#once upon a time in hollywood fanfiction

[foreverdolly]

29 & 49, austin!tex, dark romance. I basically want more in that same universe as your other austin!tex work honey

𝐃𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐔𝐒 | 𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧!𝐭𝐞𝐱 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

prompt: "I can't. . .please. . . I can't take it anymore." and "good boy."

word count: 2.5k

song: cinnamon girl - neil young

notes/warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT! a rosary is used for. . . stuff. this fic is absolutely filthy good lord. tex legit worships you and thinks of you as his own personal goddess. i hope you love this, baby.

Not before Tex, that is. 

Not before Tex, that is. 

Again and again, he had proved to you that he would never do anything that might put you in danger. You were the one thing in the world that he really wanted to protect. He’d been spiraling before he met you. He had been searching for a purpose, and now that he had found one? He wasn’t willing to ever let that go. Let you go. 

You knew that Tex was ultimately stronger and more capable in a fight, so he’d easily be able to keep you there with him even if you weren’t willing to stay. Yes, you had been taken against your will- but that didn’t mean that you had no control. If anything, you’d never felt more powerful in your life. 

Because Tex depended on you for happiness. 

You weren’t too far gone not to notice how unhealthy the relationship between you two was. It was codependent and it was unpredictable- but it was also passionate and real. He hadn’t been a very good person before he met you. He was pretty evil, actually. 

But he treated you like a Goddess. The man prayed to you before bed each night. You were his entire world. 

Maybe it was wrong of you to love it so much, but you did. It had been impossible not to fall in love with Tex. 

It felt nice getting away from the ranch for a few hours some nights. Both you and Tex were still formulating a grand scheme to get out of that house and away from Charlie. Though neither of you would say it, you knew that getting out as soon as possible was the best idea. 

The two of you would climb into whatever car was available and drive thirty minutes further up the mountain. The view was beautiful up there at night, what with all the stars and sprawling farmland. 

You hadn’t bothered asking whose car you were in when Tex hurriedly led you outside, excitedly jingling some car keys with his free hand.

 It was an old, weather worn truck. It had probably once been a beautiful mint green color, but now it was spotted with rust and small scratches. Still, the old thing started up without a problem when Tex turned the key. Smalltalk was hard when all the two of you did was spend time together. 

Surprisingly, Tex was fond of deeper, more intimate topics of conversation. He asked about whether or not having a family was important to you. He talked to you about theology and music. He talked about things that had happened in his past, and that those things most likely contributed to the way that he had turned out. How he had run into Charlie and got tied up in all of that mess. 

It was Tex’s desperate yearning for a family that led him on his current path of death and destruction. 

He was trying to change. Now whether it was because he genuinely disliked who he had become or solely to please you, you still weren't sure. 

Dropping acid in an old, rundown truck probably wasn’t a good idea. Especially since you were just off of the main dirt road. Tex had turned the headlights off, but anyone could bump into you on the way to their homes. You were too busy looking at Tex to really care too much though. 

His black dyed hair was starting to get even longer, his chestnut brown hair now visible at the roots. He was perfect with his big blue eyes and bubblegum lips. It was hard to keep your hands off of each other whenever you did any sort of drugs, especially psychedelics. All of your senses were heightened, and his skin somehow felt velvet soft against your fingers. You pressed your thumb against his lower lip, dragging it down ever so slightly so that you could get a better look at his lower teeth. One of his lower canines was slightly crooked, but other than that his teeth were perfectly straight. 

“I’ve never had one cavity in my life. I’ve been mighty blessed, I think.” He mumbled, his chest vibrating with each word. 

You were straddling him in the driver's side of the car, one of your knees tucked against the doorframe and the other one pressed against the armrest. You’d somehow ended up in his lap just a few seconds after the LSD kicked in. It was almost instantaneous with tabs. You’d learned to brace yourself for the odd wavy visuals. 

“Very blessed.” You nodded your head, biting your lower lip as you tried to keep yourself from smiling. 

Tex seemed to notice, his own lips pulling up into a wide grin to match yours. His palm had been resting on the middle of your back, but suddenly became aware of the fact that he was now brushing his hand up and down your side absentmindedly. Your entire body broke out in chills. He noticed the way you shivered, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“Does that feel good?” He asked, blue eyes flickering down to your lips and then back up to stare into your eyes. 

You managed to nod, your hands moving up his chest and over his broad shoulders. It was his turn to shiver then, his grip on you tightening, pulling you further into his lap. Your fingers slipped under the collar of his shirt, feeling the skin of his back. 

