#not john’s finest hour I’ll admit

[javelinbk]

Hi to my favorite John historian!!

I have a question, did john have a type in women??

Oh god, I’m not sure I’m qualified for that title, but thank you anyway.

In terms of answering that question, let’s refer to John himself, shall we?

I'd always had a fantasy about a woman who would be a beautiful, intelligent, dark-haired, high-cheek-boned, free-spirited artist (à la Juliette Greco).

My soul mate.

Someone that I had already known, but somehow had lost.

After a short visit to India on my way home from Australia, the image changed slightly—she had to be a dark-eyed Oriental. Naturally, the dream couldn't come true until I had completed the picture.

Now it was complete.

Of course as a teenager, my sexual fantasies were full of Anita Ekberg and the usual giant Nordic goddesses.

That is, until Brigitte Bardot became the "love of my life" in the late Fifties. All my girlfriends who weren't dark-haired suffered under my constant pressure to become Brigitte. By the time I married my first wife (who was, I think, a natural auburn), she too had become a long-haired blonde with the obligatory bangs.

Met the real Brigitte a few years later. I was on acid and she was on her way out.

I finally met Yoko and the dream became a reality.

The only woman I'd ever met who was my equal in every way imaginable. My better, actually. Although I'd had numerous interesting "affairs" in my previous incarnation, I'd never met anyone worth breaking up a happily-married state of boredom for.

Escape, at last! Someone to leave home for! Somewhere to go. I'd waited an eternity.

Since I was extraordinarily shy (especially around beautiful women), my daydreams necessitated that she be aggressive enough to "save me," i.e., "take me away from all this." Yoko, although shy herself, picked up my spirits enough to give me the courage to get the hell out, just in time for me to avoid having to live with my ex-wife's new nose. She also had had side-interests, much to the surprise of my pre-liberated male ego.

They got the new nose. And I got my dream woman.

Yoko.

Excerpt from ‘Skywriting by Word of Mouth: The Ballad of John & Yoko’ by John Lennon (1986)

In short, it sounds like he went through various ‘types’ (the main ones being Nordic blonde and mysterious Asian), until he found that rarest of all creatures… a woman with hobbies

[matthewtkachuk]

mistaken identity - jj maybank

jj mistakes you for a touron, despite the fact that he’s been copying your test answers for years and pined after you just as long. will you let him take you on a date to make it up to you and win you over?

warnings: none i don’t think

pairing: jj maybank x reader

word count: 1.9k

a/n: hello loves, despite a rude anon’s best efforts i’m still here. wrote this little something on the plane ride home yesterday night to distract me from 1) the terrible turbulence and 2) the feeling of my heart literally breaking. i’ve missed my little klepto baby, hope yall enjoy this cute lil jj fic. also 10/10 i will be calling my future sig other ‘bud’ and yes i literally wrote @girlsru1eboysdroo1into this, sue me or w/e feedback makes my heart happy.

You don’t quite know how it happened. One moment you were just the girl JJ cheated off of in math when Pope wouldn’t let him, a member of the math team and all around nobody at Kildare High. Sure, you had friends you sat with at lunch and no one really had a bad thing to say about you. Though, if one really thought about it, no one really had a thing to say about you at all - good or bad. You were the definition of a wallflower, content to sit on the sidelines, observing but never interacting fully. The next moment, you were somebody.

Contrarily, you know exactly where it happened. The same place where residents of both sides of the island come together alongside the hapless tourists with only a few goals in mind: drink, dance and find a warm body to cozy up to for the night. This location is, of course, a boneyard kegger at the beginning of summer (one of the first in fact), and those activities are, of course, not quite in line with your typical Friday night. 

It’s your best friends fault you’re here, you muse, hand wrapped tightly around a red solo cup containing three quarters of the warm beer you were handed nearly half an hour ago. You didn’t have anything against drinking, or anyone who drank, your parents were just a little more present than your classmates. You were staying over at Pen’s that night, her mom was really cool, but you couldn’t shake the imaginary hand of your parents and found yourself looking over your shoulder, prepared to drop the cup in the sand and run. Pen had been the one who was adamant that the two of you make an appearance, “you didn’t come to a single kegger last summer, and it’s our last summer before college, c’mon live a little!”. She was nothing if not persistent, and so you agreed if only to get her to let it go.

She had promised she would be by your side ‘the entire night’, but of course fifteen minutes in and she was nowhere to be seen. Also suspiciously missing, despite his two cronies still standing within your peripheral vision, was one Rafe Cameron. You didn’t know what Pen saw in him, she was the literal sweetest person in the entire world and he was... well himself. Of course no one is perfect, she did ditch you after all, and no one is entirely bad either. Since whatever was going on between them started, Rafe hadn’t been bothering you at all and you considered that a win in your books. 

Girl code and euphemisms about female friendships being more important than romantic ones aside, you couldn’t stay mad at her for long and wanted her to be happy. For some unknown reason, he made her happy and you had to support that.

You just wish she had supported you a little and been upfront about you. That way you could have been home, maybe with a book, maybe with netflix. Either way, you wouldn’t be sitting alone on a piece of driftwood slowly sipping on a warm beer as some of your classmates chatted up a group of tourons. You weren’t alone long, however.

You felt his presence before you saw him. JJ Maybank of all people sidled up beside you on the log, toe tapping and hand fidgeting with his rings as he sat silently for all of thirty seconds. Having been in the same class as the boy for more than a decade you recognized his antsy antics as ones that he often acted on in class. If you took a moment to think about it, you could admit that he was conventionally attractive, his whole devil-may-care attitude and golden surfer tan only made him all the more appealing. However, you had known the boy (or at least known of the boy) for so long, you never let that feeling grow into anything tangible. Besides, you were going to leave the small island in the fall and you were never looking back.

The silence only lasted for a minute longer before he broke it. “First time in the outer banks?” the messy blonde boy beside you asked, and you felt the scowl overtake your face.

“JJ we’ve been in the same class since the first grade, and you’ve been cheating off of me in math the entirety of our school careers,” you rolled your eyes and downed the almost full cup before throwing it to the sand and walking away. JJ stared after you with his brow furrowed, brain trying to connect the dots and reconcile you with one of his many classmates. It wasn’t entirely JJ’s (or the six beers he had consumed)’s fault, one could also blame his tardiness and absences for his lack of recognition. And of course there was the fact that you had let Pen dress you up, slap some light makeup on your eyes and curl your hair. Ordinarily the only products you bothered with were sunscreen and lip chap and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d worn anything other than a baggy t-shirt over ripped denim. So maybe you should have given the blonde some slack. 

Or not. “Y/n?” Pope asked confusedly as you stormed past him. The two of you weren’t friends, not exactly anyway, but you were both on the math team and that leant itself to a certain amount of camaraderie. At the very least, Pope remembered your name and that was more than his best friend could say. He reached out with a hand to lightly grasp your bicep, pulling you back towards him and scanning your face to see if he could figure out what was going on. “You okay?”

“Never better,” you bit back, feeling bad instantly. “Sorry Pope, your friend is just kind of an idiot.”

“What did John B do now?” Pope sighed. John B hadn’t had a lot of luck in the ladies department lately and Pope was worried about what his latest gaffe had been. Judging by the look on your face it was bad, like call you by the wrong girl’s name bad. 

“Not Routledge,” you rolled your eyes before continuing, “JJ. It doesn’t matter, Pen ditched me and I'm going home.”

Pope let you go this time, turning toward the aforementioned blond who was slowly making his way over to him. 

“Who was that?” JJ asked with narrowed, red rimmed eyes. Pope laughed out loud, knowing his best friend was about to be incredibly mad at himself. 

“How high are you? The girl you just offended was y/n,” Pope told him, causing JJ’s wide eyes to widen even further 

“Wait, y/n y/l/n? The girl of my dreams y/n y/l/n?” JJ smacked his own forehead in frustration. So that’s why you had looked so familiar. He had never seen you look so put together, and he had definitely never seen you at a kegger or under the influence of any substance before. When Pope nodded, JJ patted him on the shoulder before rushing after your retreating frame. 

He called your first name, watched as you stopped walking and stood in the sand with your back facing him. “I’m sorry, let me make it up to you.”

You turned to look at him, resting your hands on your hips. “High schools over JJ, you don’t have to pretend to be nice to me so that I’ll keep letting you cheat off me in trig.” 

“That’s not-“ he paused, eyes downcast before they flicked up to look at you. You took note of his slightly dilated pupils, the way they were rimmed with red and recognized he was under the influence of something. Gathering courage, he quickly spit out “go on a date with me.”

“I-“ you sighed deeply, eyes rolling up toward the night sky as you contemplated his offer, “you know what? Fine, one date. You better knock it outta the park and blow me away cause it’s your only shot.” You began walking away, back turned to him so he couldn’t see the small grin on your face or the way your hands shook a little. Every girl with two eyes and a heartbeat had to admit to at least a tiny crush on the reckless boy, and you had both of those things. To be asked out on a date by him made you feel special, but he didn’t need to know that. 

“Not that I need it, but you don’t believe in second chances?” he shouted at your retreating back. Without missing a beat you turned to look at him over your shoulder, “this is your second chance bud.”

A few days later had you sitting in shock and disbelief as JJ Maybank admitted his years long crush on you. 

You laughed so hard that you almost snorted, stifling the instinct with both of your hands before the sound could betray you. “You’re trying to tell me you’ve had a crush on me since we were kids? And you couldn’t recognize me because of a little bit of eyeliner?” you asked skeptically, brows raised at the boy who sat beside you on the blanket in the sand. 

“Not my finest moment,” he admitted, grabbing a grape and tossing it in the air before attempting to catch it in his mouth. It bounced off his nose and rolled into the sand, causing you to giggle. He brightened up considerably with the knowledge that he had been able to make you laugh, even if it was with his stupid antics. 

“So, your idea of flirting was what? Copying my test answers and never actually speaking to me?” You laughed at the look of indignation on his face. “You’ve got no game, bud.”

“I’ll have you know I have plenty of game, you should hear what the tourons-“ he began to brag, stopping only when you threw yourself at him, covering his mouth with your hands as you had done to yourself only moments earlier. It was only when he shrugged that you pulled back from

his personal space. 

“Pro tip for Mr ‘plenty of game’, girls don’t like to hear about other girls on first dates. Especially not girls you’ve...” you fake coughed and raised your eyebrows hoping he would get the meaning. 

“Right, sorry. You just make me nervous.” He admitted, rolling his pink lips into his mouth briefly. 

“What, why?” you asked, sitting up on your knees and tucking your hair behind your ears. 

“Are you kidding? You’re smokin’ hot and really smart. Like maybe even smarter than Pope smart,” he paused, “don’t tell him I said that.”

You laughed again, face hot from the compliment as you mimed zipping your lips, “Your secret’s safe with me, I’ll take it to the grave.”

You sat in a comfortable silence, staring at his strong side profile before he turned to you, eyes darting down to look at your lips. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, lip darting out to lick at his bottom lip. 

“Depends,” you giggled, sitting up further and wrapping your arms around his neck before whispering into his ear, “Do you remember who I am this time?”

He laughed, cheeks reddening as he returned your whisper, “I could never forget you y/n y/l/n.” 

“You better not, bud,” you replied, grinning up at him before you captured his lips with yours, eyes fluttering shut as you relaxed in his embrace. 

everything taglist: @velyssaraptor @danicarosaline @copper-boom @x-lulu @prejudic3 @rekrappeter @downbytheouterbanks @ilovejjmaybank @bricksatanakinswindow @jellyfishbeansontoast @sunwardsss @rudyypankow @im-a-stranger-thing @alexa-playafricabytoto @hoodpankow @girlsru1eboysdroo1 @sortagaysortahigh @socialwriter @euphoricmalfoy @anxietyandtacos @diverrdown @stargazingstarkey @rae131415 @rafej-cambanks @stfukie @obxmermaid

[mrepstein]

New Musical Express - Friday June 18, 1965

Salute to the MBEatles!

BY THE EDITOR

Dear John, Paul, George and Ringo:

Congratulations from all NME readers on the honour bestowed on you by the Queen, who saw fit to make you Members of the British Empire for your unprecedented achievement in the history of world show business and winning for Britain the interest of millions of teenagers all over the world.

As always, there have been the knockers who say this award to you is ridiculous. A “Daily Mirror” writer attacked the whole thing and others made sarcastic asides about it. On the other hand, the serious-minded “Daily Telegraph,” in its leader, suggested the honour was not sufficient and you should have received a more generous award, such as a Knighthood.

The Prime Minister, the Member of Parliament for Huyton, Liverpool, recommended you for this honour. And as you admitted on television, you were sent the forms to fill in six weeks ago to say if you wanted an honour.

We’re glad you accepted it. This means that your teenage fans, who made you, can share in the honour. And these days, when teenagers seem only to get bad publicity, how pleasant to have something good happen.

Your ladies will be going with you to Buckingham Palace to the investiture - there are two in July, and others later in the year - and let us hope “baby” lets Maureen go. You’ll be decked out in your finest attire and you’ll have a very happy day. Myra Secombe, wife of Harry, recalled that she was “scared stiff” before the investiture, but after it she felt exhilarated, having seen her husband receive his OBE.

You will come away with silver medals on a pink ribbon, each with a pin to attach it to the left side of your dinner jackets on formal occasions. You may have your medals before the premiers of “Help!”

One final suggestion - if the Queen could not make the presentation personally, wouldn’t it be a fine thing for her teenage son or daughter, Prince Charles or Princess Anne, to do it? That would make it a complete teenage triumph.

AND THE DAY OF THE AWARD THRU’ THE EYES OF Mr. Brian Epstein

NMExclusive

By CHRIS HUTCHINS

The news that the Queen had approved Premier Harold Wilson’s selection of the Beatles for MBEs in her Birthday Honours List was supposedly one of the world’s best-kept secrets. But what a pantomime for Fleet Street, which was told a couple of days before so that Saturday's headlines could be polished up in advance!

And what a night of excitement Friday was as last-minute touches were being added to the stories, pictures were being chosen and Donald Zec of the “Daily Mirror” was sitting back waiting for the reaction to his silly piece decrying the awards.

Brian Epstein flew to Blackpool that night to see Billy J. Kramer and to make the last-minute preparations for the fuss that was about to put the Beatles and himself back on the front pages.

I went with him and this was the schedule: 9 pm: Our aircraft touched down virtually a sword’s touch from Blackpool Tower and we drove to the North Pier theatre. Quipped Epstein on the way: “I wonder if somebody will start a group called the MBEs now?”

10:30: With Billy J. and his Dakotas, we took a cab to our seaside hotel. Passing crowds of holidaymakers, Epstein observed: “It’s so exciting nursing a secret they’ll all be talking about tomorrow.” And then he deliberated on what sort of a spread it would make in the morning papers.

At the hotel he took phone call after phone call from newspapers and news agencies and it was soon obvious that the Beatles were THE news of the night.

10:50: Epstein ordered flowers to be delivered to each of the Beatles’ parents first thing in the morning, with congratulatory notes from himself.

11:20: Phone rang again. It was Paul McCartney from a call box at London airport. He had arrived back from Portugal minutes before the news became official and a day earlier than planned (at the request of his manager). The conversation between the two millionaires was brought to an abrupt end when Paul ran out of change!

Released

12:20 AM: The news had been released and the Fleet Street presses were rolling. Another call - this time from the BBC programme “Light Night Extra” whose listeners learned of the MBE awards first. They also heard Brian say: “It is a tremendous thrill to know that the Queen has honoured the Beatles. It is the first official recognition they have had of the nation’s appreciation.”

8:00 AM: We flew back to London. Dark glasses could not conceal the famous manager’s identity as people before and after the flight grabbed Epstein’s arm and asked him to pass on their congratulations.

The Beatles had agreed to meet the world’s press at Twickenham film studios at lunchtime. The conference was arranged for 1:30 - 2½ hours after the start of their first viewing of the “Help!” film. John Lennon missed the screening and arrived 70 minutes late for the conference, after being fetched from home by his manager.

As the crowd of reporters, photographers and TV men waited and waited, one of them called out “MBEs and they still treat US as suckers!”

At the conference itself the Beatles were frequently asked if being honoured would change their way of life. But if Paul’s unshaven arrival wasn’t enough to convince all concerned, he added: “It doesn’t make me feel any more respectable. I’m still a scruff.”

I asked George how they had first learned they were getting the awards: “Paul was looking through the pile of fan mail in our dressing room a few weeks ago when he came across this envelope that said From the Prime Minister on it. It must have been there at least a couple of days. He opened it and the letter said he was being considered for an award and would he sign the enclosed form. We all said ‘wish we had one,’ dived through the rest of the mail and found we did - one each!”

Asked what they would do with the medals, John said: “I think I’ll have mine made into a bell push so that people have to press it when they come to the house.”

Somebody asked if the Beatles thought Cliff Richard should have got a medal, too. “Yes, a leather one with wooden strings,” quipped George.

And as the bright remarks continued to fly as fast as at any Beatle press conference I have witnessed, their manager stood at the back, arms folded, and beamed as Paul said he thought MBE stood for Mr. Brian Epstein.

[hardcoreprocess]

anonymous asked: Karkat teaches Jade and John to show a little more reverence for their god.

Worship is a bond. Nuanced, nebulous, tethered by a rope fraying with time. Maintenance is expected, like wiping dust from the pious plates or keeping the blood clear. Her hands dip into a pool, made up entirely by thick crimson that stains every nail bed. Both arms surge upwards, catching John in a bright arc. He shrieks, windmilling his limbs and staggering away with upset countenance.

"Jade! What the fuck!"

A bark of laughter. His eyes go from startled-wide to annoyed-narrow, but Jade doesn't care to apologize for an incredibly minor prank. "Jeez, it's funny! The blood's not real anyway."

"It's not?" he asks, almost prompting her to splash again for good measure. As easy as it is to forget he doesn't pray at all, it's not Jade's business to go around judging him for that. Just— wow! The lack of culture really shines through when he's visiting during her duty hours. John's fingers dip into the offering, hesitant, then retreat for observation.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Basically— it's bad wine. Like, okay. Technically, it's the best and finest but there's a method. One really good bottle mixed with ten sucky bottles to dilute it into something workable." Might be a little disrespectful to admit that, but she— constantly— thinks of all the nice alcohol that would be wasted if poured into a temple's prayer pool straight off.

He looks... bored, which Jade totally expected. Another splash, another squawk; he's eager to play turnabout at her expense. Reaching right across the vat from his vantage point, John grips her wet wrist for a firm yank. Fuck! Her turn to yell now, bowling forwards face first, barely able to seal her lips in time—

Stinging eyes squeeze shut for protection, her soaked head breaking the surface. Frantic, flailing for her brother in the midst of a real panic, because Jade's feet don't touch the bottom. Too deep, too thick, too much red to even think. Even kicking to stay afloat feels impossible, and—

A grip on her ankles. Wine submerges her face. Jade barely registers that John's hand is gripping her forearm as she's pulled down down down down down—

He loses that test of strength immediately, dragged into the depths right alongside her. Together, and yet barely a ripple left behind to betray their exit from the natural world. But her lungs strain in the warm, impossible depths of the prayer vat. Tense, tight, until she has no choice. Jade has to—

BREATHE.

Her lungs expand as ordered. Not liquid, but just as heavy, filling to the core with an impossible heat. Jade looks out at what should be wine, but she's treated to a near-powdery haze. Like a cloud trapped in shadow, engulfing her entirely. Unnatural. Not quite— right. Is it divine?

There's a man looming before her. John? No. Too wide, too tall, with stone hands tipped with claws. Her jaw is cradled. She feels— beautiful, cherished, touched in all ways by slick red between her thighs.

BARRING THE OBVIOUS LACK OF RESPECT, YOU WOULD SERVE ME WELL. AS A PRIESTESS, MAYBE.

Somehow, she's ashamed. But that doesn't stall the parting of both legs, aimlessly reaching, touching shoulders broader than sky rivers. Beseeching. Every breath sinks deeper, anchoring, making her holy—

HM. I'LL JUST HAVE TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT, WON'T I.

Air in her lungs. Both eyes fly open to stare up at ornate ceiling tiles. Drenched in wine— and it is wine —with John's hand firmly clasped in hers. "Did you see—" he manages around fish-gasp inhales, as Jade pushes herself into a shaky sitting position. Aside from the trails of red leading from their messy mortal bodies, trickling back home, the pool is untouched.

"I— saw."

Standing above the prayer vat is the effigy of a god with a bitter expression, his clawed hands of stone held out in a beckon.

"I saw that."

[criticalintellect]

UGH alright let's try this, hopefully I'll be coherent. So I've had my twitter account for about a year now(?) and every month or so, for about a week, just outta nowhere people suddenly feel like shitting on Lovecraft. The last two times it makes sense how it came about since we had gotten news that a new Call of Cthulhu "sequel" was getting made. The premise we were given was goddamn horrendous, but it's popped up again because it's creator felt like being a cunt on Twitter for some reason: Call of Cthulhu: Death May Die. Shelving the fact that sounds like a Devil May Cry parody, I won't focus too much on the game, though I will say it's NOTHING like the Terminator ripoff we were told it was gonna be (I could be mistaking DMD with another boardgame abortion using H.P.'s work) and the wording in the game synopsis I found is completely contrary to cosmic horror; talking about fighting the Old Ones and "shoot[ing] it in the face". Eric Lang is the man of the hour; he's had quite a bit of experience in boardgames and even video games, working on Duelyst (which I really did like). So to see this man in search of a personality put on his most psychotic stare, trim his pubic hair wig, and stand in front of a cardboard cutout of H.P. Lovecraft and give it the finger, all to post it on twitter and say he hates this man and his work...while at the same time profiting from his work DIRECTLY. I'm a little...perturbed. These retard fests always come in at least 3 flavors: Lovecraft was a racist, dO yOu KnOw WhAt He NaMeD hIs CaT?!?!?!, and Lovecraft didn't contribute anything and all his fans are racist. No to all 3.

