison their hearts with fear. To this end, he commanded his servant Mairon, the most cunning and watchful of his followers, to observe the Quendi and delay their coming forth, raising storms and upheavals to bar their path. Thus, through Mairon’s labors, Melkor hoped to plant the seeds of discord and rebellion against Ilúvatar's designs.

Yet in his watchfulness, Mairon grew enamored of the Quendi, especially the Moriquendi who lingered under the starlit skies. In them, he saw a beauty and harmony that stirred something deep within him, awakening the unfulfilled yearning of his fëa. Though tasked to hinder them, he found himself reluctant to obey, and the storms he raised grew less frequent, the upheavals less fierce. More and more, he walked among them in his fair form, veiling his purpose. Drawn by their light and grace, the Moriquendi seemed to Mairon to ease the shadow in his heart, and for a time, he marveled at their purity, forgetting the darkness to which he had bound himself.

But though his heart softened, the seeds of Melkor’s will remained, and even this strange affection was not free of shadow, for within it lay the beginnings of Mairon’s own desire to rule and shape the Children of Ilúvatar, bending them to his will in the name of harmony and perfection.

Yet when Mairon’s eyes first beheld the fair beauty of Ilmarátâ, the most radiant of Ilúvatar’s creations, his fëa was struck with a great and wondrous harmony, unlike anything he had known before. It was she who had drawn him to the Moriquendi, though he had not understood it. For Ilmarátâ was his match, the light that Ilúvatar had fashioned to shine even into the shadowed recesses of his heart.

For long centuries, Mairon lingered, watching her from afar as she journeyed beneath the stars. He saw her sorrow at the loss of kin and her grief as Melkor’s malice despoiled the land she loved. Her pain pierced his heart, and though he had bound himself to the will of the Shadow, he made a silent vow: never would he allow such sorrow to touch her again, even if it meant defying his master.

When the Valar overthrew Melkor and chained him in the depths of the Void, Mairon fled into the wild places of the world, unshackled for a time from his master’s dominion. In his newfound freedom, his thoughts turned to Ilmarátâ, his star and his light. He resolved to seek her once more, to step out of shadow and stand in her radiance. And so, he fashioned for himself a fair form, one of great beauty and grace, and with trembling hope, he came forth to her.

In her presence, Mairon was transformed. He took Ilmarátâ as his bride, and for many centuries they dwelt in light, their union a joy to both the Valar and Ilúvatar. For Ilmarátâ was his redemption, the purpose for which she had been created: to temper the shadow in his fëa and lead him back to the light he had forsaken. In her, Mairon found harmony, and for a time, he walked no longer in darkness but in the light of love and grace.

For such was Mairon’s love for Ilmarátâ that it is told, when he was at last stripped of his fair form by his own servants in their treachery, he cried out in great despair. His sorrow echoed through the void, for he knew that she would never again look upon him with love, his light forever lost to him. And when he was remade, clothed in a form shaped by malice and power, he sought only to possess Ilmarátâ’s light, believing that in doing so, he might reclaim the harmony he had once known.

Yet his heart had grown dark, and her light remained pure, untouchable by the shadow that now consumed him. In all things, shadow twists and tempers even the brightest of lights, and so it was that his love, once noble, turned to a desire for dominion. His longing for Ilmarátâ, no longer borne of selfless harmony, became a hunger to bind her to him, to make her his in defiance of the light she carried.

Thus, the tragedy of Mairon and Ilmarátâ was sealed, for though he yearned for redemption, the shadow within him twisted his path, and her light could not be dimmed nor corrupted by his darkness. In this, the wisdom of Ilúvatar was revealed: though shadow may cloud the world, it cannot extinguish the light of a fëa untainted, nor can it reclaim the harmony it has forsaken.

[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.