Now maybe I'm hanging on semantics, but from my reckoning I would say HPL was more xenophobic than racist. He didn't hate other people or races. Yes he did believe that certain people had "superior" genetics, but never in his notes have I seen him go on tirades about how those of "lesser" genes need to be culled or anything. He literally just wanted them to leave him and his neighborhood alone. He wanted them to live, just not near him. Again, maybe semantics, I leave the distinction to greater intellects. But of greater importance, something these Lovecraft detractors refuse to comprehend, was that we have written proof that HPL RENOUNCED his xenophobic views towards the end of his life. Thanks to the friends he made, his moving to New York, and being exposed to other people he saw the error of his ways. And he recanted. And the people shitting on his grave do not care, saying that it didn't matter. It's cancel culture at it's finest, but since they can't cancel a dead man all they can do is destroy his works. Or at least attempt to, fruitlessly. The plus side of having 100 year old works of fiction is that they've been in circulation for so long is that plenty of people know the fiction and know when someone has made a shit interpretation of it.

Now, about that cat. See it wasn't Howard that named that cat, but rather his father. The cat was adopted by and named by him. And then his father was committed to an asylum and the cat passed into his son's and wife's care. And yes, the cat was called Niggerman, shocker. It was the 1880s.

"Lovecraft had no impact on anything". Stephen King, Gullermo del Toro, Ridley Scott, Neil Gaiman, Junji Ito, Kentaro Miura, Clive Barker, John Carpenter, Mike Mignola and H.R. Giger. All of these artists were influenced by Lovecraft and his horror. But sometimes his touch was a little less obvious, as he was friends with Robert E. Howard, the creator of Conan the Barbarian and Solomon Cane. He was a man who would very openly share ideas he had for his own work, but not having a great opinion of said work would pass it onto authors he believed could better implement his ideas. He was never a man to jealously protect his property and openly allowed ANYONE to add onto the mythos he unwittingly created. And that's a major reason how his mythos has engrossed so much of our culture over the last century, even when the property wasn't directly connected to the Cthulhu mythos. As to the assertion that we're all racists: even if I agreed Howard Philips Lovecraft was racist and even if it wasn't public knowledge that he became a better person late in life, I am capable of separating a creator from his work. I can read Shadow Over Innsmouth and Call of Cthulhu and The Dunwich Horror and agree that if you look deep enough there's some skeevy themes, but if you put that aside there's some damn good suspense and horror. For as fucked up as K-Pop is I don't see any of their stans calling out the industry while admitting they still like the music, it's just blanket denial. Yet shitheads with that kinda mindset wanna come after a man's legacy like he enslaved all of Africa all on his lonesome?

At the end of it all, Lovecraft's works will endure all of this mind numbing clout chasing. Eric Lang can do cringey, performative wokeness while being a massive hypocrite all he wants, Lovecraft will endure. But it will always bother me the amount of frothing, myopic hatred HPL gets. The fans have told these people how he reformed, how he shared his works with people of all walks of life, how he MARRIED A JEWISH WOMAN (and yes he had distasteful opinions of Jews too), but it's never enough. If Daryl Davis can change the minds of 200+ KKK members, then why can't we give people from the past the benefit of the doubt. Then again these are also the type of people that called Davis a racist and other assorted idiocy so...I dunno. Lovecraft was a flawed man, plagued by nightmares, coddled by a mother who slowly lost her mind over time and ended up in the same asylum as her husband (the one he died in too). And even through all of that he found a way to be a better man. He shared his works, he found a way to intimately connect with a woman (even though it sounds like it was very difficult for both of them), and towards the end of his life he admitted his ideas of genetic superiority were downright abhorrent. If we can't give even this man the benefit of the doubt, then your only hope of being accepted by the hate mob is if you're born a literal son of God.

And if you dont like HPL then fuck right off out of my fandom because we do not care about your lukewarm take about him being a racist and we need to rewrite his works. Piss off

Edit: Hoo boy this has gotten around and about, further than I thought it would've. I know it's a bit strange, but thank you to everyone for showing support. Didn't think anyone would read one of my long-winded rants, let alone think it worth of sharing. At first I was just a casual fan of Lovecraft like most people; Cthulhu here, "hey I get that"; a shoggoth there, "ah neato." But after seeing him get so much hatred it started to feel wrong. Then learning what a tragic man he was and seeing Twitter attempt to eviscerate this man...I had to put my thoughts somewhere and this was the only place I had a chance to get it out there and people actually see it. So thank ye kindly strange sea of friends

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 22

As Nelly washed her face and braided her hair that night, she could scarcely believe that the weekend was almost over. It had been a happy blur of fishing, bridge lessons, walks in the woods, songs under the stars, and tonight a campfire and a ukulele concert after a dinner of wheat cakes and maple syrup. And of course, not a trivial amount of that time had been passed in bed with Buster. As she’d spent those blissful hours with him, time zipped by without her noticing. 

Buster was humming to himself from the other room and Nelly wondered if the weekend had gone the way he’d expected. She wondered, not the first time, what had he expected. From the way he was behaving, he seemed cheerful and serene, but she wasn’t sure. Men were mysterious. Tomorrow he would go back to his wife and she would return to being a cog in the United Artists machine.

Before leaving the washroom, she brushed her teeth. She was half-tempted to shed her chemise and knickers ahead of bed; they always ended up torn off in the middle of the night anyway.

In the other room, Buster was sitting up in bed with the blankets pulled over his lap and her little red book in his hands, paging through Mistress Nell Gwyn. She felt a flush of embarrassment and regretted not bringing a more serious book along.

“Are you reading it ‘cause the main girl’s called Nelly?” he said, looking up at her.

Her face warmed as she checked the lock to the front door and turned off the floor lamp near the kitchen. “No, I like Marjorie Bowen and I hadn’t read this one yet. The name’s just a coincidence.” And it was, truly. “What do you read?” she said to switch the subject. They’d gotten around to discussing their favorite music (they both liked Bix Beiderbecke, Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five, and Paul Whiteman), but not their favorite books. 

Buster looked slightly abashed as she switched off the table lamp by the sofa. “Does Popular Mechanics count?”

“Well, not as far as novels go,” she said, crossing the room and lifting the corner of the sheets on her side of the bed to slide in next to Buster. 

“I read a dime novel once and awhile. Mostly don’t have the time,” said Buster. “But your book—she’s sweet on old King Charlie?”

Nelly took the book from him, amused. “King Charles II,” she corrected. 

“Why d’ya like it?” said Buster. He burrowed deeper into the covers and snuggled against her shoulder like a boy wanting a bedtime story. 

“I like novels based on real things. I get a history lesson and the people from back then feel more real.”

“Did you see my picture The General?” asked Buster.

“Of course,” said Nelly. Her memory of the film wasn’t very strong, but she knew that she had enjoyed it quite a lot and remembered gasping with the rest of the audience at his daring stunts on the train. She seemed to recall that she found him good-looking with his long hair and sober looks, but apparently not so good-looking that she’d felt compelled to write him a mash note or glue his picture into her scrapbook like she had with John Barrymore.

“Now that picture, you see, was based on real facts. And the train was really called the General!” Buster launched into the story of the Great Locomotive Chase of 1862, and Nelly listened with contentment to his animated retelling. He talked all about the production of the picture, having to find narrow-gauge railroad tracks, learning how to operate a steam engine, hiring the National Guard to play soldiers, and playing baseball near the Willamette Valley. “I thought it was my finest picture but the critics all blasted it. Said it was a flop. I haven’t been able to make sense of it. Guess they thought I should leave the serious acting to types like your fellow, John Barrymore.”

“He’s not my fellow, Buster,” Nelly chided. She ran her fingers idly through his dark hair.

“What happened to being his leading lady?” he said, kissing her bare upper arm.  

“Oh, don’t tease me for being romantic when I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what he was really like. Didn’t I tell you? When I was in Tempest, he came right into the ladies room and pissed in the sink right in front of me. And if that wasn’t enough, he picked his nose right in front of me too! He was so drunk he couldn’t tell left from right. I had to help him back to Mr. Taylor.”

Buster laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Gosh, I wish I was. He kept us there all night he was so drunk. They had to build a sort of carousel for Camilla Horn and him to finish their ballroom dance.” Thinking of Tempest, Nelly was reminded of something that had been on her mind since her hours with Buster had begun to draw to a close. “I want to say something serious to you now though.”

Buster, to his credit, didn’t try to make a joke. “What’s that?”

“In the book”—for a second, Nelly lifted the red volume that lay between them—“Nell Gwyn is just an orange seller at the playhouse. One night, King Charles invites her to a tavern with his friends Rochester and Buckingham. He remembers seeing her before and likes her. While they’re eating and drinking, he asks what she means to do with her life and she says that she wants to be an actress. Then she dances for him and he leaves her a pair of silver shoes as a gift because she pays for his food and drink. You think that he’s going to see to it that she becomes an actress, but he doesn’t. He has his own matters to worry about and goes on with his life, but she becomes a successful actress on her own—I’m only halfway through of course—and anyhow that’s how he notices her again. He goes to a play and she’s starring.”

“Oh yeah?” said Buster, obviously not understanding. 

“Well, what I’m saying is I appreciate you putting in a word for me with Mr. Taylor, but if you want to continue seeing me …”

Here she paused. It was a brave thing to say aloud because she didn’t know, not for certain, if Buster did want to see her after he dropped her back off at her apartment tomorrow. It wasn’t just false modesty. For all she knew, he had getaways with girls all the time, a new one for every weekend. His waywardness with women had, after all, been one of the first things she’d heard about him back in River Junction: all a girl had to do to seduce him was walk into his dressing room. 

“I don’t want any more favors and I won’t ask for any. I don’t want to play angles anymore. In fact, I prefer to try it on my own in the future, getting parts that is, just to see if I can, if I’m good enough to make it without help. Like Nell Gwyn was.” She let out a deep breath, afraid of his reaction.

“I think that’s fine,” he said, putting a hand on her jaw and turning her head to his so he could kiss her lips. His expression registered no displeasure. “Only I never talked to Sam Taylor. You did that one on your own. Honest.”

Nelly could hardly believe it.“Really?” she said, scanning his eyes to see if he was being truthful. 

“ ‘Course not. Had nothing to do with me,” he said.

“Oh. Well…” said Nelly, feeling silly.

“I’ll make a note. No angles, no favors. I’ll let you go it alone like your Nell Gwyn.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Tell me what happens next in your book, though.”

Feeling that a weight had been lifted, Nelly went on. “Well, the King sees Nell at a play and as soon as he notices her silver shoes, he remembers who she is.”

“Then what?” said Buster, caressing her hand. 

“I don’t know. Then she becomes his mistress,” Nelly said. She felt embarrassed to admit that she read such books.

“Did he have a queen?”

“Oh yes, Queen Catherine, the one who got the British to start drinking tea, but she doesn’t get much mention in the book. Mrs. Bowen’s more concerned with his mistresses. He had about a dozen. There’s the Countess of Castlemaine and Moll Davis, who’s another actress. Nelly was just one, but she was the most loyal.” She looked down to where Buster was holding her hand in his and rubbing it with a thumb, and wondered what he was thinking about her foolish taste in novels. 

“Will you be my mistress?”

Nelly turned her face to him, stunned. For a moment, she thought it was just one of his many jokes. One look at the beseeching expression on his face told her it wasn’t. Such waves of happiness and consternation struck her then that it was several seconds before she could answer. “Yes,” she said. There could hardly be another answer. And yet even as she consented, she thought of the Countess of Castlemaine, Moll Davis, and the Duchess of Portsmouth.  

“You got this look on your face,” said Buster.

“Do I?” she said, feeling flustered. 

“Yeah. A look that’s telling me you got something on your mind you ain’t telling me.”

Now that they were being so honest, she couldn’t deny him the real answer, even though it was preposterous to ask for faithfulness from a man who was already someone else’s husband.

“Well, are there others?” she said, searching his eyes. 

“Other what?” said Buster, cocking his head a little. “Mistresses? No.” He squeezed her hand. “Now I ain’t going to lie, I’ve had steadies before, not what you’d call mistresses exactly, but cross my heart I haven’t been with a girl in months. Are you asking if I’ll be true to you?”

Nelly looked away. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, but reminded herself she was trying to be honest. “I suppose I am and it’s the silliest thing to ask. I know you’re married. I’m not asking you to… Well, I guess I don’t know what I’m asking. Maybe I’m a little jealous, not about your wife, but about other girls because I—I like you already.” She looked back at him, fearing his reaction, but he was only regarding her in the same interested way he had when she’d relayed the plot of her book. “Please don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way, I know it seems like I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth,” she said hurriedly. “And I don’t expect you to keep me either like King Charles keeps Nelly, with satin and pearls and houses. Oh, I’m sorry for making this such a muddle. All I should have said was yes. I just want to be pals like we’ve been this weekend. I know it’s not right to ask.”

“ ‘Course we’ll stay pals,” said Buster. “And I promise no satin and pearls. I can still buy you dinner, can’t I?” 

Nelly laughed, her spirits feeling lighter. “Of course you can. I just don’t want to be a kept woman, okay? You can still do all the normal stuff a fellow would.”

Buster’s hand found its way down the front of her chemise and she pulled in a sharp breath as he rolled his finger lightly around the perimeter of her nipple. “Like this?”

She nodded, her eyes closing as his thumb joined the finger and pinched with gentle pressure. Her mind went back to the sight of him between her legs in the forest, his dark messy hair that he’d stopped slicking down with Brilliantine during the course of the weekend, and she groaned at the memory. She rolled onto her side, Buster’s hand still busy at her breast, and slid her hand beneath the brim of his pajama trousers.

“You’re not wearing any underwear,” she said, grasping the warm, silky length of him. 

Buster shifted onto his side. “Yeah, you’ve been teaching me something about efficiency.” He gave a wince of pleasure as she began to move her hand up and down. He withdrew his hand from her chemise and put it in her knickers, and she felt as warm as she had in the sun on Saturday as his fingers began their clever work.

They exchanged pleasures like that for a couple minutes before Buster began tugging her chemise over her head. She unbuttoned his pajama shirt as he played with her breasts. It would be a terribly long time before she was ever bored by the way he tensed his stomach when she touched him, making all the muscles stand out like they were sculpted in marble. She pressed her breasts against her chest as she pulled his pajama shirt the rest of the way off of him, and Buster began wrestling her knickers down. When they were all the way undressed, both still lying on their sides, Nelly put her leg over him.

“Let’s try it without,” she whispered, as Buster kissed her neck and ear. It was a crazy thing to ask, but she was beyond thinking straight. 

“What, without a thin?” he said with surprise. 

“I think it’d be okay. If you pull out before--” She blushed. “I want to see how it feels without it.”

Buster kissed her forehead once, twice, three times in obvious gratitude. “Alright.” 

Nelly shifted herself lower and guided him into her with a hand. For a few moments, Buster was perfectly still. Nelly breathed deeply, feeling him without a barrier for the first time and jubilant with the sensation, as well as the weight of his proposal. A mistress. 

He made love to her more slowly than he had on previous occasions, pausing for long stretches to kiss her, then grasping her backside to push himself deeper. Eventually, the slow pace sent her into such a frenzy that she took control of the rhythm. He caught on and went faster. When every muscle on him stood out again as if sculpted, she knew he was close. 

“Don’t forget to pull out,” she said, seeking his eyes. 

“I won’t,” he said breathlessly. He gave such a fierce, pleasurable thrust that she keened, and that caused him to withdraw suddenly and rock himself against her stomach until he came with a shuddering groan. 

She stroked his cheekbone when he was finished. His eyes had closed and his breathing was deep and satisfied. Buster Keaton’s mistress. She was so filled with the thought that she felt barely any guilt when she thought of his wife. It was, after all, easy to justify. He was not intimate with her; she had realized that when he mentioned that he slept alone. She had never forgotten his statement the night of his party either, that the marriage was headed for divorce. But there she cut off her thoughts. She was getting far too ahead of herself. It was enough that they had gotten on like a house on fire and that Buster was holding her in his arms now, smelling like sweat and cigarettes and himself. 

“Buster,” she said. She could tell he was starting to fall asleep.

“Mmmph,” said Buster. 

“We should set an alarm for tomorrow. My tram leaves at 6:45 and I’ve got to be at work around 7:30. We should get up at four so we have time to pack and so I can get ready.”

Buster rolled onto his back and cupped the crown of his head in his hands. “Don’t worry about the tram, I’ll drop you off.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to get you into any trouble. If anyone sees us, they’ll talk,” she said. 

Buster opened one eye and lifted his eyebrow. “Let ‘em talk,” he said.

“Okay,” said Nelly, not quite knowing what to make of this attitude. 

Nell Gwyn had been no secret to King Charles II’s subjects, but somehow Nelly thought that Buster Keaton’s public would be less tolerant if he got into the habit of parading around a mistress. Nonetheless, she didn’t argue with him. As she cleaned his seed off of her in the washroom, she didn’t have a thought except for how happy she was when she was around him.

Note: Just a PSA that this is fiction and not an endorsement of the pull-out method (although Planned Parenthood notes that it is 96% effective if used correctly 100% of the time). Obviously it doesn't prevent STDs. You should always use protection with a new partner. ;)

[agentnico]

Top 20 Best Movies of the Decade (2010′s)

Now that we have entered the 2020s, it’s time to look back on a decade of movie magic. To emphasise the importance of each year, I’ll balance things out by including two films from each year for my Top 20 list. I’ve tried to pick films that both defined this decade as well as appealed to me personally, so my list will of course, as always, be different from yours, but hopefully, I won’t totally irritate you with my humble choice, which I deem worthy to post online for the public eye to witness.

2010:

INCEPTION - “You’re waiting for a train...” Christopher Nolan unarguably is the most exciting and original directors working today. Each time he releases a movie, its an event. A literal must-see at the cinema. Which is why this isn’t the only film of his you will find on this list. With Inception, Nolan gives us a movie that is both enjoyable and imaginative, rewarding the audience for the attention that it demands. Filled with so much detail that if you miss certain shots, you will completely get lost in confusion of the narrative (as confusing as it already is). It’s intense and complex, with great performances from the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio and Tom Hardy, this movie will leave you lingering for more even after that mysterious ending.

SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD -  “You cocky cock! You'll pay for your crimes against humanity!” Once again, another exciting director on this list (oh there are so so many!). Ever since Edgar Wright emerged from the British isles, he’s given us some of the funniest films of the past decade and onwards. His Cornetto Trilogy is a blast, Baby Driver is a blast, Ant-Man was going to be even more of a blast if Marvel allowed Wright to do his magical shenanigans his way, and the upcoming Last Night in Soho will surely be a blast also. With Scott Pilgrim vs. The World Wright creates a meta-clever universe taking inspiration from comic books and video games and filled to the brink with wink-wink-nudge-nudge humour, this is an exciting and very sarcastic over the top endeavor. Also, Brie Larson in this movie.....phew!! And unsurprisingly, its all a blast!

2011:

DRIVE - “I just wanted you to know, just getting to be around you, that was the best thing that ever happened to me.” Drive is more of an elegant exercise in style, and its emotions may be hidden but they run deep. A shamelessly disreputable, stylish, stoic, ultra-violent thriller with amazing stunt work, one of the best opening sequences of any movie this decade and a neon-pumped soundtrack that’s a must-own for all vinyl users, if you still haven’t seen Drive, there’s only one thing you can do. Clue: it’s to go watch Drive.

MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - GHOST PROTOCOL - “Your mission, should you choose to accept it...” Tom Cruise’s deal with the devil allows him to do some literally impossible stuff, and though I don’t condone his Scientology ways, the man’s stunt work and efforts in his area of expertise are worth all the praise and respect. To be honest, I’m commemorating all three of the Mission Impossible flicks that graced our screen this year (Ghost Protocol, Rogue Nation and Fallout). This franchise is like a game of dodgeball, except that Tom Cruise is the dodgeBALL, being thrown and thrust left and right like nobody cares. Also, with me being Russian, the fact that a movie manages to destroy the Kremlin and then have me not hate the film in the aftermath shows that this film is way too fun to hate.

2012:

DJANGO UNCHAINED - “Gentlemen, you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention.” Quentin Tarantino is one of my favourite directors working today. And Django Unchained happens to be my favourite film of his. The writing for this film is orgasmic (I went there!). The way the actors deliver the lines and the lines of dialogue themselves sound almost poetic to my ears. I can quote so many lines from this darn thing. The cinematography is immaculate. The soundtrack choice is great. The performances, my goodness, the PERFORMANCES!! Jamie Foxx does arguably his career-best work here, but also we have Christoph Waltz and Leonardo DiCaprio both chewing up the scenery, and I’m sure everyone has heard the story involving DiCaprio and the broken glass. Django Unchained is an easy choice on this list for me, and possibly in my Top 10 of all time.

LES MISERABLES - “Do you hear the people sing?” The film that is based on a musical that is based on a book that is based on certain true events. Tom Hooper did an interesting choice of having actors sing live in front of the camera during filming rather than pre-record their voices, and it works to grand effect, though Russell Crowe should have probably been given more singing lessons. The movie is one hell of a way to adapt such a popular stage musical. With an opening shot that emphasises the scale of this picture with a zoom-in towards this big ship during a storm being pulled by these poor prisoners, we are plunged into the despair and conflicts of various characters with adroit narrative thrust so that not a moment feels wasted or redundant. You’d think that a film with hardly any dialogue and an overall reliance on singing wouldn’t be so emotional. Yet, somehow, it works. Also props to Anne Hathaway for winning an Academy Award for being in a film for only 5 MINUTES!!

2013:

THE WOLF OF WALL STREET - “Sell me this pen.” Martin Scorsese’s mad look into Wall Street life is a bombastic caper and running at nearly 3 hours, Scorsese and his editing team manage to keep an astoundingly intoxicating pace that keeps you enthralled and engaged throughout. This one is definitely not for the families, as this R-rated fest is filled with drugs, money, sex and everything you can possibly imagine and paints quite the picture of the rich folks of Wall Street. And the middle of it all a bravura performance from Leonardo DiCaprio. Someone needs to give DiCaprio’s agent a raise, this is Leo’s third appearance on this list and we’re only in 2013!

THE WAY WAY BACK - “I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You're having way too much fun, it's making everyone uncomfortable.” Sometimes a little indie flick is enough to lift a human spirit. Real, fun, uplifting and innocent, The Way Way Back dedicated to anyone who felt awkward or out of place at some point in their life, which, let’s be honest, counts all of us. I’m not afraid to admit that. So stop being a b*** and reveal your sensitive side too! Yes, you, the person reading this. Who else could I possibly be talking to? Myself? Maybe. The Way Way Back though is one of the best feel-good indie films of this decade, with the loveable Steve Carell acting very unloveable and Sam Rockwell Rockwelling himself to charm city! If you’ve missed this one, treat yo’self and check it out.

2014:

THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL - “And?? Where is it? What's it all about dammit don't keep us in suspense this has been a complete f***ing nightmare! Just tell us what the f*** is going on!!!” Easily Wes Anderson’s best in my opinion (I have a friend who would argue Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums has the better hand but I think my opinion is more valid because it's me), this movie is a glossy, colorful, whimsical deadpan affair with an energetic turn from Ralph Fiennes as the hotel concierge M. Gustave H. as he and his lobby boy run into various Wes Anderson regulars and deal with murderers, stolen paintings, love affairs, prison breaks, and all kinds of crazy shindigs, but all shown in such a casual Wes Anderson way. This movie is like a slice of cherry pie - damn fine!

INTERSTELLAR - “Murphy’s Law doesn’t mean that something bad will happen. It means that whatever can happen, will happen.” As promised, Christopher Nolan makes another appearance on this list, now with his space time-traveling epic Interstellar, where he takes inspiration from the likes of Kubrick and Tarkovsky to give us, as always, a tad bit confusing adventure with great visuals and an interesting narrative (though it does sometimes get lost in its own way), however, the key thing holding this piece together is the father-daughter relationship with Matthew McConaughey and Mackenzie Foy (and Jessica Chastain) managing to bring so much raw emotion to their respective roles that you can’t help but want to shed a tear. I mean, I haven’t cried for over 14 years, but I remember when I first watched this film, the audience around me was sobbing quite a few times during the duration of this movie. Give it to Nolan to give us the emotional moments!

2015:

MAD MAX: FURY ROAD - “Oh what a day! What a lovely day!!” Easily the best action movie of this decade. Sorry John Wick, neither you or Tom Cruise could defeat this beast. The sheer, limitless invention behind this movie's exhilarating, preposterous chase scenes highlights action filmmaking at its finest. With big monster trucks and a random guitarist rocking-it in the middle of all the action, it’s like a nihilistic version of a Cirque du Soleil show! And it makes Tom Hardy the calmest person on-screen; no idea how it managed that.

STEVE JOBS - “I sat in a garage and invented the future because artists lead and hacks ask for show of hands.” If there is anyone who can make formulaic, mathematical or technological sound fun and exciting, its Aaron Sorkin. The man has a talent for writing screenplays about difficult and complicated topics yet turning them approachable for the casual moviegoer. Pair him with director Danny Boyle, and the result is Steve Jobs, a look at the man behind the phone. Narratively set during three important product launches of Jobs’, we get to see the behind-the-scenes of his relationships with his colleagues and family members, and this character study is one that could have easily fallen into generic biopic tropes, but it holds it’s own right till the credits roll. Also props for showing that Seth Rogen can actually do a serious role. Who would’ve thought that pot-smoking fella had dramatic chops in him?

2016:

NOCTURNAL ANIMALS - “Susan, enjoy the absurdity of our world. It’s a lot less painful. Believe me, our world is a lot less painful than the real world.” Fashion designer Tom Ford does sew his suits well. Apparently, he can also make great films too, with 2009′s A Single Man and with said Nocturnal Animals. This movie is truly incredible and I remember it taking me and my friend by surprise when we first watched it at the cinema. It’s shocking. Horrifying. Depressing. Upsetting. Altogether exhilarating. Being of a fashion background, Tom Ford directs the hell out of this movie, with gorgeous shots and great use of colour as well as managing to masterfully create tension and suspense when necessary. Honestly, I know Tom Ford is probably busy at a department store somewhere, but the guy needs to make another movie. The man has a talent.

LA LA LAND - “Here’s to the ones who dream, foolish as they may seem. Here’s to the hearts that ache; here’s to the mess we make.” Oh, La La Land. Damien Chazelle’s follow-up to the also excellent Whiplash. People who know me well know how much I love this movie. An old-school tour-de-force musical that’s a love letter to jazz and the golden age of Hollywood. The city of stars never looked so good. Featuring catchy original songs, excellent dance choreography (the sequence to the song “Lovely Night” is especially memorable) and a romance tale ten times better than the forsaken The Notebook, La La Land is one special movie. I know many are put off by the film’s not so happy ending, however for me it was the only way this narrative could have ended. 

2017:

BLADE RUNNER 2049 - “We’re all just looking out for something real.” Similarly to Nolan, Denis Villeneuve is proving to be one of the most exciting directors working today. He’s the man behind such films as *deep breath* Prisoners, Enemy, Sicario, Arrival and Blade Runner 2049. And those have all been done within the last decade. The man constantly makes quality movies of various genres, though lately, he has been leaning more towards science fiction, which is a-okay in my books, since as Blade Runner 2049 proves, he can turn science into fiction like butter on bread. A sequel made 30 years after Ridley Scott’s classic, this visually breathtaking piece is arguably even better than its predecessor with many moments giving you the “wow wow wow wow wow WOW!” factor, and when Ryan Gosling and Harrison Ford are both on-screen they are dynamite. Forget the new Star Wars film (that’s right, I'm throwing shade there), Blade Runner is where it’s at!

PHANTOM THREAD - “The tea is going out. The interruption is staying right here with me.” The supposed last Daniel Day-Lewis film, as he has now apparently retired from acting, but let’s be honest, nothing stops him from simply unretiring at any point. Exhibit A - Joe Pesci. However, like Pesci, if he comes back I’ll only be happy. He’s one of acting greats of our time, and his collaborations will director Paul Thomas Anderson bring out some of his best roles. Phantom Thread is a marvel of a movie. No, I don’t mean that’s its part of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, I mean as in it can fill one with wonder and astonishment. Phantom Thread is PTA’s Gothic dark fairy-tale romance film, which expertly planned shots and scenes where every word of the dialogue counts. There is no wasted moment. And as the film transpires to its dark and unsettling climax, one begins to realize that this, THIS, is what filmmaking is about. Telling an engrossing story in an interesting way with crisp-clear shots and off-the-chart acting at play, with great costume design on display, although the latter is unsurprising due to a major aspect of the movie revolving around fashion.

2018:

MANDY -  “You ripped ma shirt!! You ripped maaa shiirrt!!” An acquired taste for sure, however, Mandy is indeed something truly special. From first glance, this film might seem like nothing out of the ordinary, especially from the point of view of the plot. Its the usual revenge flick. However director Panos Cosmatos’ vision and how he presents it is so much more unique. And what’s not love in this film? There’s something for everyone! It’s artsy and slow enough for the critics, hip and metal for the nonchalant, gory and violent for the hardcore genre fanatics and of course the Nic-Cage-rage factor is present for the fans of the actor. Alright, it may not be a family film, but this one is worth a watch. The whole thing is bound together by this psychedelic otherworldly environment, with the whole movie conceived in this dark, unsettlingly beautiful yet horror-filled aura that might stray people away, as it might be just too different for them, however, if you are looking for something different to watch, take mandy. I mean, watch Mandy!

A STAR IS BORN - “Music is essentially 12 notes between any octave. Twelve notes and the octave repeats. It’s the same story told over and over. All the artist can offer the world is how they see those 12 notes.” The film that began all the rumours surrounding Bradley Cooper’s and Lady Gaga’s affair. People, heads up, they are actors! They were putting on a performance! Jeez. That being said, I totally ship them. Nuff’ said. The film though? Yes, it’s good. Some country-style music, romance blooming, Gaga can apparently act, people sing about shallows for some reason...all together works for a pretty decent motion picture. Also, the fact that Bradley Cooper wrote, directed, produced and starred in this gives me so much respect for the guy. He poured his heart and soul into this. And Lady Gaga absolutely shines!

2019:

PAIN & GLORY -  “Writing is like drawing but with letters.” Director Pedro Almodovar semi-autobiographical film takes a close look at how one deals with acceptance, being forgotten, symptoms of depression and generally all fairly negative attributes, but delivered in such an honest and profound way that there is a strange lightness that emerges from it all. Antonio Banderas is uncannily vulnerable in the lead role, delivering such an earnest performance that shows a man that is filled with melancholic regret who seeks his own form of redemption. This movie is a thing of beauty.

PARASITE - “You know what kind of plan never fails? No plan at all. If you make a plan, life never works out that way.” Parasite is easily the most original and surprising films of 2019, and possibly the decade, managing to subvert expectations and blend together so many different genres so naturally. To spoil any narrative element of this movie would be a sin, like this one in particular works best when not knowing anything about it. This movie comes to us from Bong Joon-Ho, a South Korean director behind such films as The Host, Memories of Murder, Okja, and Snowpiercer. It’s nice to see the awards ceremonies giving him the proper recognition finally. He deserves it.

That sums up my Top 20 Best Movies of the Decade list. Of course, there are so many other great films that came out in these 10 years, such as Whiplash, When Marnie Was There, Paterson, Silence, Kubo and the Two Strings, The Nice Guys...I can go on forever. Cinema is a constant ever-growing medium, and it is fascinating to see how it changes through the years, in some ways improving and in some parts not so much. In any case, I look forward towards a new decade of, hopefully, great movies, however, let’s be honest, for all these great films there’s always a Norm of the North, a Scout’s Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse or frickin’ Cats. But let’s hope those will be kept to a minimum. In any case, bring on the 2020s!

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Ready now; Queen x reader

*Author’s note*

To the anon who requested this from way back when, I first wanna thank you for being SUPER PATIENT with me.  I was going through a lot at the time you sent the request but I am slowly but surely getting through them. Eventually once I get the chance, I may open requests back up again.

Now there’s not really any serious warnings other than swearing, fluff, and angst.  I hope you all enjoy this fic and until next time stay safe, stay healthy, stay positive.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@ixchel-9275

@simonedk

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@platawnic

@queensdivas

@geek-and-proud

@queendeakyy

@kairosfreddie

____________________________________________________________

*Oklahoma city, Oklahoma, 1976*

It was like every other Wednesday night at COWBOY’S.  The live dancing, bull riding, and of course the famed karaoke night.  I’ve been coming to this club for as long as I can remember, in fact I think I was a kid when I first came here.  It was to see my mama sing for karaoke night and of course my dad is known around here as the world champion bull rider.

He kept that title from the time he was 16 up till just before I was born.  And because of his reputation, I (and I hate to admit it) but I get special treatment every time I go to Cowboy’s.  In fact the current owner, he was my dad’s longtime friend and fellow bull riding competitor.

As I walked inside I could already see the place was packed with people.  Line dancing and really lighting up the dancefloor making this club a real Hoedown. I first went up to the bar and there running it was the owner’s son, Jensen.  He and I go way back, even though he’s like seven years older than me, he treats me like his little sis.  Always keeping the boys away.

“Well, well, well, well, well. Look who walked in. It’s the singing sensation (Y/n) (L/n). Can I just say I am a huge fan of yours!” He teased me at the end.

“Oh Jensen stop it. You know I’m not famous yet.”

“Not yet, but you will be soon.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Okay hang on, let me get your usual and then you spill your guts.” He walked away and got my usual beer and filled it almost up to the rim.  He slid it towards me and he said as he leaned up against the bar, “Alright now talk.” I took a sip of my beer before saying.

“What if no one likes my song?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Jens you know as well as I do that no one really sings original pieces here. It’s always covers of famous songs, and the last time someone did do an original he was booed off the stage.”

“First off, his song sucked and he kept screwing up on the guitar. So of course he was thrown off the stage. But you—you’ve got a serious talent in song writing. And your voice—baby girl the only other female singer I can compare you to here was your mom.”

“You really think so?”

“Coming from a Texas man forced to move here when we first met, you’re bout the only good thing in this one horse town. Hell you’re way better than just sticking right here. Especially since—well you know.”

“I know. It’s……it’s been rough. Ever since the car crash mama’s been—well not herself lately. Music is bout the only thing I can do to make her happy.”

“So you get up on that stage and knock these cow-folks right off their boots. Now go relax on the dance floor and I’ll let my old man know you’re here.”

“Thanks Jensen.” I pulled out my wallet to pay for the beer but he stopped me.

“No need, this one’s on my tab tonight. But expect to pay me back once you hit the big time.” I smiled at him and pocketed my wallet back into my jeans.

“Thanks Jensen, you’re like the brother I never had.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you yah silly little day dreamer.” He teased as he placed his cowboy hat on top of my head, teasingly rocking my head from side to side till I stuck my tongue at him and took another swig of my beer.

I then headed off to the dance floor to cool off (dancing always helped me calm down, especially when it’s with a group of people) and I danced with some of my old friends from high school, just letting my hair down as I danced the first hour of the night away before they would call up the performers for karaoke night.

*3rd Person POV*

Unbeknownst to (Y/n), it was also on that night that the most famous rock and roll band would also be there on that night to see her perform.  Freddie Mercury, Brian May, Roger Taylor, and John Deacon, otherwise known as the band Queen, had just arrived in Oklahoma city to do their two night concert they had scheduled for their “A day at the Races” tour.

To let down some steam and relax after a few days on the road, Freddie had heard about this club from a friend of his and convinced the other three to come along and check it out.  All four of them wearing cowboy hats, so that they wouldn’t stick out like sore thumbs, they entered inside and saw the whole place buzzing.

“Wow, this is even more filled than the Disco club Veronica and I met at.” Said John.

“Well Tony said this was the one place in America where you would get a traditional Southern treatment.” Said Freddie. “And I like it. It’s reputation proceeds itself.” He continued with a smile as he adjusted his hat.

“Remind me again why we had to wear these though?” Roger said.

“Don’t be such a party pooper blondie. Besides you see every man in here. Tony said that everyone in Oklahoma wears cowboy hats. Anyone who doesn’t is automatically labeled a stranger. And I don’t want no Wanted poster of me across the state for refusal to wear a cowboy hat.” Freddie said as he playfully shoved Roger.

“It’s not so bad.” Brian said as he fiddled with the string of his hat.

“You’re just saying that cause you can’t feel it on your head.” Quipped John.

“Alright, alright Deacy darling you’ve had your shot at Bri. Now I don’t want any more brawls tonight. I wanna enjoy this night, you three know how much I love to party. So don’t fuck this up for me.”

“If you wanted that Fred then you should’ve left Roger on the bus.” Brian said.

“You know what yah curly haired space poodle……”

“Gentlemen.” The four of them turned to see an old man around his mid-50’s walk up towards them.  He wore a traditional brown colored cowboy hat, his grey goatee reflected off the lights, and the spurs off his boots jingled with each step. “Now I get it we all need to let off some steam, but if you’re gonna cause any trouble I’m gonna ask you all to leave.”

“No worries my good sir. You must forgive my friend here, he didn’t quite have him fixed yet so his testosterone can run him ragged like one of your bulls.” Freddie sweet-talked the man.

“Watch it Fred!” Roger sneered as he took out a cigarette and lit it up.

“Alright. I’m trusting you to keep an eye on your friend there. I get enough drunks brawling every night here, I don’t need another damage fee added to my billing. Bobby Singer, owner of Cowboy’s.”

“Pleasure to meet you Bobby dear. I heard about this place from a friend of mine and this place does not disappoint.” Freddie praised as he and Bobby shook hands with each other.

“Thank you son. Built this place myself with my own two hands before moving the wife and son up here.”

“How long has this place been here?” asked Brian.

“Well came up here around 51, bought this property at around 53-54 and the doors finally opened by the start of the 60’s so…..about 16 years this club has been around. And she’s still going strong.”

“Impressive.” Freddie praised.

“What kind of drinks do you serve here?” asked Roger.

“Well if you mosey on down to the bar, my son Jensen will lay down everything we got. We mostly do beer but if you can take something stronger, we got that as well. Enjoy yourselves boys.” As Bobby walked away, the boys bid him farewell.

“He seemed nice.” John said.

“A friendly old man, kinda reminds me of Miami. Firm, strict, knows when you’re starting trouble Rog.”

“Watch it Fred.”

“Alright come on, I think we can all do with a drink right now.”

“Yes.”

“Or ten.” the band members walked over to the bar to see Jensen cleaning out a mug.

“Excuse me darling!” Freddie cried out to Jensen.

“Yes can I he—he-ha-ha……oh shit! You’re….you guys are Queen!”

“Yes. I take it you’re a fan of ours?” asked Brian.

“Y-Yeah.” Jensen squeaked.  He then cleared his throat before continuing, “I mean yes. When I first heard Bohemian Rhapsody for the first time, it changed my life on how I look at music. Not even some of my favorite bands can do what you guys do.”

“Well thank you darling. Bohemian Rhapsody was a masterpiece.” Freddie said.

“But a complete nightmare to make.” Roger added in.

“So what can I get for you guys?” asked Jensen.

“What all do you got?” asked John.

“Well you guys actually came on a good day. Wednesday nights are our special’s night. Every drink at half price. We’ve basically got every beer imaginable, but we also do vodka, gin and juice, margaritas. And of course we have the basic water and soda for those sensitive to the strong stuff.”

“Well then my darling, we’ll go ahead and take three of your finest beer and a vodka shot please.” Freddie said.

“Coming right up.” Jensen walked off to prep the drinks for the four young band members.

“He seems like a nice chap.” Brian said.

“He does indeed.” Agreed John.  Before another word could be said, Bobby soon came up on stage and said.

“And that was Carol Anne with ‘Sweet home Alabama’.” The crowd then cheered. “And now ladies and gents, it’s time to be graced by our very own special songbird. Please welcome our very own Southern Belle. (Y/n) (L/n)!” the crowd cheered and it was then the four English rockers soon saw a young woman coming up on stage.

She looked to be about John’s age, maybe a couple years younger.  In her hand was a 12 string acoustic, she got onto the stool and adjusted the mic.

*My POV*

God my nerves were really starting to get the best of me.  What if no one liked the song? Oh god I wish daddy could be here, he always knew just how to calm me down.  I adjusted the mic and plugged in my guitar.

“Hello everyone. I uhh—” I cleared my throat. “Tonight I’m gonna do something a little different than my last few performances. This is an original piece I’ve been working hard on. Hope you all like it.” I turned towards the ensemble band and nodded to them.  They nodded back and as I began playing the opening on my mama’s guitar, Aaron came in with the violin and Jack soon came in with the bass.  

By the chorus, Daniel came in with a soft drum beat and as I passionately sung out the chorus, I could already hear some people cheering or whistling at me.

She was driving last Friday on

Her way to Cincinnati on a

Snow white Christmas Eve Going home to see her mama and her daddy

With the baby in the backseat Fifty miles to go, and she was running low

On faith and gasoline It'd been a long hard year She had a lot on her mind,

And she didn't pay attention She was going way too fast Before she knew it she was spinning on a

Thin black sheet of glass She saw both their lives flash before her eyes She didn't even have time to cry She was so scared She threw her hands up in the air

Jesus, take the wheel Take it from my hands 'Cause I can't do this on my own I'm letting go So give me one more chance And save me from this road I'm on Jesus, take the wheel

*3rd Person POV*

Everyone was involved in hearing (y/n) sing.  Like her mama before her, the adults all whistled and cheered for the young girl for she truly did sound like her mama whenever she sang, maybe even better than her.  But the one most intrigued by her was the leading frontman of Queen.

“Just who is that talented young lady?” Freddie spoke out as (Y/n) played a small instrumental break in the first chorus.

“That there is (Y/n) (L/n). Her parents were known in this club. Her mama for her singing and her dad, God rest his soul, he was the world champion bull rider. She’s got a gift with that voice of hers.” Jensen said as he cleaned out a mug.

“She does indeed.” Freddie muttered in awe as he continued to watch (Y/n) sing the next part of the song.

There was one point of the song where she held out a note so long, it felt like she was running on endless air.  The crowd all hooted and hollered as she held that note before finishing the song.  Everyone soon cheered as loudly as they could while (Y/n) smiled under the spotlight and stood up from the stool and took a bow.

“Wow she was amazing.” Brian praised.

“I’ll say, she held that note for like 10 beats. Not even I can do that.” Roger said.

“Excuse me, Jensen.” Freddie called out.  Jensen who had just gotten done serving another round of drinks for a bachelor party, came back over and said.

“What’s up?”

“Where can we meet that talented young lady?” he asked him.  The other three band members looked at Freddie confused.

“She’ll be out back. That’s where she usually goes when things get too hectic here.”

“Thank you so much darling.” He dowsed the last of his vodka and stood up and walked out of the club with the other three members behind him.