[alpinefrsh]

I've seen your posts about a Tommy in LMK AU. Just how would that work and what's the story behind it

Okay, so, I've got several-- but the one related to the sketches I posted the other day is a not really a vigilante AU. Gonna put a cut here just because this post is mega long lmao

So, okay, base setting-- heroes and villains/criminals or whatever, some percentage of the population is born with abilities-- kind of like quirks in bnha, except I think I'm gonna go with only a minority of people are born with or develop powers. Also the city is called L'Megapolis. For enrichment. Anyway, the general premise is that Technoblade (a kind of villain but mostly just a powered anti-government guy) is declared dead by every news outlet and their mother-- except Tommy is certain that Techno's still alive. He has legitimate reasons for thinking this-- but I can't say them outright because I'd like to write this and that would be too big of a spoiler lol.

How Tommy decides to approach this situation though is by confronting random villains and vigilantes on the street to ask them about Technoblade. Mostly he confronts villains though. Which is bad because Tommy is absolutely all bark and no bite. Mfer talks the big talk and then crumbles the second someone looks like their actually going to fight him. Now, this is where the crossover kicks in-- because the entire fic (or most of it, at least) is all from Macaque's perspective. He's not necessarily a villain per se, but he also doesn't exactly have any problems breaking the law as he sees fit. So the fic actually starts with Mac in the middle of breaking into an allegedly out of use/abandoned government owned building (he would just shadow travel in, but the whole building has anti-power tech preventing him. Yeah, totally an abandoned building) because he's got some suspicions about some stuff and is trying to find information-- Anyway, he's in the process of picking the lock when this random fucking teenager shows up out of nowhere. Spoiler alert, it's Tommy, and he's dressed exactly like every other wannabe vigilante does- wearing a hoodie, sunglasses, and a surgical mask to hide his identity. Macaque, understandably, assumes Tommy's just another stupid teenager with an ill-advised hero complex. Mac decides to do the nice thing-- and by nice thing, I mean he does his best to scare Tommy out of this whole vigilantism thing. Terrorizes him via shadows, ominous laughter, and generally mocking behaviour. Y'know, just some good old Macaque-isms.

He gets Tommy to fuck off (hopefully back home) and then goes "Yep, that's my good deed of the month. Time to never think about that kid ever again" Except then he keeps happening across Tommy at night-- always running around getting himself into danger by harassing random villains, criminals, and the occasional vigilante to ask about Technoblade of all people. Macaque doesn't directly interact with Tommy barring that first encounter, but he does, unfortunately, have a conscious. So he starts helping Tommy in subtle ways-- just enough to prevent him from getting murdered, really.

The longer Mac follows him around, the less he understands why Tommy's doing all of this. He's not a fighter, he panics over papercuts, and rambles almost senselessly whenever someone actually rises to the bait and tries to fight him, and his only motivation is asking around about some dead guy. And then Tommy encounters Niki. Niki, who is a villain (in the same sense that Techno was a villain) named Nemesis, who was a known ally of Technoblade. Yeah, turns out word's been traveling about some guy who won't stop asking about Technoblade, and she's not very happy about it. So not happy, in fact, that Macaque has to take a more proactive approach at preventing Tommy's death via pulling him into a shadow portal before he can get torched and then bringing Tommy to his place-- where he promptly scolds the hell out of Tommy for being a reckless idiot with a botched sense of self-preservation. I can't really say much more because-- again, I'd actually like to write this fic and everything past this point is very spoilery for the main plot stuff. But yeah, fun angsty, hurt/comfort Tommy and Macaque stuff with a storyline that I feel super super normal about (the heavy spoiler parts of the storyline that I can't mention yet make me want to explode). So that's one of my Tommyinnit LMK crossovers. I've also got the space au, noodle thief au, roomates au, and the c!Tommy amnesia au (plus a couple others, but those are the main ones I'm most likely to end up writing in the future) I've also got several other Tommyinnit Rottmnt crossovers unrelated to tiittv. I have a problem lmao. Oh! Also also also, my current proposal for a Tommy and Macaque duo name is Mac'nCheese duo (other suggestions for spelling/formatting welcome). Idk, something about it just feels right in my brain. Most (if not all) of the LMK duo names are already food based, and I don't think this one's taken yet. Macaque is the Mac ofc, and Tommy's the Cheese because he's a goofy little guy (and also blond)

Anyway, thank you for asking about one of my AUs, I love talking about them even if I can't actually write them yet :D (tiittv takes priority over anything longer than a few thousand words until the main storyline's over)

[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!