*My POV*

After the performance I went outside to cool off. I stared up at the starry sky and whispered.

“I wish you could’ve seen it daddy. It seems I really wowed everyone tonight.”

“You did more than just that dear.” I froze and slowly turned around and—pinch me I must be dreaming.  Cause right there in front of me stood my all time favorite rock and roll band Queen.  I closed my eyes and shook my head trying to wake myself up from this dream and found that I wasn’t dreaming.

Freddie Mercury, Brian May, John Deacon and Roger Taylor were really right in front of me.

“You—you’re……”

“Yes darling we know who we are. But what I’m more interested in is who you are. How long have you had that lovely voice for?” Freddie said as he came up to me and actually wrapped an arm around me.

“Well I uhh—for a while I guess.”

“And that was an original song you sang back there?” Brian asked.

“Yeah just…..a little something I came up with. Was it bad?”

“Au contraire darling, it was unlike anything we have ever heard. And that’s saying something.” Freddie said.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. The way you managed to have utter control of your voice as you belted out certain words of the song. Only one other person has been able to do that and that’s me.” Freddie bragged.

“Umm hello what about me?” Roger piped in.

“Oh yes you and your dog whistle range. That takes skill too.” I softly chuckled.  Man this was definitely not how I pictured this night would go (well except in my dreams). “Now then (Y/n). How would you like to be an opening number for our concert?” wait what?

“What?” I asked.

“What?” I heard the other three echo back.

“You’ve got the voice, the talent, you are too good for just singing at the clubs. What better way than to finally dive in and take this opportunity.”

“Uhh Fred can we talk to you for a second?” John soon spoke up.

“Just stay tight for a moment (Y/n) dear.” Freddie said as he bopped my nose before walking back towards his bandmates.  Okay what the hell just happened?

*3rd Person POV*

Freddie and the boys walked a few feet away from (Y/n) so that she couldn’t hear them.

“Fred are you crazy right now?” Roger hissed softly.

“What?”

“We can’t just go picking up random singers off the streets and ask them to open up for us!”

“I agree with Roger. No offense, but I don’t think Reid or even our tour manager Bill will go along with this.” Brian added.

“You don’t believe she’s worth giving a shot too?” Freddie asked.

“No, no it’s not about that. She is talented, beyond talented. We just—can’t do something like this. Picking up a random teenager and ask her to leave everything behind for the rest of our tour.”

“They do have a point Freddie. Plus how do we know she even wants this? I mean maybe she just sings for fun. To be honest I never thought we were that serious till our first album went on the shelf.” Deacy said.

“Okay first off that hurts Deacy dear. How dare you think that. And number 2, I have a feeling she does want it. She may not physically show it but there’s something in her eyes that show that she wants a chance at the real spotlight. And who am I to crush a fellow singer’s dream? Especially one as beautiful and adorable as her, just look at her!” they all turned towards her. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get an additional family member in our rag-tag band.”

“Whoa wait hold on now you’re saying we need another person involved with Queen?” Roger snapped.

“I’m thinking broadly Roger dear. Don’t be so dramatic about it darling. Now then, are you three with me?” Brian, Roger and John looked at each other and Deacy was the first to speak up.

“You’ll never let it go either way. I’ll say yes.” Fred smiled before turning to Brian.

“I mean—” he sighed heavily. “Okay fine, she can come with us. But only if her parents say it’s okay.”

“Well blondie?” Fred questioned as he turned to Roger.  Roger sighed heavily and said.

“I’m already ruled-out even if I say no.” Freddie cheered and hugged his bandmates before heading back over to (Y/n) to discuss his brilliant idea.

*My POV. 1 year later*

If you had told me that on the night I would perform my first original piece live before the people at Cowboys and then told me I would soon be standing before Queen, who not only saw me sing but also offered me the chance to perform alongside them, I would’ve called you crazy and laughed in your face.

But it happened.  With Jensen’s and uncle Bobby’s approval I was able to tour the rest of the North American tour with Queen.  I’ll admit it was frightening to perform in front of my first crowd of over 12,000 people, but once I got on that stage and just sang it felt good.

We had just gotten done doing a concert at the Hammersmith Odeon.  As par-celebration we all headed to a nearby pub the guys had rented out for the night and anyone who was involved with the concert was invited to come.

By 1am everyone was either completely drunk and were passed out on the floor, or they were having sex in the bathrooms. Wanting to perk myself up, I went to the restrooms to splash some cold water on my face but before I could walk around the corner toward the sinks I heard some girls talking.

“I mean don’t get me wrong Roger is amazing especially in the sack but why would he allow someone like her on stage?”

“Yeah all those songs she sings are soooooo boring!” I peeked around to see that the girls who were talking were some of Roger’s groupies.

“Queen is just being dragged by that little bitch who can’t sing for shit.”

“All her songs about Jesus or God or whatever. She doesn’t fit with them. I think they just pitied her so she could go on stage and sing her little country songs.” It was a stab to the heart.

I raced out of the bathroom and tried to contain my tears.  But it only got worse from there.  Walking pass the men’s bathroom were a few of the roadies who were talking about me.

“She brings to band down don’t you think? I mean her songs just aren’t up to par with where Queen is at. In fact I’ve seen sales going down at our concerts because of her.”

“Dorothy should’ve just stayed in Kansas singing for pubs. She’s nowhere near concert stadium material.” At that point a few tears ran down my face.

Was I? Was I really that bad? Did the guys really pity me? Was this all a big joke to them? I ran out the back way and just ran down through the streets of London.  

Not caring where I was going, or where I’d end up. I just figured the father I ran, the farther I would be away from those people and their cruel comments.

The next morning I was at my apartment (technically it was Freddie’s old apartment that he and his ex-girlfriend Mary had) lying on the couch holding the couch pillow close to me.  The things that the groupies and even some of the roadies said last night still rang through my head like a church bell.

Maybe I should give it up. I mean after all like they said, no one really listens to me perform.  So I decided to pack up my stuff and go back to America, back to Oklahoma, maybe try to get a job at Cowboy’s or something.  As I was packing up my last bag, the door suddenly opened and I heard Roger’s voice call out.

“Oi (n/n) you here?” shit why did Freddie have to give out spare copies of the keys?

“(Y/n) you in here?” I then heard Deacy’s voice speak up.  Oh great, not one but two of the Queens are here.

“Is everything okay poppet?” Brian’s voice echoed out. Great could this day get any worse?

“Everything’s fine.” I called out to them.  I quickly came out of my room and shut the door before walking towards the living room. “Hey guys what’s up?”

“Well you disappeared from the party last night darling so we came to see just why that was?” Freddie said.

“You didn’t sneak off with anyone last night did yah?” Roger teased.

“No! I—I felt kinda tired after last night’s concert so I just took a cab home.” I gave them a white lie.

“Why didn’t you tell one of us you were leaving? You know how dangerous the streets can be at night.” Roger said as he plopped himself on the couch.

“I’m not some fragile flower Rog. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. I just can’t help it sometimes, you’ve become like another sister to me, plus Jensen made me promise to keep an eye on you less he shoot me in the arse.” I rolled my eyes as I chuckled.

“(Y/n) dear~” Freddie sang out as he peeked from the hallway. “If you don’t have anyone here, then why is your door shut?” oh shit.  I quickly turned towards him and he just grinned as he raced towards my room.

“Fred no! Don’t!”

“Oh so there is a handsome beast you’re trying to hide from us!” I ran behind him trying to stop him from getting in my room. “Oh-ho-ho this must be serious then, he not dressed or something?”

“No Freddie there’s no guy now please don’t go in my room!”

“Technically it was my room first so I get first—” he opened the door and that’s when he saw the suitcases.  “What’s all this?”

“I didn’t want you guys to see that.”

“So what were you planning on leaving without saying goodbye!?” By now I’ve seen Fred literally explode on some major temper tantrums but this—this wasn’t anger.  This was disappointment, and when Fred lowers his voice, looks you straight in the eye almost to the point where it’s like his eyes are piercing your soul, that really tears you up.

And you never want to make Freddie Mercury disappointed in you.  Cause let me tell you, it is the worst.

“Fred—”

“No, no, no. Please I would like to know as well.” Roger’s voice soon rung out.  I groaned internally as I turned to see the remaining three band members standing right outside my door.

Roger’s eyes glaring right at me with his arms crossed over his chest.  Brian’s eyes in shock at seeing the suitcases, and Deacy—he looked like he was about to cry.

“Well!” Roger snapped impatiently.

“Hey Rog lay off on her will yah?”

“Brian are you not as upset as we are about this?!” Fred asked.  At this point the three hotheads began screaming at each other.  God this was a nightmare!  I was hoping to just leave without any drama and now I’ve done and caused it!  I held my hands to my ears and shut my eyes trying to drown out their shouting and screaming.

Next thing I know I feel a hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and there stands Deacy. His eyes soft, not looking at me in anger or disappointment.  He gestured with his head to follow him and the two of us snuck out of my room.

We both sat down on the couch, him sitting close to me as his arm wrapped around me.

“Do you want some tea?” he asked me.  I shook my head no.

“Umm…..I don’t know if I’ve totally ruined this but—could I get a hug?” a soft smile spread across his face and immediately his arms wrapped around me.

“You know you will always get a hug out of me sis.”

Since Deacy and I were the youngest members of the band, we kinda clicked more than the rest.  Guess our shy natures also kinda mixed in together so we kinda had our own special psychic bond with each other.  We always knew what the other was thinking or needed, we would pull the other aside when things got too chaotic (just like now cause I never liked getting or hearing fights).

His fingers stroked through my hair as I adjusted my head so that it rested over his heart.  We sat there in comfortable silence (well besides the still arguing hotheads in my bedroom).

“I’m not good enough for you guys.” I finally confessed.

“What?”

“I—I heard some of Roger’s groupies and even some of your roadies literally talk about how I don’t fit with you guys. That I’m not even that good. Or that you guys just pitied me in order to help me get on stage.”

“I knew those tramps would be trouble.” I heard him mutter.

“But they’re right.”

“No they’re not.”

“Open your eyes Deacy!” I removed myself from his embrace. “My music and Queen’s music they just—don’t mix. I don’t do hard rock songs like you guys do. No rock fans are gonna wanna hear me sing just plain country or folk songs for 20 minutes. They’ll just be going out to get beer or go shag till you guys come up. I’m boring!”

“You’re not boring. Those arseholes are boring. If they can’t withstand a 20minute first act then they shouldn’t even be at one of ours. Because we most certainly perform longer than that.”

“Well you guys give a performance, not just a show. For me; it’s just me and my guitar. I mean yeah there’s people that may like a song or two from mine. Hell you guys allowed me to have a song on A Day at the Races and News of the World. But—in person I’m plain.”

“You’re raw.” I looked up at him confused. “I don’t mean raw in the sense of bad or disgusting. I mean you’re vulnerable. You don’t do the flashy lights, the loud hard rock of drums, or extremely, overbearing, long ass guitar solos.” I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “It’s just you up on that stage. Just you and your guitar.”

“And people should see you as that.” We looked up and finally ceasing their arguments, Freddie, Roger, and Brian now stood there.  Freddie came up behind me, Brian knelt down in front of me, and Roger sat to my right.

“But they don’t.” Freddie began to massage my shoulders.

“Darling when I first heard you sing back in the states, It was like anything I’ve ever heard in a female singer. You have this rawness that can make anything a song. You could write a song about taking the piss and it’d be a hit.” I rolled my eyes.

“More like a flush down the sewers.”

“Oi you need to stop with the negative thinking!” Roger playfully growled as he took my head between his hands and playfully shook it, almost as if he were trying to shake out the negative thoughts out of my head.  I couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as I tried to free myself.

“Cut it our Rog!” I laughed.  He stopped then said as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Forget about what those rotter’s said. Never, ever doubt your talent. Because you have got something that not even Queen could ever have.”

“And just what is that?” I asked doubtfully.

“Rawness. Like John said, it’s just you up on stage. Most of the rockstars like us come up glammed out to the max, prance about the stage and do the headbanging hits. You—you connect with the audience just as yourself. And if people can’t see that, then they’re fools.”

“So you guys didn’t pity me when you asked me to join you guys?”

“Absolutely not! Whoever says that you just tell me and they’ll be dropped like yesterday’s rotten tomatoes.”

“Thanks you guys. I—I really needed that.”

“Hey, you’re part of this family now. We look out for each other.” Brian said as he gently took my hands in his, his thumbs gently stroking the back of them.

“There’s just one last thing that needs to be taken care of to ensure you’re feeling your normal happy self again.” Freddie said.

Oh no. Please not that!  At this point all four of them had the look of evil on their faces.

“No. Guys don’t you dare!”

“Too late lovie, we gotta make sure you’re back to your full-fledged happy self again. And we’ve got Jensen to thank for sharing with us your deep, dark secret.” I tried to make a run for it but it was too late, Brian trapped me in his long arms and soon I was gang tickled by Queen.

A couple weeks after that, we had just gotten done playing an arena in Houston, Texas.  Wiping the sweat off of my forehead (after not only doing a few of my own songs, but also joining alongside Queen playing guitar or piano) I accidentally bumped into someone.

“Oh sorry I—wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s quite alright. Say you’re the young woman who just performed alongside Queen correct?” this man had a strong Tennessee accent.  From underneath his cowboy hat I could see sandy blonde hair and he had the most striking blue eyes.  He looked to be about his mid-40’s.

“Yes.” I said wearily.

“Oh sorry I know this must seem a bit creepy, please allow me to introduce myself. Stan Singer.” Wait what? Oh my god!

“Wait, Stan Singer? The Stan Singer, manager of Glen Campbell?”

“The very same, you a fan of his?”

“Yeah. My—my daddy first introduced me to him when I was just 5 years old.”

“Man has good taste.” We both laughed. “How long have you been performing with Queen?”

“A year.”

“A year? Now that I don’t believe.”

“Well truthfully I’ve been performing on stage back home in Oklahoma for a few years at a bar a family friend of mine owns. Cowboy’s.”

“No kidding. I was just there last month.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Quite a shindig that place.”

“Oh yeah, it gets crazy some days. But it’s the best place to go to.”

“Listen (Y/n), While I have enjoyed managing Glen and don’t get me wrong he’s a great guy and a great singer. I’m also looking out to see if there’s a next big thing I could help mold. And seeing you up on stage, you’ve got that special little niche in the realm of country singers. How about joining me for lunch so we can discuss a contract.”

“Me? You—you want to sign me up for a record deal?” I asked ecstatically.

“You’ve got something I’ve never heard from any male artist. Here’s my card, just give me a call whenever you’re ready to talk.” He handed me a business card and said his goodbyes as he tipped his hat at me.

Wow I—I can’t believe it.  I’m actually gonna get a real shot with my own manager.  And Glen Campbell’s manager, nonetheless.  I can’t believe this is actually happening to me.

Wait….what about the guys? What would they say? Would they be mad if I took this deal? Left them when we’ve already grown so close with each other?

During our bus ride to the next city of New Orleans, I was looking at Stan’s card debating whether I should call him or not.

“What’s that?” Roger spoke up.  He soon plopped down beside me with his arm over me. “Ooh a name and phone number! Already got yourself a groupie huh?” he teased as he nudged my shoulder.

“No Roger it’s nothing like that.” I nudged him back.

“Hey did I just hear (Y/n) got someone’s name and phone number?” Deacy soon piped in peeking his head from the curtains of his bunkbed.

“(Y/n) you sly little minx.” Freddie teased.  Oh man was I really not gonna miss this.

“Alright you guys lay off of her will yah. Now just who was it that gave you their phone number (Y/n)? Will there need to be any—talks we need to do with this boy?” Brian said.

“I already told Roger Bri, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it? I mean normally a guy wouldn’t give you his number unless he wants a date or something else.” Roger spoke. Deacy came up and slapped Roger over the head. “Ow! What was that for?”

“For being an idiot.”

“It’s a business card guys! For Stan Singer. Glen Campbell’s manager.”

“Wait I’ve heard of that guy. Yeah he’s like one of the best country singers out there.” Roger said.

“Yeah. Well Stan actually saw the show tonight and well he—he offered to be my manager. He wants to sign up a contract with me.”

“Oh my god darling yes!” Freddie cheered as he came up and embraced me tightly.

“Congratulations (Y/n).” praised Brian.

“But—” I started off.  Fred separated from me and he said.

“But what dear? You’re finally on your way! This should be a celebration!”

“But what about us? You guys? What if—what if this is the last time we’ll ever see each other?” at that point the guys grew quiet. They looked at each other and that’s when Deacy spoke up.

“The future is uncertain. Maybe someday we will meet again. But (Y/n), if you don’t take this shot now you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“It’s like Deacy’s song says. Time to spread your wings and fly away.” Brian said as he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. I looked between the four of them and they all had the same look.

Acceptance and love.

I felt my eyes watering up and I choked out.

“I’ll miss you guys.” They immediately hugged me and told me they would miss me too.  We remained in that group hug for the rest of the night till we arrived in New Orleans later the next day.

As soon as we got to the hotel, the guys sat with me as I called Stan up and told him that I would like to have lunch with him to discuss the contract.  Stan agreed to fly down to New Orleans and once that date was made, the guys brought me in one last final group hug telling me how proud they were of me, that they loved me and knew that I would become big in my own way.

On June 27th, 1977 I preformed my last concert with Queen as their opening act and the following day, I met with my new manager Stan Singer and together we went over the rules of my contract.

By the end of the 1970’s into the 1980’s my name had flown to the top of the charts in country artists.  So far in the 3 years of my growing career I had toured America twice for my 2 albums I had released under Sony records.

As I expected I was mostly popular in the southern states where country music reigned supreme on the radio.  But I did have some fans in the northern, Mid-west and western countries but I mostly toured around the South.

I was now performing back in my home state of Oklahoma to an arena of 20,000 people.  I had just gotten done preforming my biggest hit “Jesus take the wheel” and everyone went crazy for it.

“Thank you!” I turned and saw one of my roadies hand me a stool and I thanked him before setting it down right at the edge of the stage.  I adjusted the mic stand as I sat down. “This is a new song that I wanted to do especially for you my home sweet home. So you guys will be the first to hear this song coming up on my next album.” The crowd cheered. “But this song is also dedicated to four special men in my life. Without them—I wouldn’t even be up on this stage before all of you. It’s called Ready now.”

Then with just me on the guitar I began to sing my newly finished song “Ready now”.  As I sang the song, during the long instrumental breaks, I thought back to the guys.

All the fun memories I had with them while on the road with them.  Being there with them during their recordings, getting to do a song on their albums, or hanging out at the bars together after the shows.

Play video

You saw through me All this time I'd forgotten People are kind

I was hurting And you knew So you showed me What to do

You said, "I will listen Tell it all When you're finished We'll talk more"

But I didn't know how So we took it in turns And to my surprise We found my words

Feet firm on the ground We stood hand in hand The world seemed to tell me That I have a plan

Together we sang I'm ready now

Something new Something strange Ten feet taller I had changed

I believe you I'm not wrong Oh it suits me To feel strong

You said, "I will listen Tell me it all You don't like the ending Then we'll find on that's yours"

Oh, how did you know That's all we need A promise of hope Is enough to feel free

Feet firm on the ground We stood hand in hand And I told the world That I have a plan

Together we sang I'm ready now

By the end of the song, I heard the crowd cheer and as I looked up at the ceiling I did a silent thank you to the boys.  Even though we would never see each other in our career’s again, I would always keep their memories alive in my heart and mind.

Without them, I would never have been ready to even get to this point.  And I will always be grateful to Queen.

[makemeabeliever]

He moves slowly, deliberately, giving him time to move away. When he doesn’t, he gingerly sweeps a few of the droplets away with the pad of his thumb before pressing his mouth to Johnny’s jaw, catching the tears that seem to deteriorate and melt away at the warm embrace of his lips.

Daniel and Johnny talk it out. aka, the Daniel Apologizes fic that everybody wants, including an emotionally fucked up Johnny Lawrence.  Really proud of this one! Very dialogue heavy, 

[allyvampirelass29]

The Hourglass and The Oracle

A NOS4A2 Review By: Allyssa J. Watkins

A spiraling staircase A bold fuchsia beauty Lights flicker in your eyes As our energies collide And, Darling, you're starting to get to me......

I'm not your Darling, John Buy a girl a drink first Before you thirst For what you can't get your hands on Throwing my head back with a laugh You're going to fall And it's going to be too fast Who said I was yours to catch? Ask me again And I'll ask you to dance

May I have a moment of your time? I don't need to be a Strong Creative, Dear To tease your mind A turn of the hourglass A trick of the sublime You're like sand through my hands Sifting too fast to touch And it's not enough...... You're the exceptional exception When I say we're hard to love.

Sparks fly Drawing you in I'll make you believe in magic again Fate's siren song calls to the Hourglass Man I guess it's my turn To show you my hand But be forewarned, My Gentleman Friend There's no telling what happens When you open the door to the static You might not want the answer Once you have it Shaking the bag Rolling the Dice A cigarette burn is a more than fair price To watch time drain from the Hourglass' eyes Clutching the hurt As your knife catches my eye Shattering your glass Scattering your sand Close your eyes, You Hopeless Flirt This is me, skipping dessert I gotta say you put up one hell of a fight Say goodnight, John You've run out of time

CHECK. FREAKING. MATE!!!!! Ladies and Gentlemen, the MATCH has been called, and the Hourglass didn't stand a chance against the Woman of the Hour, Our Dauntless Oracle, and very own, Miss Margaret Leigh!!! My GOD, Maggie seized her time to shine in a dazzling foray of sultry seduction, and deadly spectacle, and while it may have been The Hourglass' last bow, it was the iridescent ORACLE who stole the show, and she alone deserves our standing ovation!!! I LOVED this episode, beginning to end, the intrigue, the sleek deception, the intense human drama, all beautifully intertwined in this beguiling game within a game, a chess match of like-minded Creative prowess!!! Brava, Miss Leigh, and bravissimo, NOS4A2, for spoiling us yet again!!! "The Hourglass," is a violin overture of vulnerable human moments, and intellectual powerplays, reaching the fever pitch of the most ghastly, scream-bloody-murder cliff hangar of the entire series.

Where last week Charlie was the blunt force trauma, the pounding hammer, smashing everyone and everything in his path to Wayne, Maggie is the stealth strike, the seductively wielded scalpel, removing Charlie's secret weapon with lethal precision, after he proves to be the more immediate threat to her best friend, now that Charlie's absconded with her son. She's a force to be reckoned with, a fuchsia femme fatale, as lovely as she is deadly, the perfect rosé of coy and coquettish as she flirts with time and death itself. It was her finest hour, hands down, and I LOVED that NOS4A2 gave her the spotlight, and that she literally KILLED, leaving us begging for more.

Stop me if you've heard this one before. Two Strong Creatives walk into a bar........ Like an ingenue reminiscent of Old Hollywood, with every lilac strand of her rebellious florescence pinned in place, Maggie descends the long, spiral staircase, sending the lights to flicker, and drawing the eye of an instantly intrigued, Mr. Hourglass. I must say, The Hourglass Man's smooth, and tenacious pursuit of our Maggie, was a FANTASTIC blindsight, a surprise I never saw coming!!! Where I expected a smouldering duel to the death as soon as their eyes met, knives flying, I found myself drawn instead, irresistibly into the tantalizing tango between the two of them. Their witty repartee was both sparkling, and sharp-edged, as John advanced, and Maggie countered, playing hard to get, while secretly drawing him in. It's thrilling to watch, marveling at these seemingly unlikely lovers, and yet, with each move and countermove, I could see how much they thought alike, both crafty intellectuals, who knew how to play the game, and how to win.

"We're hard to love. People fall for us because of our abilities, but they always come to fear the very thing that drew them in. They tell us to tone it down, betray our gifts, like declawing a cat. It's cruel."

This is my favourite line in the entire episode, it struck me straight to the heart, tears in my eyes, overwhelmed by its tragic beauty and excruciating truth. It's also the one time that Maggie's smoky-eyed seductive veil slips, and she lets herself feel something very real. In that moment, as fleeting as it is, there are no sides, no waiting plots, or poised vendettas. There are two Strong Creatives, two kindred supernatural beings with very human feelings. Victims of their own gifts, with universal wants, and desires. Powers greater than their wildest dreams, but at what cost? In this moment, Maggie cares about John, connects with him, because she feels these words burn emblazoned, even hotter than the cigarette he's about to press into her arm.

Two Strong Creatives walk into a bar....... and only one comes out alive. These two take, "Get a room," to a whole new level!!! "I'm not going to hurt you, unless you want me to........." John says smoothly, before pressing a lit cigarette into Maggie's arm, telling her to harness the pain, let it consume her, until it's all she knows, and then whispers his question like a sweet nothing in her ear, nuzzling her close. John, with all of his scheming predilections and parlor tricks has found a way to cheat the Strong Creative check when it comes due. In event of seizures, or memory loss, you can hurt yourself...... or hurt someone else. I had always secretly suspected this proviso, I even wrote it into my own NOS4A2 Series, that my character's compassion gets punished by unknowingly hurting someone else, every time she uses her gift, but seeing John's shocking demonstration, breathing in with explicit pleasure as he burns her, watching Maggie's big brown eyes spark, both excited, and relieved that she can hurt herself and still use her powers, was an absolute ordeal. I have a feeling Maggie just discovered a dangerous new addiction........

Speaking of ordeals........ John shatters a glass table, ready to kill the messenger, when he doesn't get the answer that he wants, the fates formally denying his request for immortality. And it is here, in the midst of his ruffled, heartbroken, rage, that the events deviated dramatically from my own predictions. I thought Charlie had promised him immortality in exchange for killing Vic McQueen, and that Maggie had unwittingly unmasked this betrayal, proving Charlie had lied, offering the Creative Holy Grail that he intended to keep for himself. Immortality, apparently a non-transferrable work benefit. With our slighted Hourglass primed for revenge, and his particular fascination for Maggie, I thought for sure she'd be able to turn him against Charlie, brandish the Hourglass against his new business partner, rallying him to Vic's cause, and more or less, have him join Team McQueen to take Manx down once and for all.

I was wrong...... So, so wrong. I don't think any of us saw what was coming....... "It's rare I get such a hands on opportunity," John rasps, once he finds his stolen knife in Maggie's bag, teasing seduction climaxing into a crime of passion, as the two of them scrapple and scrape for the hourglass. "Sweetheart, give up. You're not getting out of here alive." Maggie gets choked, hurled over the shattered glass table, but you can't keep a good girl down, and The Hourglass is no Charlie Manx. "I tried to warn you, John, my tiles are never wrong." Maggie thrusts a shard of glass up into the Hourglass Man's heart, and with an anguished, hopeless cry he watches her stomp his knife into the ground, coming down on it hard, leaving nothing but shattered glass, and scattered sand. WOW........ I am speechless. I have to admit, I did not expect Charlie's new player and point man to be vanquished this early in the game, as awestruck as I am by this new fearless facet of Maggie's unique brilliance. She was elegant, badass, and beautiful, and I'm so glad he's dead, but I don't know....... I felt like his death was his third and final disappointment. Sorry John, we'll always have Parnassus.

Oh my God, if Maggie was this episode's Oscar Winner for Best Actress, Linda Freaking McQueen WINS for Best Supporting Actress!!!! She's the other sassy heroine of "The Hourglass," mouthing off to FBI agents like nobody's business, and it is SENSATIONAL!!!! "What does FBI stand for, huh? Failed. Bad. Incompetent? We're Americans!!! My husband works for the postal service, I go to CHURCH!!! Do better!!!" You TELL 'EM Linda!!! She's a delight in every scene she's in, standing up to the suits, and telling them what's what!!! She's had it with these big, fancy, feds not protecting her daughter, and she ain't afraid to get vocal about it. Aaaaaah and the whole conversation with her and Chris was AMAZING!!! There is something so fascinating about two hard knock realists, two complete skeptics talking about the possibility of the Supernatural.

"There's a difference between special, Chris, and magic. Our daughter ain't magic."

"How would you know?"

"Because I wiped her snotty nose, for Christ's sake!!! What kind of mother misses something like that?"

"The kind that's too busy hiding bruises and paying bills to look up."

Linda's emphatic disbelief is so perfect, and I just love the way she says that, "Our daughter ain't magic!" I also love how Chris is starting to believe in Vic, and it's that burgeoning faith in his daughter's abilities that makes Linda start to wonder if maybe her daughter could be magic. Chris owning up to his past mistakes, and blaming himself, for his wife's oversight, was such a bittersweet moment too, wanting so badly to let her off the hook. He's changed, they both have, and I couldn't be more proud. Another beautifully human moment that I really loved was between her and Vic, and here we finally find out why the McQueen women can't be close to each other. "I never felt that you needed me." It's a rare, deeply insightful look into Linda's heart, a vulnerable truth, and I feel like I know them both even better through it. Linda needs to be needed, she needs to have somebody to take care of, somebody that relies on her, and with a drunk, philandering husband who sought comfort elsewhere, and a fiercely independent daughter, Linda had no one. She felt listless, without purpose, and thus drowned her sorrows with a tipped back bottle.

The scene with Vic and Lou cuddling in his hospital bed also strikes a chord in this veritable symphony of human emotion, and with every new episode, I ship Team McCarmody even harder!!! Lou with a stint in his heart, and Vic with a concussion, and injured spleen, have this impossibly sweet moment, in the midst of the aftermath and ever-present horror of the abduction of their son. I love how they anchor each other, try to calm each other down, and still manage to make each other laugh.

"Han Solo ain't half the mechanic as Lou Carmody."

"Did you- Did you just refer to yourself in the third person...... and rate yourself....... ABOVE Han Solo?"

Vic's laugh in that moment is so pure, and a much needed relief, as she holds onto the love, the teddy bear of a man, that Charlie couldn't take from her, and in that moment, she decides to focus on what she has left, even while fighting for what she has lost. I'm reminded of a quote from my other favourite show, HEROES. "We're human first, and heroes second."

Charlie may take a back seat this episode, but he is still a coaxing, debonair presence with a teasing linger, and not without another clever trick up his sleeve. "There is no need to hide your cellular telephone from me, My Boy," He coos as Wayne fumbles to sneak a call to his Mom. I was SHOCKED when Charlie urged Young Bats to do just that, call his mother. "What kind of MONSTER do you take me for?" He asks silkily, feigning indignance, and with bated breath, we wait as the phone rings, and rings, and rings...... No way in HELL is Vic not taking that call, and yet, Young Master Wayne hangs his wildly curly head, defeated, as the call goes unanswered. "She's a real heartbreaker, your mother...... isn't she? Never there for you, no matter how good you are. It's not personal, Wayne. In the end Vic McQueen cares only for herself and no one else," Charlie chortles, and he knows it's working....... bit by bit, he means to turn his new favourite charge, against his own mother, convince him of her neglect and indifference. My theory? Charlie can block calls using his creative power, which would explain how he's avoided capture, and the FBI's modern trappings for so long. You sneaky, sneaky boy!!!

OH HELLO CRAIG!!!! Yes, you read that right...... CRAIG, Wayne's father who burned to death in the Wraith, like a ghastly apparition appears to his son, with singed skin, and glazed over eyes. At first I thought this was Charlie manipulating Wayne, showing what his mother did to his father, and how he wasn't ever going to be safe with her, but to my own astonishment, Charlie could not see him!!! Craig encourages Wayne, tells him Charlie's lying, gives him hope, and insists she's coming for him. I thought that was a spectacular, wide-eyed SHOCK that came out of thin air, and I couldn't help but think about how Cassie appeared to her daughter in this same way........ Hmmm can children, if they are Strong Creatives themselves, see the parents they have lost at the hands of Charlie Manx? Curiouser and curiouser........

My breath caught, everything going numb, when that bloody tooth fell out in Wayne's tiny hand. I LOVE that little boy with all my heart and soul, and I'm sorry, Charlie, but I do NOT want him to become a vampire!!! Wayne starts to change in other ways too, playing with a butterfly, as his usual cheerful self, adorably naming him Sunny, before killing it, ripping it into shreds, his sweet little face devoid of any emotion. WHAT!? I had chills like crazy, and I felt heartsick. I don't know though, did anybody else think that butterfly looked strange, almost not quite real? The way the Wraith rolled down the window to let it in...... It makes me wonder if this didn't just happen in Wayne's mind.

I did notice though, how long it took for the Wraith to siphon off Wayne's youth to heal the nasty gash on Charlie's cheek. Even Charlie starts to worry, checking the mirror again and again, only to find it slightly healed, and it's not until the near end of the episode that he looks one more time, nails resting on the side of his head, sighing into his hand with relief, when he sees his once again flawless visage staring back. It's like Wayne is fighting the car, slowing down its effects, because no child has gone this long without turning!!! All exciting further proof that Wayne HAS to be a Strong Creative!!! I also love how Charlie continues to be the perfect, doting father figure, ever so careful and patient with Wayne, and I just melted, with a besotted sigh when he asked him if he had to use the water closet!" That was precious!!! Also, my new FAVOURITE thing ever, is Charlie click-clacking his long, gorgeous nails along the Wraith's windows as he walks past it!!! Dear GOD, Handsome, WHAT are you doing to me!?

THAT ending though........ I'm crying....... I SOBBED, I'm so not okay. What the freaking HELL.........!?!? Just as we're all having cozy Charlie and Wayne feelings, fawning over them both, that DAMNED BASTARD Bing Partridge comes out of NOWHERE surprising our dashing vampire, shoving the gas hose in his face, and he goes down HARD!!!! Once he's disabled the Wraith, he abducts Charlie, and leaves Wayne behind. It's blood-curdling to watch....... knowing what horrors Bing has already committed, and what dark intention he holds for his once upon a time hero, now that Charlie's left him to die. I'm freaking scared. I was hyperventilating, and full of murderous fury even hours after the episode had ended. The wait for next week is going to hit a lot different, after that cruel cliff-hanger, and I can only hope Charlie can dangle Christmasland in an effort to thwart Bing's fat, homicidal hand. Bing Partridge, you hateful Son of a BITCH, if you disturb so much as one strand of Charlie's beautiful raven hair, I'm gonna KILL you SO DEAD!!! Time's run out for the Hourglass, will another of Vic's foes meet the same fate? Bing Partridge must DIE!!! Somebody......... SAVE CHARLIE MANX!!!!!

[journal-of-an-outlaw]

Price to be Paid - Chapter 33

Read on AO3 here

Dear Journal, 

I always hate starting these things. Never know what to do to signify another passage starting when the ending of the other was just on the other side of the page. Be it days or months, the one thing that never changes is how close my last entry was. I guess this is to document my thoughts so that when I’m an old man I can look back and reflect on how life used to be. Most of the time I just draw something awful and leave a caption so when my eyes can’t see right anymore I’ll know what I was attempting to preserve. If I make it that far I’ll have plenty of stories to tell. 

Anyways. 

I know the last time things seemed to be doing well. I got married to a woman who changed me. Dutch had a plan to get us out. John and Abigail were getting along just fine, even little Jack was learning to hunt rabbits and small critters. But it all changed so quickly, where do I even begin…

The bank. I know that damned job was where everything went wrong. Micah and Dutch never stopped talking about it the whole time we were in Guarma so I couldn’t forget any detail even if I tried. And I did try. The first week stuck in that humid hell I was too angry to speak and drank myself into a stupor that would rival Reverend Swanson; alcohol helped me ignore the pain in my chest where my heart used to be. Maybe that’s why he drank. To forget. Everyone tried to talk to me but I wasn’t in a place to listen. They tried to tell me everything would work out, that she was alright and we just had to focus on one thing at a time. But that was bullshit. I just kept seeing Hosea get shot and my wife being carted away, and I was stuck helpless to do anything against it. I’ve never before realized that was my worst fear; watching from the outside as people I love get hurt. 

The Pinkertons showed up too fast to not have known about it before but there was no way any of us would have ratted out the gang when we were so close to our goal, so close to leaving and putting behind us any thought of betrayal or being on the run any longer. I spent more than one night stuck on that island replaying it over and over but I couldn't make sense of it. 

I should have been faster. I shouldn't have let Dutch separate us. As soon as that snake Milton yelled I knew we were done for. 

I shouldn't call him that. I know I can come up with something worse. Technically he is my father in law, but he is the reason Hosea is dead and the woman I love is...gone. Who knows where he’s hidden her away. No wonder she never told me about that mess, I would have never believed someone so good and true was family with that vile man. 

She probably thought I’d hate her for keeping the secret, but the truth is I couldn’t care any less. Sometimes you don’t get lucky enough to pick your family. I know that better than anyone. 

Micah claims they planned it together, for her to distract her father long enough for us to escape, but I’m not too sure yet if I believe that. I saw the look in her eyes. Panic. Fear. Then that stubborn heroism that should have told me to drag her out with me no matter the cost. It was in the set of her mouth, and how her eyes narrowed enough to give away her thoughts. Just a few of the things I love so much about her. But in an instant she was gone. Locked eyes in the middle of the chaos was the only goodbye I got. 

Losing Hosea was hard, to say the least. He was more of a father to me than Dutch was in all the ways that mattered. He taught me to swim and fish and how to read the leaves and stars at night. He taught me that waiting is sometimes the best strategy, and to never go anywhere without a good strong lie as to why you’re there. He was kindness and compassion, but also cleverness and hard edges when he needed to be. I looked up to him more than I knew and his absence will leave a painful hole that cannot be filled. 

But my grief is nothing in comparison to Dutch’s. His...it’s like a pain he’s unwilling to admit is there. Like he’s afraid that acknowledging it will break the damn he’s built and everything will come crashing down. I worry what it means for him, for me, for all of us. Hosea was truly the angel sitting on Dutch’s shoulder. 

I somehow made it out of Guarma and that whole mess alive. A boat took me back and I had the unfortunate luck to land in Van Horn. I must be getting old, my bones seem to have absorbed some of the exhaustion I’ve been feeling for nearly a month now. But I got myself a horse and should be back at Shady Belle tomorrow afternoon to whatever wreckage is left from my former life.

The thought of seeing my wife seemed to be the only thing getting me through the days since that cursed robbery. Her smile, the sound of her laugh, her soft hand in mine. I miss it, sometimes so much I am nearly brought to tears and in those moments I understand why Dutch doesn’t talk much about Hosea. Like watching the sunrise with burning eyes, sometimes the pain that comes with it makes you aware that it happened at all. 

Part of me knows that what’s waiting for me at Shady Belle isn’t good news, but I can’t think about that just yet. Hope is the comforting shadow beside me. 

I should have known better than to expect a good night’s sleep. My eyes were so blurry I mistook a tree for a man on the side of the road. Even my body knew that nothing is how it should have been. 

Shady Belle was empty. Well, worse than that. It had echoes of the gang being there, our last hurrah as we rode out to the gates of victory so blind to what was about to happen. Cans littered around where we ate together, scuff marks all across the dirt from our boots, even a small pair that must have been Jack’s. The worst though was a carving I found on one of the poles of the front porch of my initials in a heart that she must have drawn without me knowing. I tried to etch it into my notebook but found I couldn't stand there for more than a few moments without the familiar pain of missing her taking over my senses. Maybe one day I won’t feel like I’m being ripped apart by all of these emotions.

Inside was empty. Nothing remained of the time we spent in those walls. I couldn't bring myself to check the room I had shared with YN for the fear of being entirely overwhelmed again. Instead I found a letter from Sadie Adler, a woman of many surprises, waiting for me in the living room. She must have known I would come back. 

The quiet didn’t last too long before a couple of Pinkerton fools in the employment of Mr. Milton came around. From what I overheard they returned to Shady Belle every single day to see if we had returned but had no such luck. That meant two things; that the gang got away safely and the other’s from Guarma hadn’t come to the house. For a few moments at least my heart settled but that didn’t last long. These days it never did. 

I rode straight to Lakay even though I despise the damp, disgusting heat of the swamps. My eagerness to see people I knew won over my hatred for the area. Eventually I found my way to a small village, if you’d even call it that, of buildings set up along the river bank. Time and humidity had worn away at any pride these homes must have held, the moss clinging to anything that needed to be filled back in. It was silent save for one man in the farthest hut chopping away at some type of meat. 

Pearson for the first time in my life was a sight for sore eyes. Luckily Abigail was behind him and Sadie behind her so I was quickly welcomed with warm arms and a bowl of stew that was the finest I had ever tasted. There were questions, so many questions, but they held their tongues for the time being and let me settle into a bed for a few hours of sleep. Finally the exhaustion caught up with my body and I was overcome with aches and a cough, but that I ignored too. 

Tilly, Uncle, Lenny, Karen, Sean, Mary Beth, Strauss, Molly, Charles, and everyone else was safe and hidden away. We were safe for the time being. 

Micah and Javier arrived the next day with the same story. We all needed rest, but there were things to do. John had been captured and taken to Sisika. Abigail pulled me aside and asked about YN and I did my best to hide my pain, but she told me what happened after we got caught in the gunfire. She was taken somewhere north, or at least that’s where the wagon headed, and some man named Staten was her watcher. My blood nearly boiled, but Abigail calmed me down until the agony of losing her ripped me apart and I had to go sit on the dock before anyone else saw me. How am I to deal with this alone? I would give anything to have her back by my side again, father be hanged. 

Not two days later a rain storm kept us inside, and set up the dramatic entrance for Dutch’s grand return. Things all broke loose. Abigail was yelling about John again, Micah on about something else. The man didn’t even have a chance to sit down before he was bombarded again. We raised a glass to Mrs. Adler for saving the gang in Dutch’s absence, her and Charles were the only reasons things continued on. 

She found me staring at the water the next morning. I was sitting there, thinking of my wife, and Sadie must have known. She tried to talk about knowing loss and feeling my pain, but there’s no one in the world who knows what I’m going through. What we’re going through. My wife is somewhere I don’t know and I can do nothing about it. Every second of every day I feel like a failure for letting her down. I want to be there for Dutch as he needs the support, but I can’t help think that as time ticks on she’ll forget me and move on. Not sure what I’ll do if that happens. 

Bill Williamson is a right fool. That night he came busting into the sleep house going on about how hard we were to find, saying he asked everyone he could find, and I knew trouble couldn't be too far behind. Only someone truly hoping to meet death walks into a nest of vipers. I had just finished my glass of whiskey when I heard her voice. 

At first I thought I imagined it. There were plenty of times that the desperation in my mind had boiled long enough that her sweet tones called to me from somewhere just beyond my reach. At first I longed for them, for any gentle reminder that she was as real to me once as the glass currently in my hand. Then after a while they hurt to hear and the words got all jumbled together. Like she was farther away than ever. Like I needed reminding. 

But sitting inside that house I heard her clear as a bell. Not the words she spoke, it was far too loud inside for that, but I could tell it was her. My heart knew too and started pounding in time with the rain hitting the roof. Dutch saw me and asked why I had frozen in place but Abigail had heard it too. She stood and stared at me, wondering what was taking me so damn long to move but it was like my legs had grown twice their weight. I finally got myself up and pushed through the sudden silence around me to stand at the door. 

There she was again. She had to be real. But she sounded...off. Like something was wrong. 

Calling for me, for us, or anyone. I was so full of terror I couldn’t breathe. But someone touched my shoulder and I came back to life, opening the door and finding my dream standing before me. Wide eyed and desperate, much like myself, but there was a warning in her eyes I couldn’t decipher from so far away. Her hands were up in the air shaking like a leaf. Her head shook slightly. I was overcome by a need to preserve this moment of reunion and committed her to memory for once she was back in my arms and I could draw her in this here journal. Honestly I can’t describe how I felt knowing she was at least alive. My heart wanted me to run to her and throw caution to the wind, but my gut told me something worse was lingering in the shadows with an alligator grin. 

Just from looking at her I could tell Milton had damn near starved her for the dress she wore was much too large, hanging off her arms and shoulders. The blood was what cued me in. Rust red stains splattered the front and ice filled my veins at the realization of who’s ghosts she wore wrapped around her. That bastard Milton paraded her around in a costume like he was putting on a show, but I was done being a puppet.

Arthur Morgan was nobody’s fool. 

Arthur. 

His eyes were murderous but whether that was aimed at you or not remained unknown. The rapid thumping in your chest flooded into your ears as well but the words passing between you didn’t need to be spoken. You didn’t need to hear them to know what he would say. 

Seeing Arthur after all that time was a breath of fresh air in a world that had been a dusty haze for the past month. It was awful and wonderful at the same time to be standing so close yet unable to move any closer. Your soul ached to return to its rightful place. The stress of standing there with the weight of all that had happened could be seen as your hands shook and your shoulders tensed and your heart broke all over again.

More light passed onto the muddy ground as the door behind Arthur opened and a few cautious faces moved out. Dutch. Abigail. Bill. Lenny. Charles. Sadie. Anger and confusion colored their expressions. You hoped they all could understand. 

A strange feeling passed through you as you noticed Micah was nowhere to be found.

Arthur took in deep, heavy breaths as you held eye contact. Under any other circumstance standing beneath the stars in the dark of night would be almost romantic, especially with the twinkling fireflies blinking their messages all around you. But the rain and the tension crackling across the night like lightning changed that. In fact it changed everything. 

The rain covered the sound of wagons rolling in and the footsteps of Pinkerton agents as they crept around the perimeter to trap the Van der Linde gang from escaping. The lightning bugs hid the glints of metal from the guns being raised and taking aim. And you, the queen of the chessboard, were meant to hold the outlaw’s attention as the plan slid into place around you. Your father had been almost gleeful explaining it to you and it made you sick. 

“YN...what’s going on?”

Dutch held his hand out in front of his adopted brother but kept his eyes trained on you. 

“Don’t say anything, Arthur. We don’t know what this is.”

A voice hissed behind you. The horrible reminder that you were not there of your own accord. You were not there to be rushed to safety, to explain and convince those you loved that you have never walked out those bank doors if you thought any harm would have befallen them. 

“I…” The words faltered as they mingled with the falling rain. “I am here to...offer a deal on behalf of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, the United States Government, and the Commonwealth of West Elizabeth.”

“A deal!” Dutch snorted. “And what would that be?”

Tears rolled down your cheeks at the thought of what had to come next. Only when your shoulders shook from the tension of holding them back did you look away from Arthur, praying to anyone who would listen for a way out of this. 

“You have nowhere left to run.” The words were plain but landed like a slap in the face. Milton had prepared a lengthy monologue and you fought to remember all of it. “My father has chased you relentlessly and ultimately you will submit. There is a price big enough on your heads that  bringing you in dead would still earn him a fortune. But there is dignity and pride in turning yourself over alive instead of ending up d-dead like that...fool Hosea Matthews.”

The hiss behind you continued as the people in front of you balked at your words. It hurt to know Milton was twisting the knife in but you held the weapon.  

“If you come without a fight, you will all be allowed to live. If not, I can’t -”

“Allowed!” Dutch responded. “What is this, there’s no honor in this choice. I will not be commanded like some dog after what your father did to Hosea!”

This time the words hurt you and you answered with a flinch. 

“Dutch, please,” you licked your lips, your eyes darting to Arthur. “You don’t have to fight! Everything will be alright, just listen to me -”

“Everything will be alright?” The leader repeated back. “I believe nothing of the sort. Mrs. Morgan, do you know what happens to folks like us who the law doesn’t see favorably? Who aren’t the shiny, golden children of society? They are hung like common street criminals and forgotten in the ashes of our history books. I refuse to fade away as an ink spot upon a page, I refuse to let others make my choices for me, and I refuse to listen to a bully who hides like a coward behind others! We demand to be more than that legacy fated for us by others. We demand our god given right that others only dream of, freedom!”

His speech was beautiful but it didn’t change the fact that mere feet behind you sat a Maxim gun, manned and ready to fire, if they didn’t listen to your pleas. Dutch’s pretty words did nothing to stir the rebellious spirit in your chest and instead caused more tears to run down your cheeks. The flare of his independence was bright, but that meant it couldn’t burn for much longer. 

You weren’t the only one affected by Dutch. Behind you the men lying in wait rustled out of the bushes and crept up with their guns drawn, each footstep stringing tension across your shoulders. 

“I was wrong about your father, YN.” Dutch drew in quick breaths at the sight of the ambush. “He’s not only a coward, but a fool too. You see, he’s underestimated us once again and that will lead to his demise. Now, boys! For Hosea!”

The world erupted in gunfire and smoke around you. At Dutch’s signal everyone hiding inside fired away at the agents planted around the swamp, yelling and filled with rage at the thought of revenging their beloved Hosea. Loss was a strong motivator, and as you clamped your hands over your ears you wondered how long the haze of distraction would last. The maxim gun fired continuous deafening rounds and all you could hear above the ringing in your ears were the screams of people you loved. Your knees sank into the mud as panic rippled across your skin. 

Milton shouted behind you, commanding his men like he was trying to storm the gates of hell. 

Dutch retreated into the cabin leading his rebel crew in a secret assault against the forces of perceived evil who had come to change his ways. 

Where did you fit into all of this? What was your place and how did you go about getting there? Was your only hope to run and hope it would find you? It only took a moment to come to you. There was only one anchor in this hurricane and it was the same one you returned to time and time again. 

Arthur Morgan. 

As Dutch retreated Arthur hesitated to leave you behind. His eyes darted through the dark to try and find you while he ducked for safety. Terror clenched your heart and you screamed for him to get out of the line of fire, you would find him. 

Forcing tension into your shaky limbs you knew you would regret it if you never even tried to get to him. The air above you was filled with shouts and raindrops and gunshots but nothing could distract you; this was your only shot and you would not throw it away. A door to your right swung open and light flooded the ground and you took off pumping your legs as hard as you could to cross the muddy ground getting closer and closer to your goal. 

Breathe. You had to get to him, you were so close. 

Behind you bodies hit the ground and you had no doubt that Arthur had taken most of them out. He had incredible aim in the worst of times, and this was definitely one of those. Even Dutch couldn’t rival him and after a few competitions no one else had bothered. 

“YN! Over here!” 

“Javier!” 

You had never been so happy to see the dark haired man in your life. He grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, yanking you down to the floor immediately to avoid another spray of bullets from the gatling gun. 

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to help!” You pleaded with him. “Someone needs to take out that gun, what can I do?”

“Stay down, Dutch has a plan!” 

You both ducked to the floor as a window shattered above you. 

“It better be quick, we can’t hold out for long!”

From outside one of the agents yelled above the chaos. “There’s too many of them, we have to retreat!”

“No!” Your father bellowed back. His voice was too close for comfort. “We do not back down, we have the power of the law on our side.”

“The power of the law ain’t fighting two of the best shots this side of the Mississippi, boss! We are!”

Javier let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and shook his head. “Mrs. Adler’s out there too now, won’t be long. Between her and Arthur I don’t think the Pinkerton’s stand a chance.” There was a pause as Javier eyed you warily. “Your father, that is.”

“Javier -”

But you couldn't finish your sentence as the back door flew open and someone called out to him. He nodded at you and crawled his way to the door to see why he was needed, leaving you alone to hide from the debris falling all around. As the door shut behind him, you caught a glimpse of red coat tails that looked awfully similar to what Micah usually wore. 

More men were dying outside, you could hear the yells of defeat as the maxim gun came to a stop but you were running out of time. Something inside of you said the clock was ticking and you needed to move. 

Breathe. In, out. Breathe.

“Where did she go?” Milton bellowed from outside. The bullets had stopped and the air felt deathly still. “Where did that bitch go?”

“Don’t you talk about my wife like that!” Your heart swelled at Arthur’s words. 

It sounded like he was in the barn next door. If you could sneak without being caught this was your chance for a getaway. Perhaps the only one. 

“Get out here now before I blow this whole place to hell! Turn yourselves in and die with nobility.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. Block him out, he’s bluffing. A ball of nerves formed in your stomach like a hard thing weighing you down and you fell to the wall for support as you gathered the courage to move again. 

“Agent Milton, I believe this is where we part ways. You are alone and outnumbered, give it up.” Dutch answered. 

“Never, Van der Linde. I am tasked with bringing you and the others in…” his voice tapered off as soft clicks rang out and you imagined from your hiding spot behind the wall everyone aiming in his direction,

“How about this,” the dark haired man suggested. “You and I can make a little trade. Me and my friends here will walk out of here safely and you will not pursue us if we give you something you want.”

A bark of laughter responded. Milton was not pleased with the child's play that interrupted his duty. “And what would I get out of this deal?”

“Your life?” Dutch shot back. “A chance to live another day? No?” There was a pause as Dutch walked forwards and you dared a peek out of a nearby bullet hole to observe the scene. “Maybe something a little more valuable. Your daughter for instance?”

Two rough hands suddenly grabbed your shoulders and yanked you upwards and you let out a cry of disbelief. They hadn’t made any noise walking up, or perhaps you were too trained on listening to the conversation outside to notice. 

“Get your hands off of me!” You cried out at the same time Arthur yelled something from outside. 

“Shut up, Princess Pinkerton. And walk.” 

You should have known. Did the man who walked you down the aisle really have no regard for your life? Micah gave you a shove to move forward and you hesitated for only a moment. All you wanted was to help your family escape safely and to keep your father from enacting his twisted sense of justice. You wanted to feel safe and free, but there were too many obstacles holding you back. Was this really all your life would be?

With dirty hands you wiped your cheeks, squaring your shoulders and preparing to face him again. It wasn’t going to be easy. But there didn’t seem to be another choice. 

“Dutch what in the hell are you playing at?” 

Falling rain once again met your face as you walked out and took in the tense scene before you. Dutch, Arthur, Bill, and Charles all had their pistols focused on your father who in turn stared down his barrel at Dutch. The two men were everything the other despised, and you were caught in the middle. 

“My daughter?” Milton still seemed shocked to see you. As if he hadn’t been the one to bring his own child to a gunfight and had simply found you there. 

Arthur was held back by the iron grip of Charles as he habitually tried to come to you. The look of pure sorrow on his face broke your heart but there wasn’t enough time to think about yourself and how you felt. Soon he would be out of sight. 

“That’s right. Take her, and the two of you leave and never come back to chase us around the country. Me and my friends will never cause another day of trouble for you and we all leave with our lives. Isn’t that what we want, after all? To live and go our own ways?”

It felt like he had slapped you across the face with his words. The fact that you were the bargaining chip was not lost as you stared down the man with newfound hatred. 

“Don’t I get a say in any of this?” You snapped back. “Or am I unimportant enough to both of you that my value lies only in my silence?”

“Oh Mrs. Morgan,” Dutch chuckled darkly. “I have missed your temper. But today, my dear, is not the day to fight like it's your last. Be a good girl and run along with your father.”

Something in his tone made you hesitate, the hatred pausing for just a moment. Was there something else going on? Had he not abandoned you just quite yet? It was a glimmer of hope but that was all you could find so you held it close. He gave a slight nod in return.

“Fine. But I won’t forget this.” 

Dutch’s gun slowly moved to take aim at your head and you caught your breath at the sight. He was filled to the brim with frustration and rage. But somewhere in his eye was a calm collection as he formed a plan. 

“Now get out of here. Both of you. And don’t come back.”

Milton’s free arm shot out and gripped yours too tightly, his eyes still focused on the outlaws escaping of their own design before him. His men were all dead. There were two horses left to ride out and no wagon. He had truly and utterly lost but he refused to admit it. 

Arthur’s eyes were dark as you tried to meet his but he wouldn't look at you. The flush in his cheeks gave away how worked up he was and you wondered if it was all too much and he had found his breaking point. You wouldn't blame him if he didn’t want you anymore, things were just so damn complicated. It hurt but his happiness came first. 

Your father took a step backwards and dragged you with him and panic hit your stomach.

“Dutch…Dutch! Don’t let him do this,” the tears started no matter how much you tried to keep them in. “You don’t know what it’s like, please.”

The small group watched you with hard eyes of confusion and hesitation and you didn’t blame them. Sadie had a mean look to her, but that was probably from the heat of battle. Charles looked sad and your heart ached for your friend. Even Bill looked hesitant to send you off with Milton, but no one moved against Dutch. Something whispered to you this might be the last time you saw them. 

You fought every step of the way but eventually Milton got you on a horse and tied the reins to his with a length of rope. Any last drops of hope were drained out of you at the sight of the others breaking away hurriedly. It was just Dutch, Arthur, Sadie, and Micah left that you could make out through your tears as your world fell apart. 

“Stop crying, I can’t think,” Milton muttered harshly. 

“Everything I love has been taken away from me, by you! And now I’m stuck with you again I think I have the right to be upset.”

“You have no right to anything,” he replied. “You are nothing in the eyes of anyone and that’s all you will be.”

The horses started moving and you looked behind you one last time. Without the rain the evening appeared softer; the firebugs had come out to blink to one another and the moss swung lazily around the canopy. Dutch had finally lowered his weapon but you noticed Arthur was gone from the group, no doubt off to chuck your wedding ring into the bayou and let the memory of you fade with the small metal object as it sank into the murky riverbed.

If only you could touch him, feel him, let him know that nothing was his fault and every mistake had been tallied in your name. Arthur had scrubbed his slate clean in your eyes, it was time he saw that too. You missed him more with each step your horse took away. 

It was torture to to ride on with your father as emotions swirled all around you. He pushed the horses at a fast trot to leave the swamps as quickly as possible, paranoia creeping up on him like the sounds of crickets at his back. You could no longer hold back the sobs that shook your body. Sorrow at losing everyone again. Nerves about going back to being a prisoner. Utter and complete heartbreak at the thought of Arthur hating your every fiber. It was all too much. How could one person cope with this much feeling?

“I ever tell you why I joined the Pinkertons in the first place?”

Milton’s voice caught you off guard and interrupted your sorrow. 

“N-no, and I don’t care -”

“I joined,” he continued on. “Because I wanted to put order where there was only chaos. The Pinkertons were a respectable organization I could put myself behind, gain respect myself and do something worthwhile for society. We left Boston after your brother...died and I couldn’t stand the pain. My work eventually came second to drinking and I knew then that was my lowest point.”

“But you kept drinking, you still do,” the thought of stale whiskey making you shiver. 

“Since you ran off I haven't touched a drop. You see, in the past I myself was the chaos and I needed order to save me. Our family was broken but I couldn't look past my own pain to see that you both needed me instead of the shell of a man I was parading around as. Your mother is a good woman and pulled me up when I needed it. She packed us up and moved us out all on her own. I was simply a shell.” You had never heard your father talk like this and wondered what brought about the nostalgia. It was strange to hear about a time you dreamed so often of but in reality knew nothing about. He looked softer as he spoke. “I never wanted to be like that again. Yes, I still drank to forget but I was finally in control where I belonged. We had a good house, in a good town. I had a good wife and a good daughter. Only when that bastard Van der Linde moved in did you start to get reckless, going to town with that dark haired woman and forgetting where you came from. It didn’t take me long to realize you were the only thing left I had to steer away from chaos. My little girl.”

His honey-covered words were hiding something but you couldn’t figure out what it was. The way he spoke of chaos and control sounded religious; he truly meant to save others the same way he found for himself. You sat in silence for a moment before thinking of something to say. 

“I’m not your little girl anymore,” your voice remained steady. “To be honest I’m not sure I ever was. Growing up with a daddy who drinks and hits you takes away any kindness he offers and twists it into something evil.”

“You see what I mean?” Milton’s temper flared for a moment and he carefully brought it back in. “All of them, they turned you away from what’s right. They worship savagery.”

“These aren’t things that changed because I met them, they were always wrong! Do you really not see that?”

Milton hesitated before answering. “The life you lived there wasn’t...These people are just playing pretend. They have no sense of contributing to something larger than themselves and it’s so small minded, you were raised to know better than that.”

“Maybe I don’t want to contribute to something,” you muttered. “Maybe I just want to know what it is to not live bound to any rules other than what I need. I’ve seen your justice, father, and I don’t want any part of it.” 

Weariness slipped into your bones at the conversation. It was the longest you two had spoken in months, almost a year, and his blind passion did nothing to sway your feelings towards the Pinkertons. 

“I’m sure you’ll change your tune. Your mother is too.”

Your head shot up at that. “Mother knows what you’ve done? And she agrees?”

Before he had a chance to answer, a horse came thundering up the road behind you. Squinting through the evening fog you couldn’t make out the rider but had a feeling in your heart that it was someone you knew. They drew closer and with each passing second you grew more anxious. Your father pulled out his pistol and kicked the horses faster. 

“Milton!” A feeling of relief washed over you at the sound of the voice. “You ain’t going anywhere with her. Give it up!”

“Arthur!”

The hose below you let out a nervous whinny. It struggled against you pusining to turn with your legs and the yanking from the rope as your father pressed it to go faster than before. You were desperate to get to your husband but it was nearly impossible with no control and you wanted to cry out in frustration. 

“Get back, Mr. Morgan. We had a deal but I’m not surprised you snakes went back on it,” your father spit, looking back. “You’ll get nowhere with this stunt.”

“Stop, please stop!” You begged. Arthur was gaining closer with every second.

Milton spun around to check on the pursuer’s progress and the look on his face was murderous. Rage flushed his face and the pressure to flee made the veins in his forehead stand out at a horrifying attention. He paid you no attention as he kicked his horse again. 

With less than ten feet between you Arthur kept one hand tightly on the reins and held the other out to you, reaching as far as he could to try and bring you to him. As if on its own, your arm stretched to try and meet his fingertips. You held on to the saddle horn and tried to ignore the sounds of protest coming from your father that drove the horses on somehow. 

“Just a bit more, darlin’. I got you. Don’t be afraid!”

“I’m not, I’m not!” 

The sound was bordering hysterical. The distance between you was all you had to overcome and then you would be safe and home in Arthur’s arms again. Your heartbeat matched the echoing of hooves around you at the thought of making it to Arthur and simultaneously what would happen if you didn’t. 

His blue eyes held yours with no malice and your own fears melted away momentarily. For a month you had been kept apart, by Dutch, by your father. It was time to end all of that. 

Just as your hands brushed one another in their first reunion Milton screamed and whipped around to face the two of you. 

“Enough! I’ve had enough of this!” The pistol in his free hand raised to take aim at the moving target. “Leave us now or die!”

“No!” You screamed, moving in front of Arthur as best you could to shield him. “Father stop!”

“Milton put the gun down!” Arthur’s voice was low and hard, anxiety weaving its way through at the thought of either of you getting hurt. By now he had a firm grasp on your wrist and the pressure of his hand on you gave you strength. Your mind ran wild trying to think of a way to get out of this alive. 

But there simply wasn’t enough time. 

The missing heat from Arthur’s fingers registered at the same time as your scream ripped through the muggy air. You clawed at the empty space next to you and watched in horror as a red stain blossomed across Arthur’s shoulder beneath his hand. He looked up almost bewildered. 

“Arthur! Arthur no!” 

You twisted out of the saddle and fell to the ground with a hard thump. The impact hurt but you pushed it aside. You had to get to Arthur. 

Milton stayed silent but circled back around. You ignored him and ran, if you could get far enough you could both still get away. But hope slipped out of your grasp as he came closer. 

The shot hit him right in the shoulder and he was bleeding. A lot. Harsh, ragged breaths pulled in and out of Arthur’s chest as he applied shaky pressure to the wound and cursed in agony. You knew there was no way he could ride both of you in that state. 

“How could you!” You screamed at your approaching father. “That is my husband you just tried to kill!”

“Milton -”

“Enough of this foolishness!” Milton shouted, spit flying in his desperation and rage. “I will not have you acting like a child any longer. This ain’t over Morgan. You tell Van der Linde -”

“YN -”

“We’re not leaving him! He could die!” Milton gave you a pointed look. Anger bubbled up inside of you. “No, I refuse to go with you.”

“You don’t have a choice. If he dies no one will come after us and you will stay with me. If not,” your father shrugged. “I’ll kill him later.”

Just as you went to join Arthur, Milton grabbed your arm. You struggled and pulled to no avail. He was stronger and dragged you further and further from your husband who held himself up precociously, blood covering his chest. 

“I said enough!” Your father yanked you one last time and looked down at you with rage and a hint of pity in his eyes. “You clearly need to be reigned in more than I thought.”

A blinding pain exploded on your right temple and radiated down your neck. Arthur cried out but the sound was lost as your father brought the flat end of his pistol down, hammering it into your temple to knock you out. Unfortunately it worked; you couldn't fight him anymore and Arthur was all but dead if no one knew where he was to help him. 

Your last fleeting thought before losing consciousness was that this had to end. The chasing, the fighting, the pain of losing good people who didn’t deserve their fate. It was time to take back the control others had over you and set everything right that had toppled into chaos around you. In a twisted sense your father’s words about disorder and structure were true. Just not in the way he wanted. 

You were no one’s pawn and never would be again.

[alwaysmarilynmonroe]

When most people hear the name, “Veronica Lake” usually one of three things comes to mind – that incredible peek-a-boo hair, the Film Noir’s with Alan Ladd or possibly Kim Basigner playing a Miss Lake lookalike in L.A. Confidential (1997) – fun fact, she won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for that role. Although, with Veronica’s heyday being well over half a century old, that’s sadly usually as far as it goes.

However, with the Classic Hollywood Era being hugely timeless and forever coming back into fashion, the genre is becoming less of a niché subject and more Stars are on the public radar. If you’re a long time Vintage Lover like myself, you’ll be aware that unfortunately, a lot of our favourites don’t have many books written about them, or if they do, they’ve been out of print for a number of years and can be hard to find, or very expensive. Therefore, when I came across the news that Dean Street Press were publishing a reprint of Veronica’s Autobiography, which was first released in 1969, I was absolutely ecstatic! As most who know me are probably aware of my love for Blonde Bombshells, it may not be as well known that Veronica is my other favourite, after Marilyn.

There have only been two books published on Veronica, which I must add, astounds me – and one of them is this one which was co-written by ghost writer Donald Bain, who sadly passed away in October of 2017. The other is by Jeff Lenburg and I am fortunate enough to have both. However, Lenburg’s book is fairly controversial as he takes a lot of his information from Veronica’s mother, who claims a lot of detrimental things about her daughter – yet was estranged from her for many, many years. I think it’s actually being reprinted this summer and I will read it again, but would definitely advise new fans to stick to Veronica’s own words.

The republished version of Veronica’s Autobiography features a new cover with a stunning publicity photo of her in Ramrod (1947) which was directed by her then Husband, André de Toth. The book is a shiny paperback, with a non crease format, so even when you’ve finished reading, it will be in great condition and can take pride of place on your bookshelf! At 215 pages and 27 chapters, it’s not a huge length, but definitely a substantial read and full of personal anecdotes from the Golden Age of Hollywood.

Broadcaster and writer, Eddie Muller adds a new Introduction and his following words really stuck with me, their relevancy still to this day does not go unnoticed,

“I’ll point out instead that while the public has granted Sterling Hayden, a legendary boozer and hash-head, a legacy as a heroic, larger-than-life iconoclast, it has branded Lake’s life after Hollywood a steady downward spiral of abasement, worthy of only pity. Blame a cultural double standard that applauds reckless rebellion in men but shames it in women.”

As the chapters do not have titles, I’ve decided to write down a snippet of information which sums up the pivotal points and various timelines in each section.

______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 1:

– Starts in 1938 and traces Veronica’s move to Hollywood with her mother, step-father and cousin on the 4th of July. Veronica enrolls in the Bliss Hayden School of Acting and has her first role in a movie as an extra in RKO’s Sorority House (1939).

Chapter 2:

– Veronica’s signature peek-a-boo hairstyle is unintentionally created on the set of Forty Little Mothers (1940) by Director, Busby Berkeley who stated, “I still say let it fall. It distinguishes her from the rest”.

Chapter 3:

– Director, Freddie Wilcox sets up Veronica’s first Screen Test, whilst at home her step-father suffers a collapsed lung.

Chapter 4:

– Veronica joins the iconic William Morris Agency and recounts her knowledge of the infamous Hollywood Casting Couch and how she turned away from the many advances.

Chapter 5:

– Veronica meets her first husband, John Detlie and has her named changed by Producer, Arthur Hornblow Jr., who, after a second Screen Test, decides to cast her as Sally Vaughn in her breakout movie, I Wanted Wings (1941).

Chapter 6:

– Focuses on the location filming of I Wanted Wings (1941) from August 26th 1940 in San Antonio, Texas.

Chapter 7:

– Continues filming in Hollywood for I Wanted Wings (1941) and elopes to marry her first husband, John Detlie.

Chapter 8:

– Veronica discusses the first 8 years of her childhood and her move to Florida in her teen years and the two schools she attended in Montreal and Miami.

Chapter 9:

– Recounts various appearances in Miami Beauty Pageants as a teenager.

Chapter 10:

– Returns to 1941 with the release of I Wanted Wings (1941) and focuses on the worldwide phenomenon of the famous hair. Also finishes with Director Preston Sturges hiring Veronica for the role of The Girl in Sullivan’s Travels (1941).

Chapter 11:

Veronica shares the news of her first pregnancy with her mother and how her third trimester would coincide with the physical demands of filming Sullivan’s Travels (1941).

Chapter 12:

– Covers the filming of Sullivan’s Travels (1941) from May 12th 1941 and the revelation of Veronica’s pregnancy. It’s simply incredible when watching the film all these years later to come to the realization that she was between six to eight months pregnant!

Chapter 13: – The filming of This Gun For Hire (1942) and The Glass Key (1942).

Chapter 14:

– The filming of I Married A Witch (1942), So Proudly We Hail! (1943) and The Hour Before The Dawn (1944). Veronica also discusses the deterioration of her marriage and the tragic loss of her second baby, Anthony, who died a week after being born two months prematurely.

Chapter 15:

– Veronica divorces John and retells various anecdotes of the Hollywood Lifestyle in it’s heyday in the 1940s.

Chapter 16:

– Veronica discusses the filming of Star Spangled Rhythm (1942) and also her dating history during this period. She shares some fascinating stories of various celebrity anecdotes which include such Stars as, Errol Flynn, Katharine Hepburn, Howard Hughes and Gary Cooper.

Chapter 17:

– The filming of Bring On The Girls (1945), Duffy’s Tavern (1946) and Hold That Blonde! (1945). Veronica recalls marrying her second husband, Andre de Toth and shares a moving story from her visit to The White House in January 1945.

Chapter 18:

– The filming of Miss Susie Slagles (1946), Out Of This World (1945), Ramrod (1946), The Blue Dahlia (1946), Saigon (1947) and The Sainted Sisters (1948). Veronica and Andre expand their family as she has her third baby, a boy named Michael. She also talks about her and Andre obtaining their Pilot Licenses and how the death of her step-dad deeply affected her.

Chapter 19:

– Features a highly entertaining story of Veronica flying her plane, whilst carrying her forth child, in her fifth month of pregnancy. With her on board is her secretary Marge, who up until then had never flown before.

Chapter 20:

– Veronica gives birth to her forth baby, a girl named Diana and talks about the turmoil of her relationship with her mother, who decided to sue her for, “lack of filial love and responsibility” and over $17,000.

Chapter 21:

– The filming of Slattery’s Hurricane (1949) and Stronghold (1951). Veronica discusses her frustration with Andre’s prolific spending, which results in them filing for bankruptcy and ultimately, the deterioration of their marriage.

Chapter 22:

– Veronica moves to New York in 1951 and continues her acting career through various television appearances and the stage. She enters her third marriage to husband, Joe McCarthy, which she admits was volatile from the start and they divorce after just four years, in September 1959.

Chapter 23:

– Covers the years 1959 through to 1961. Veronica discusses her time taking a job as a cocktail waitress – which contrary to popular belief, she actually quite enjoyed. She also talks about the traumatic accident which resulted in a severely broken ankle, which caused her inability to act for two years.

Chapter 24:

– Delves into her relationship with Andy Elickson, a Merchant Seaman, who she met during her time working in the Martha Washington Hotel and focuses on the period between 1961 and 1966. She also writes about a high note in her stage career; appearing in Best Foot Forward in 1963.

Chapter 25:

– Veronica discusses her move to Miami from New York in 1966.

Chapter 26:

– The filming of Footsteps In The Snow (1966) and Flesh Feast (1970) which was then known as Time Is Terror and was originally shot in 1967.

Chapter 27:

– Ends in October 1967 with Veronica discussing her reading performance of The World of Carl Sandburg, which she describes as one of the, “finest moments” of her life.

______________________________________________________________________________

Veronica’s words are full of honesty, she does not sugar-coat her flaws and her anecdotes convey a great sense of humbleness towards her career and lots of self criticism to her talent, the latter which saddens me. I’ve noticed many of the great Stars rarely seem to have any belief in themselves. If only they could see how loved and appreciated they truly are. However, her loyalty and generosity towards her close friends and even acquaintances does not go unnoticed. It’s refreshing to see her be able to share her own story, without various opinions and conspiracies that have grown over the years being included.

Overall, there’s only two downsides that springs to mind. Firstly, as the book was originally published in 1969 and finishes at the end of 1967, we’re missing the six final years of her fascinating life and tragically nothing can be done to change this. Of course no one is at fault, it’s just a shame that those last years will remain mostly a mystery to us. It would have been wonderful to read about her time in England. Lastly, in the original edition, a number of pages featured very rare photos of Veronica throughout her years, including her own comments. Sadly, only a small version of the cover photo reappears at the end of the newly republished book. I’m assuming this is down to cost and or copyright, but it would be nice to see these rare treasures reappear in the latest edition for fans that are not fortunate enough to also own an original copy.

Ultimately, Veronica always maintains her true self and comes across as not a Screen Icon, but just like one of us – albeit with some extraordinary Hollywood stories. She’s simply, and I mean this in the most complimentary way – a human being. It’s been almost a decade since I discovered Veronica, eight years in fact and I for one have not only became even more endeared to Miss Lake, but, I have also developed a warm space in my heart for my fellow 5’2″ little lady, Miss Connie/Ronni Keane.

Lastly, a huge thank you to Dean Street Press for believing in the popularity of Veronica and so wonderfully reprinting hers and Donald Bain’s special words for us all to enjoy.

For anyone who wants to see more of Veronica, I’ve amassed a fairly large archive of photos over the years which can be viewed on my blog devoted entirely to her; missveronicalakes.

Follow me at;

BLOGLOVIN

INSTAGRAM

TUMBLR

TWITTER

YOUTUBE

For inquiries or collaborations contact me at;

meganmonroes@icloud.com

Veronica: The Autobiography of Veronica Lake; Book Review. When most people hear the name, "Veronica Lake" usually one of three things comes to mind - …

[bro-stoevsky]

Could I please request Hartving and the class differences prompt? Love your writing!

oh friend. please understand i tried with this one. i really tried. like i have seen the terror approximately 5,000 times and i still started this fanfiction by googling “hartnell the terror” so that’s the level of sophistication you’re dealing with. this is my first attempt at writing either of these guys and I hope you like (don’t mind?) it! thank you for this prompt & sorry in advance

Tears Into Thy Bottle

In which Tom Hartnell’s brother dies under mysterious pre-canon circumstances, Irving tries to do a Good Deed, and no one is happy for even 30 seconds. 

Tom Hartnell removed his brother’s things from his sea chest one by one, feeling miserable and invasive. The chest had been left in disarray; the unruly boy who came home so many times with mud on his knees had, in the end, not even had a clean shirt to be buried in.

Hartnell took out trousers, the badly-folded coat John had worn on land, a pipe, and another pipe. Shoes that would not fit him and shirts he did not need. When he came upon a silhouette portrait of a woman he looked it over, curious, for a name, and his heart throbbed when he recognized their mother. He would have to be the one to bring her the news. He would tell her that her firstborn son had carried her portrait from Gillingham to the end of the map, and kept on carrying it.

“Alright, Tom?” He tore his eyes from the portrait, noticing belatedly that someone had put a hand on his shoulder. It was Harry Peglar of the foretop, quiet and tactful. “Mr. Armitage is here for you, Tom.”

“Mr. Armitage?” said Hartnell, not understanding what the gunroom steward would want of him or what interest he might have in a dead man’s old clothes.

“Mr. Armitage,” Peglar affirmed. “He has a message for you.”

Armitage was indeed there waiting, wringing his hands. “I’m awful sorry,” he said, “but Lt. Irving would like to see you, Tom.”

It made less and less sense. “Lt. Irving? What could he want with me?”

Hickey laughed. The crass, rude caulker’s mate had been somewhat in John’s orbit, at arm’s length but never entirely rejected, and he had come for his share of the dead man’s tobacco.

 “What couldn’t he want, that one? I’ll tell you what I think: you on your knees,” Hickey paused for a long time as he puffed on his pipe, grinning as he held everyone’s attention. With visible relish he reached his conclusion: “In prayer.”

All at once, Hartnell’s friends hissed at him.

“Can’t you show some fucking respect,” said Gibson. “His brother’s just died.”

“And the good lieutenant will pray for his soul,” Hickey replied.

“See what the lieutenant wants,” Peglar advised, “and I can keep my eye on John’s things. I’m sure you won’t be long away.”

Hartnell nodded, rising to follow Armitage up and aft to the officers’ cabins.

“Lieutenant,” said Armitage as he knocked on one of the doors. “Tom Hartnell is here for you sir, as you asked.”

The door slid back. Hartnell knuckled his forehead.  

“That will do, thank you, Mr. Armitage,” said Irving. “Mr. Hartnell. Will you come in? I’m afraid there isn’t much room, but I should like to speak privately to you.”

“Aye, sir,” said Hartnell, and stepped inside. It was the finest and most rarified place he had been aboard the ship, and it disappointed him to discover that the cabin was miserably small, little more than a bed and a cramped writing desk. Irving’s bed was neatly-made and there was a writing set on his desk, a sheet of unmarked white paper waiting for him. Hartnell searched these items for a clue in Irving’s purpose and could find nothing.

Irving shut the door behind him. “I grieve for your loss,” he said, meeting Hartnell’s eyes. “Your brother was a good seaman and well-liked. Will you accept my condolences?”

“Of course, sir,” said Hartnell, uncomfortable. He had known that Terror’s third lieutenant had a serious, searching gaze, but to have that wide-eyed attention pointed toward him at close quarters was unnerving.

“You do not need to stand,” said Irving, himself taking a seat at his writing desk. There was nowhere else to sit except the bed, and Hartnell hesitated at taking that liberty. “Please be at your ease, Hartnell. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a chair, but the bed will do you just as well. Are you—have you had your rum? I could call Mr. Armitage back.”

“I have had it, sir.” And more besides—the bosun having seen fit to measure out a final tot for John. He sat down on the bed, and the frame creaked. “There is nothing else I need.”

They passed a moment in silence. Irving laced his fingers together and separated them. “Death is harder to bear when it comes far from home,” he said. “It should not be so but it is. Would it comfort you for me to say that it matters not a whit, how far we roam? For our true home is in Heaven, and on Judgment Day your brother will not be forgotten.”

 It was not comforting at all, and in fact Hartnell did not like to think about Judgment Day or any of the other more dreary Christian aspects. “Thank you, sir.”

Irving sighed. “But I haven’t eased your mind a bit. I can tell from your face. You know, I asked Lt. Little for permission to speak with you, and his reply was, ‘If it please you, only don’t frighten the boy with your talk.’ And of course that’s just what I’ve done.”

“It would have to be worse than that to frighten me,” said Hartnell.

“Good man,” said Irving. His face did something that was nearly a smile, and it made his gaze less uncomfortably luminous and more congenial. “You know it was never my intention—is never my intention—to be such dismal company. Of course it would have been better for me to have said something more benign, your brother is on a cloud somewhere looking down on you.”

“You would not be the first to tell me so,” Hartnell admitted. He had, for the better part of the afternoon, been assured that John watched over him and sang in a celestial choir and would guide them all to the Passage.

“I know it. And you have all my compassion. It is only that I think it is a hard world, and it does us no good to pretend it is not governed by hard philosophy.”

This was altogether more speech than Hartnell had heard from an officer in his entire career at sea. He looked at Irving and was reminded that this man was very near his own age, and the only officer to wear a beard, very probably to obscure the boyishness of his features. From his conversation, it was clear that he did not find much sympathy with his views from his fellow officers—at once the tiny room and the privilege of privacy seemed horribly lonely.

“You make sense to me, sir,” said Hartnell, a little unsure who was being comforted.

Irving smiled completely. “You are kind to say so. But I had asked you here in the hope that I might provide you a more practical service. I do not know when we shall next have the opportunity to post the mail, but when we do, it will be better to be prepared. Should you like to send a letter to your mother, I will gladly take it down for you.”

“Sir?” The blank sheet of paper and the inkwell was explained, then.

“Your mother—she is living, yes? I thought I had seen it in the purser’s log.”

Hartnell saw her in his mind’s eye. He wondered if it was possible she did not already know what had happened. Surely she did. Surely the mystical powers bestowed by motherhood had alerted her already to calamity. And if not, John would have found some way to inform her.

“She is living,” he affirmed. “But sir, I can read and write.”

Horror dawned on Irving’s face. “I had not thought,” he said. “But of course you can. It was not my intention to insult you—I shall not take more of your time. Will you please express my consolation to her?”

Hartnell felt his face flush as he realized his misstep. He had contradicted an officer, the very thing that above all was not done in the sea service. For even young, even lonely, Irving was the third lieutenant of their ship and his word was as God’s to the ratings. But Hartnell’s mind was soft and fatigued with grief and he had not reacted correctly.

He tried to revise his story: “I should not have said that, sir, forgive me. I mean I can read and write a little, but not very well. I should be glad of your help.” He wondered, in the back of his mind, how Irving proposed his mother to read the letter, if she had indeed raised an illiterate child. 

Irving’s smile in response was enough that Hartnell was ashamed to have thought any ill of him. Young, he thought again, and lonely.

“Is this time convenient?” Irving asked, already wetting his pen.

Hartnell thought of his brother’s sea chest—the mess that John had not meant anyone to see, the junk that had turned in the space of a few hours into relics of the dead, the heartbreaking portrait of their mother—he had no desire to return. He had no desire to see any of it again, to dole it out to their friends, to hear the caulker’s mate make his crude remarks. “There is nowhere else for me to be,” he replied.

Irving gave him that shy look again, and wrote something on the sheet. “I am writing an introduction,” he explained, “in case she does not recognize the writing. And then you may say what you like, and I’ll write it down.”

“Can you start out with, ‘My dear Mother—’ or, ought I to put our location at the top?”

“I have already done so. ‘My dear Mother,’ it is a very good beginning. What then?”

“And then—I should go to the point. ‘I have terrible news,’” he tried to think of how to put this terrible news, but he could not take his mind away from the sea chest. He thought of his mother, darning one of John’s shirts, complaining that he was too rough on them. He thought of her portrait, which John had never showed him. “‘Terrible news, Mama,’” he repeated again, and when he tried a third time his voice broke and he began to weep.

Irving set down his pen. “Hartnell?” he asked, and there was a scrape of his chair as he crossed the step or so to the bunk. “Hartnell, let me get you a handkerchief—I have one—” there was a clattering of things around the desk, and then Irving was handing him a white square of fabric.

“Forgive me, sir, ” said Hartnell, wiping at his eyes and his nose. “I should return to the fo'c’s'le. I am not fit for your company. You have been too kind already.”

Irving sat down beside him, and after a minute’s hesitation took Hartnell’s hand in two of his own. “There is nothing to forgive. Come now—come now, your brother is with God.”

Grief did nothing to dull Hartnell’s other senses, and he realized that Irving’s palm was damp. He thought, distantly, of the propriety of their position, and Hickey’s crass remarks, and he was not compelled by these objections. It did him good to feel another living person beside him, someone whose attention was only on his comfort.

“Do you think so, sir?”

“I am certain,” said Irving.

They sat in silence for some time as Hartnell reeled himself in and regained his composure.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said again, looking at the handkerchief. The initials J.I. were embroidered on it. “I can wash this.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Irving replied. He withdrew his hands. “It is a gift. As for the letter—I should have seen I was keeping you from your mates. Perhaps we shall try again tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir. But you’re not keeping me from anything.”

Irving stood up, and paused during his step to the desk. He looked at Hartnell again—shy, round-eyed and eerie—and he nodded with satisfaction. “Stay then, and we will finish your letter.”

[hpswl-cumbercookie]

Secret Boyfriends/Husbands Rec List

So my dears, I am finally going to fulfill my dream of starting doing rec lists. I would like to help fill the unfathomable void that has been left behind by @alexxphoenix42. Let me tell you, I have no idea how she did this job for so long, it’s harder than you’d think, but so much fun. Anyways, this is the first rec list of hopefully many, feel free to send me asks for fics/lists and I will put them together as quickly as my little hands possibly can. I dedicate this first list to @srebrnafh for her unending kindness, support, and overall general awesomeness, you are the greatest! And, by the way, I found the fic you were looking for!!! It’s the very first one on this list, I’m really glad I was able to find it.

You can see my search results here in case none of these are to your liking. If you would like to be tagged in future lists just let me know and if you want to find my lists search for the tag #cc rec list.

Missing in Action by Alphinss

Words: 7k Rating: Teen

Lestrade is worried about Sherlock. He hasn't seen the man in a week. What else is a man to do but break into the man's house under the pretence of a drugs bust. But who is the man that almost shoots one of his officers and why is he in Sherlock's flat?

A Long Time Coming by thestanceyg

Words: 5k Rating: Teen

Sherlock's been acting strangely, and Lestrade isn't sure why. One day he finds a shirtless soldier in Sherlock's flat and things start to make a lot more sense.

Capt John H Watson, MBBS by anthonyedwardstark

Words: 2k Rating: Gen

Sherlock has not been seen or heard from for more than a week. Lestrade decides to begin his search for the man at 221B Baker Street. When Scotland Yard's finest arrive at the flat, what (or rather who) they find is certain to surprise them.

Sherlock’s Who? By freakypet

Words: 4k Rating: Gen

John has been away for Sherlock's entire career and suddenly returns to London unexpectedly from Afghanistan. Injured and tired and in pain, all he wants is to surprise Sherlock and kiss his husband. His search to find and surprise his wayward partner takes him across London and meets him up with those in Sherlock's world he has only heard about until now.

A quickly written story that was meant to be my version of "Everyone Meet Sherlock's Secret Husband - Ha Ha In Your face" - but I got this instead.

The Bee Charmer by dreadpiratewatson

Words: 3k Rating: Mature

Greg goes to 221B to check up on Sherlock after a strange phone call pulls him away from an important case, and is stunned to find himself in front of a gun brandishing soldier with a sleeping Sherlock on his chest.

John Watson is a doctor, a war hero, a husband, and the only one in the world who can soften Sherlock's heart.

This Isn’t Happening by Emma_Locke

Words: 5k Rating: Teen

Greg never believed the rumors that Sherlock and John were shagging, not really. Sure, it was fun to tease and taunt his friends, but he knew their relationship was solely platonic. He had never seen any action to suggest more than that, so he continued to hold by that belief until proven otherwise. The last thing he expects is to inconveniently interrupt various impromptu make-out sessions between the pair, but is that really what’s happening? Neither Sherlock nor John ever say anything about it, and they seem thoroughly confused when he brings the topic up.

Is Greg Lestrade going crazy?

Are those two idiots setting him up?

Or does he just ship Johnlock harder than anyone thought?

Outed by a Drugs Bust by Inactive Account (sassybleu)

Words: 1.5k Rating: Mature

Their relationship status didn't leave the confinement of their flat, so when they got lazy days like this; Sherlock without a case, and John without work, they took full advantage of it.

Sherlock and John are together-but no one else knows that. The damage is done when Lestrade and his crew break in on a drugs bust.

I’ll Greet You With a Smile by sevvyboy1fangirl

Words: 2k Rating: Teen

When John comes home from the war, Sherlock is there to greet his husband at the airport. How will others react to the news of Sherlock having a husband? And how will John react to meeting those that are in his husbands life? And how will Sherlock and John's life continue now that John is home?

*NOTE- This story is incomplete but it ends in a mostly satisfying manner*

Illusory Correlation and Confirmation Bias by VanillaBroompolish

Words: 10k Rating: Gen

Looking back, there were a few things that should’ve tipped Greg off long before that night at the pub. A few things Sherlock left fairly obvious, that on reflection, made Greg question how he’d gotten his job in the first place.

The Blind and the Clueless by InTheShadows

Words: 3k Rating: Teen

When Greg first meets John Watson, he mentally wishes Sherlock the best. Lord knows that man needs someone who can keep up with him. When John keeps coming back, Greg is impressed. When they seem perfect for each other for each other, but neither of the blind idiots see it, well. Then Greg is less so.

aka 5 times Greg saw John was perfect for Sherlock but didn't say anything and one time he did.

How Single-Malt Made Them a Double (AKA Loose Lips Confirm Ships) by IrelandSpades and MyFirstistheFourth

Words: 4.5k Rating: Mature (Could make a case for explicit, read with care those who are sex-repulsed)

A holiday party, too much whiskey, and something is revealed when a soldier goes too far.

Behind Closed Doors by Mssmithlove

Words: 10k Rating: Explicit

An hour earlier, everything had been different. Sherlock Holmes' heart had not been in pieces on the tiled hallway floor of his secondary school, grey eyes blinking back the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks, knees shaking with the effort not to buckle and knock him to the ground on the first day of his last year here before university.

An hour earlier, Sherlock Holmes had been happy.

In Which Sherlock Is Hiding Something by Huffordle

Words: 2k Rating: Gen

Sherlock is hiding something from Greg although the DI doesn't notice.

A Surprise in 221B by lancesface

Words: 2k Rating: Gen

Lestrade entered the flat prepared to find a consulting detective sulking on the couch due to the lack of cases but instead found a short blond man, wearing an oatmeal jumper, who was limping down the hallway towards the door.

Alibis by JohnlockRelapse

Words: 7k Rating: Mature

Sherlock is away for the weekend, John indisposed. And Greg would never admit to himself how desperate he was for Sherlock’s help. A series of phone calls to concerned parties, and a frustrated Detective Inspector later, alibis would prove to never be enough.

The Most Noble of Bullies by emptycel

Words: 10k Rating: Mature

John Watson is abused at home and the biggest jerk at his school. He has no qualms about being as cruel to his classmates as his father is to him. No one is safe from his torment.

Except for Sherlock Holmes.

But you can't expect John to bully his secret boyfriend.

[mrsmess]

Faves and fails of SPN (season 9)

Favorite episodes (in chronological order):

9:1 I think I’m gonna like it here - Usually not a fan of intro episodes but this is pretty tight

9:4 Slumber party - YES. Anything Charlie! Supernatural meets Once Upon a Time. Sam responding to Charlie’s info on who uploaded the unpublished Supernatural books. ”None. Uhm. No bells.” Lol.

9:5 Dog Dean afternoon - One of the best episodes in the entire show for obvious reasons: Jensen Ackles frolicking. The scene when the spell takes effect is amazing.

9:7 Bad boys - Love the retro episodes, this one is heartbreaking and scary to match. The fact that the show keeps revealing stuff about their childhood, John’s tough love approach, and stuff lost by the years separating the boys as well as their distinct roles, is really good. Kinda makes me wish we got more of those episodes. This casting of tween!Dean is very good, he rly is insufferable, and vulnerable, and much better than the one in the dodge ball episode. Blake Gibbons is also great in his role . The ending! Omg! I’m literally crying. ”He just said to tell you you have a job. Said you’d know what that means.”

9:11 First born - Ah. The blade. The Cain storyline. Loving the ”buddy” comedies; pairings Dean & Crowley and Sam & Cass. Dean growing a beard, a little overkill but I’ll take it. Cain is cute, and kinda entertaining. The idea that the Winchesters are allowed to change, Cass, what a radical concept.

9:13 The purge - Thank goodness they’re back together even if they’re just faking it til they’re ”making” it. Dean eating pudding, Sam doing yoga ”You’re not the only one who’s dated someone bendy.” And Sam asks Dean to admit that he didn’t save Sam out of some altruistic motive but for him himself, which is fine, right? I think that’s fine. Half the time I think most of their problems could be solved by (mainly) Dean just being honest about what he feels.

9:15 #thinman - this starts out pretty funny and ends up so frickin’ dark. Ed and Harry being some weird foil for Sam and Dean. The realness of this story is kinda painful.

9:18 Meta fiction - Gabriel! If only for a brief shining moment. Gadreel’s old vessel- I like him. Metatron injecting Cass with every book, movie, tv show... nifty!

9:19 Alex Annie Alexis Ann - A wayward daughter introduced. And Jody Mills is always a win. Good, tight episode. Excellent character study. Creepy ass monsters *because* they’re so human. One of the best episodes of this season.

9:21 King of the damned - Now this is my kinda torture. And Crowley and his son. And calling off the Hellhound over speaker phone. Why is this so funny?

9:23 Do you believe in miracles - Besides Dean bugging the crap outta me, this finale is actually pretty interesting. I rly like it. ”What happened to you being okay with this?” ”I lied.” I love them.

Fail episodes (in chronological order):

9:9 Holy terror - Angel stuff. And torture. Boring. Plus Gadreel offing Kevin. Booooooh! ”I always trust you, and I always end up screwed.” Winchesters, amiright?

9:12 Sharp teeth - Garth is a werewolf. Hate the brothers being out of sorts. A theme for the episode seems to be estrangement, deception. Serves to show how compulsive particularly Dean is, how lonely he makes himself. It’s all interesting but how am I supposed to be okay with an episode which ends this way? My heart just breaks.

9:20 Bloodlines - God I hate this.

Mediocre mentions:

Rock and a hard place - ”Congratulations Sam and Dean Winchester! You are both virgins!” Lol. Dean describing sex. Awesome. Not his finest hour making that sneaky pass on an ex porn star though, they could’ve played that *way* better.

Road trip - More angel stuff. *sigh* A torture montage is the quickest way to wind up off the fave list. Dean and Cas having a little tete-a-tete is nice, not enough to make up for it. However, Crowley and Gadreel doubleteaming Sam has me shouting on the couch. Okay, fine! ”If I see you again-” ”Yes, I’m dead, I love you too.” And ”Daddy’s home.” Crowley saves the episode.

Honorable mentions:

Using ”Who do you love?” in the previously on-section first thing this season.

I am into this new communicative schtick the bros have going. I’m loving this new and improved, supportive, sinscere, soft Dean, more of that plz.

Castiel going by Clarence! My heart! And experiencing the small and trying things of being human: thirst, hunger, lust, making money last, working shitty jobs, baby sitting. It rly does wonders for how I feel about him.

Ghost!Kevin telling the brothers to get over it. ”My mom’s taking home a ghost, you both are still here.”

The crazy collector and Human!Crowley in Blade Runners are more than a little icky- but also very interesting.

The chemistry between Padalecki and Jenny O’Hara in Mother’s little helper. The chemistry between Sam and Cass in this season, I feel there’s a real exchange there. Sam’s character has a really satisfying range in how it interacts with others, I dig that.

Dishonorable mentions:

Dean showing Cas the door w/o setting him up w a safe house. Especially since they put Kevin up in a warded motel room in Branson the very next episode. Winchesters, man.

Summing up:

I’m rly taken by the speech from Sharp Teeth. It’s much better written than I’ve given it credit for. On the one hand, Dean’s arc from the end of season 8 has made it emotionally and reasonably clear what his one job is, what his purpose is. At any price. Sam meanwhile is bigger picture, and the thing with Gadreel just made it clear that his and Deans ideas of their joint purpose differ. That’s why Sam says ”everything that’s ever gone wrong between us has been because we’re family.”

But well written or not; this really real conflict is also a big problem with this season, mainly because they use it for friction but ultimately not enough closure.

[queen-writing-sideblog]

Coffee and Cigarettes

Chapter One

This is the little surprise I was talking about, first chapter of my first fic!! Thank you to all of you so, so, so much for 100 followers (I know I’m a bit late, but it took me a minute to finish, so.. shhhh), but thank you all so, so much for sticking along for all of this. I know I haven’t been updating as much recently, but now that this is finished, I’ll be a lot better about it, I promise, I hope you enjoy!!!!!

Staff dating wasn’t against the rules. It was… slightly frowned upon by some of the board members, but it wasn’t against the rules. That hadn’t been an issue for Roger for the three years he had been working there, so he hadn’t thought anything was going to change when the school hired a replacement for the teacher that had taught engineering and wood shop.

Boy had he been wrong.

They wouldn’t normally cross paths. While their classrooms were in similar parts of the building, teachers didn’t tend to wander around the school because, obviously, they were working. That wasn’t how they ended up meeting, though.

No, the very first time Roger met Mr. Deacon was in the break room when he turned around too fast and accidentally hit him with a muffin and almost spilled coffee on him.

What a fantastic, completely Rogeresque way to meet someone.

To his defense, it was before seven o’clock in the morning, nearly an hour before school was due to start, and he’d been up late the night before, grading the last minute summer work that had been submitted to him minutes before the deadline.

Stupid slackers.

Then again, that had been him when he was in high school, so he didn’t really have much room to talk.

And regardless of how little sleep he’d gotten, there he was, bright an early. For all the work and extra hours teachers put in, they didn’t get paid nearly enough, so he in the mornings, his breakfast off of the coffee and assorted, slightly stale breakfast items that resided there.

His slightly stale breakfast item that was now a shower of crumbs coating the shirt of a complete stranger.

“Oh! Oh, I am so sorry, mate, really, I-”

“Oh, no, no, you’re alright. It’s early. Looks like you haven’t had a sip of coffee yet either, so I’ll let it slide this time around.”

As soon as the air around them lightened up a bit and he let himself relax, it struck him how… easy on the eyes this stranger was.

“Ah, right, right, I’ll take my free pass and be more careful next time. I’m Roger Taylor, by the way. I teach biology. Room 137.”

“Oh, alright, hello, Mr. Taylor. I’m John Deacon, I teach engineering and woodshop and… I’m in room…” he dug a piece of paper out of his pocket, “room number 146.”

“Ah, so you’re the new guy that’s replacing old Bernes.”

“Would appear so.”

“Well, I already like you better. He was a creep.”

“Was he, now? Well, I might be a bit biased in saying this, but I don’t believe I’m much of a creep, so I do hope that helps.” He offered a gap toothed smile and Roger felt something unfamiliar bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. 

“Well, you’re already much, much, much better than he is.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

They stood there for a moment in silence, sipping their coffee before one of them spoke again.

“So. Where’d you come from. Somewhere… North, I’m thinking?”

“Wow, look at you. Yeah. Up in the midlands, Oadby, actually.”

“Really? And how’s that? Living there, I mean.”

“Dull. Very dull. Very boring. Not a lot of stuff going on up there. I wouldn’t recommend visiting. There isn’t much to do, the people are too nice to not be hiding anything, and most of the hotels have rats.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m going on holiday, ‘cuz that’s something teachers do so often.”

The comment earned him a little laugh and another one of those smiles, and something so simple shouldn’t have made him as happy as it was.

He was man enough to admit that he pretty things, attractive people. He was also man enough to admit that John happened to fall under this column. Which meant he was able to convince himself it was the mild adrenaline rush that came from making an attractive person laugh.

Like when he picked up women -or men, he wasn’t really picky- at bars and made them smile and laugh and blush.

Except for the fact that this was his new coworker, they were in a teacher’s lounge in a high school, and he didn’t have the intention of going home with him. Because that would be entirely unprofessional and he didn’t want to do it either.

Alright, maybe if the setting was different, he might. But that meant alcohol would be involved, as well as a location that was much more likely to foster raw, sexual attraction.

Seven in the morning in a break room in a high school packed with other teachers, crappy coffee, and assorted bread products was neither the time nor the place.

And it seemed that it wasn’t going to be much of an issue, just a passing thought.

Which it was.

For now at least.

--

Over the course of the following weeks, Roger found himself and John becoming more and more friendly. He’d begun to worm his way into his little friend group, clicking almost instantly with Freddie, and bonding over some science geek stuff with Brian. He fit in like the fourth piece to their puzzle.

It was nice, meeting someone who he worked with that was good for more than discussion on the woes of being a teacher.

Sure, he’d had Brian and Freddie before, but it was nice to have a third friend, and to no longer be the ‘baby’ of the group.

(Normally whenever it was brought up, he was quickly mention the fact that he was twenty-six years old now, but it was quickly dismissed in favor of making fun of him.)

And John, he had come to find, was actually a rather interesting person. He loved music, but he didn’t think he could sing, so he stuck to the instruments. Specifically the stringed sort. He apparently had a bass, an electric, an acoustic, and a rhythm guitar at home, as well as a keyboard. That he offered lessons to bring in some extra money and because it was something he enjoyed doing. That music was a passion of his, and he’d been into it since he was younger, fell in love with the records his father would bring home every once in a blue moon and found that that aspect of his story was similar to Roger’s.

He’d learned that he’d been a tinkerer ever since he could hold a screw driver. Making magic out of scraps by age ten, which could have been a profession on it’s own, but he’d fallen in love with teaching and had gotten his masters in that after getting his bachelor of science in electronics. That he was still a tinkerer and he would buy bits and pieces of this and that when his budget allowed to make little things and that he had never once called a repairman because he’d always been able to fix the issue himself. How he would fix neighbors broken down appliances for free just because he wanted to. He’d even offered to come look at Roger’s busted air conditioning unit sometime.

That he had a sister named Julie, that she was seventeen and was preparing for her A levels, that she was very bright and that he was a very proud big brother. That he was a mama’s boy, spoke to her every other day on the phone. That when he was growing up, he’d taken over the typical ‘man of the house’ role since his father passed when he was young, that he didn’t get all sad and weepy when talking about his dad, just got a nostalgic, fond look in his eyes. That he’d just gotten a puppy named Eleanor and a ferret named Robert. An odd combination, Roger thought, but who was he to judge when all he had were a few fish.

Needless to say, he’d learned a lot about him in the short span of time they’d known each other in and he found him to be rather intriguing.

They’d slowly become the sort of teachers that bothered each other during prep periods. John would come bug him when he was doing notes and Roger would throw popcorn at him when he was trying to teach. It was nice, he thought.

--

Roger had finally given in to John’s offers and invited him over to have a look at the air conditioner. It was much cheaper than calling an electrician and John had insisted he didn’t mind, so he’d decided it wasn’t such a bad idea. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could deal with keeping all his windows open and using a fan in its place. He was becoming a baked potato in his own home.

When John had gotten there, they’d exchanged pleasantries before Roger had led him to the source of irritation and he’d gone straight to work.

The conversation kept up while John.. well, Roger wasn’t quite sure what it was he was doing, actually, but.. That was besides the point. He was fixing the stupid AC unit for him and now Roger wouldn’t die of heatstroke or something stupid like that. 

He’d take a break every once in a while to have a drink and wipe the sweat off his forehead before diving back into his work. It was a nice almost silence they lapsed into, with an occasional joke, or comment, or John asking Roger to grab him a drink if he wouldn’t mind. It was certainly much better than the awkward work around that would be involved with a repairman and not nearly as expensive either.

It took a little while, but eventually Roger heard the familiar whir of the air conditioning unit kicking on.

“You’re a miracle worker, Deaks!”

“Ah, nah… just a fan that fell loose and some mixed up wires, is all. Nothing, really.”

“I could kiss you.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Think I’ll pass.”

“How can I repay you?”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.”

“Well.. I can at least buy you dinner.”

“Well…”

“I’ll get takeaway and you and I can watch a movie.”

“Yeah. alright. Fine.”

“What catches your fancy tonight, Sir Deacon?”

“Sir?” He cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Just go with it.”

“Alright, well.. How does Chinese sound?”

“His highness shall be dining on the finest Asian cuisine tonight.”

“The finest, huh?”

“Or the cheapest.”

“Perfect.”

Roger ended up calling in to order the takeout and decided to let John find something for them to watch. He was mildly surprised when he plopped down on the couch and the TV was playing the opening credits to Peter Pan.

“A Disney man, huh?”

“Shut up. They’re good movies, believe it or not.”

“Okay, okay, okay, I won’t make fun of you. It just… you don’t seem the type.”

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.”

“Touché.”

“I am not often what meets the eye.”

“Is that so?”

“It is so.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, then.” 

“Good.”

--

John ended up staying much later than Roger had thought he would. By the time he checked the clock, it was already half past ten. He opted not to say anything about it, though, because he did rather like John’s company. He had a good sense of humor and he liked to point out the flaws of and make fun of poorly made movies which Roger had discovered when they’d come across some old movie that seemed like it had a budget of forty dollars.

By now, though, they’d lulled into a comfortable silence like it had been before, only interjected by an occasional joke or comment.

By the time they got to the end of that movie, it was even later. Obviously. Because that’s how the flow of time worked. But it was late enough that Roger was tired, and by the looks of it, so was his company.

“I should get going.” He stretched his arms above his head. “Work tomorrow and all.”

“Stay.”

“Are you sure that’s-”

“I mean, here. Like… on the couch. It’s late, you’re tired, you shouldn’t be driving. We can carpool tomorrow.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“You can borrow something of mine.”

“I don’t have a toothbrush or anything. I don’t think I’ll be borrowing that from you.”

“I’ve got an extra in the cupboard.”

John gave him a skeptical look and for a minute Roger was worried he was going to say no.

“Yeah, alright, fine.”

“Great. I’ll grab you a pillow, the blankets are next to the couch.” He gestured in the general direction they were in before going off to get a pillow from his bed.

John was doing something on his phone when he got back, presumably texting his neighbor, asking her to keep the dog overnight, something he’d heard him mumbling to himself about when he was walking away. 

“Oi. Watch that,” He grumbled, setting the pillow down at the edge of the bed.

“I remind you that you are a guest here and I can kick you out at any moment.”

“Fine.” He plopped down on the couch, tugging the blanket over himself and folding up his knees to fit onto the couch.

“Goodnight, Mr. Deacon.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Taylor.”

--

When Roger got up at three in the morning to get a glass of water, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the body draped across his couch before remembering it was just John. As he was pouring his glass of water, he took note that when John wasn’t all curled into a ball, he was much too tall for the couch. Part of his legs hung over the edge of the couch, all the way up to his knees, and an arm was dangling over the side of the couch and he’d miraculously knocked the blanket off and into the middle of the room.

Without much thought, he bent down to scoop the blanket up and draped it over John, who made a soft, sleepy noise in response.

The… domestic nature of it all made something warm and fuzzy climb up his rib cage and wrap around his heart which startled him more than the thought of a stranger in his flat. He pushed them down quickly, going back to bed and leaving the untouched glass of water on the coffee table where he’d set it down earlier.

--

The next morning, Roger learned that you got places much faster when you used the carpool lane, and that John fancied cars nearly as much as he did,complaining about some of nicer cars that weren’t taken care of well as they took turns naming models and makes of the cars on the road.

(Which I will not be doing because while I am all for researching for things, I do not understand much about cars at all, and… yeah. No thank you. Sorry).

When they got to school together, Brian happened to be coming into the building as well, offering a raised eyebrow in regards to the fact that they’d obviously come to school together and the shirt John was wearing was one Roger had been wearing on Friday.

When they got into the break room, John went to get coffee and Brian cornered him.

“Please tell me you didn’t sleep with him.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s wearing your clothes, Rog, and you carpooled.”

“I did not sleep with him. He came over to fix my air conditioner, stayed over too late and I let him sleep on the couch.”

“That’s all?”

“Jesus, Bri. I’m not stupid, that would be a bad idea, even I know that.”

“Okay, okay, fine.”

When John got back, he couldn’t help but think he certainly wouldn’t have minded if that happened.

And, yeah. Maybe he was a bit screwed.