Some days there was nothing to do around the house to pass the time aside from fucking. Listening to album after album while smoking pot was only fun for a limited amount of time, and there was nothing left to do except to chase a different sort of high. You couldn’t count how many times you and Tex had sex over the two months that you had been staying with him. Some days it was nonstop. The second that he caught his second wind he was pulling you back into the room that the two of you shared. 

Even after all of that though, it still hasn't lost its novelty. Your fingers explored the expanse of his chest like it was a foreign land, tracing each scar like you were making a roadmap out of them. And he was beautiful in the pale light of the moon. He was staring up at you as though you were some prophet, sent down to lead him to a new world. 

A better world. 

One by one, the two of you began to peel off articles of clothing, not caring where anything ended up. The man took advantage of the unusual height difference, leaning forward so that he could place an opened mouth kiss directly in the middle of your chest. His long eyelashes brushed against your collarbone, his long hair tickling your shoulder as he moved down, down, down. 

And then he was cupping your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his hands. 

“I’m so glad that these are mine.” He spoke so softly that you could barely make out what he was saying. 

There was nothing in the world that beat the feeling of Tex being seated up inside of you. You could feel every inch of him practically in your stomach, pushing up against your insides. It was deliciously painful now that you were on top, pushing him even deeper than usual. Tex had barely pulled down his jeans, in too much of a hurry to feel all of you to worry about his clothes. His belt buckle was digging into the sensitive skin of your thigh as you moved your hips against his. 

You didn’t care enough to tell him that it hurt, because you were positive that it would leave a mark. And you wanted that. Every bruise, bite mark or scratch was worn with pride. They were constant reminders that the both of you belonged to each other. 

Tex was usually the dominant one. He enjoyed taking care of you in bed. Being in control was something that he preferred. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust you to take the reins, but because he enjoyed watching your expressions. He loved pounding into your small, soft little body and listening to your sounds of pleasure knowing that he was the one that was causing it all. It was hard for him to do much of anything other than fuck up into you, meeting you halfway as you raised up and down on your knees. 

Your thighs were burning and quivering, but you didn’t care. Suddenly you understood just what was so good about being on top. Tex was a blubbering mess, his eyes blown out wide, cheeks a bright pink as he tried to control his breathing. Still, you continued to move against him, even when he gently began tapping at your hip, trying to silently communicate with you that he was close. 

You didn’t care. You even moved his hands away from sides when he tried to stop you, moving your hips even faster against his. 

“O-Oh fuck-” He panted, out, his hand clumsily bumping into the armrest as he tried to grip onto something- anything as the pleasure kept building. 

You recognized that look in his eyes. Knew he was about to cum- but you wanted it. 

“H-Honey. . .” He was trying to warn you and try to get you to stop. 

But he was too high and it all felt too good. Your hips were moving relentlessly against his, and your pussy was so warm and tight around him. He pressed his face into your chest as he climaxed, repeating your name again and again like it was some broken prayer. You could feel his cock twitching inside of you, pumping you full. Warming you up from the insides. You didn’t stop moving against him though. Even when you were sure that he was finished. 

He was a shaking mess, his eyes filled with tears as he pulled his face away from your chest so that he could look at your face. He looked pitiful, still shaking with the aftershocks of his climax as you continued using his oversensitive dick. 

“I can’t- please. . . I can’t take it anymore.” He was begging you. 

Despite his tears and twitching muscles, he didn’t make any move to try and get you off of him. He could have lifted you easily. 

You could feel that all too familiar tightening in your abdomen, and telltale sign that you weren’t too far off. Tex must have felt you tightening around him, because his hands, albeit a little shaky, moved to your hips. He helped you move on top of him, clenching his teeth and staring up at you. He was watching your face intently, wanting to watch you fall apart. 

“I-If you’re a good boy then I’ll reward you.” You panted out, bracing a hand on his bare chest. You were finding it hard to move anymore, the pleasure starting to render your limbs useless. 

The brunette’s blue eyes widened and he sucked in a deep breath through his nose. 

“You’re gonna reward me by comin’ on my cock? I know I’ve got more cum to give you, so please. Keep goin’. Don’t stop.” He had such a filthy mouth. He never had a problem with telling you exactly how he felt. 

Normally you would have said something to him to egg him on, but the promise of being packed full with even more of his seed had you falling over the edge. His large hand reached up and gripped onto your throat as he felt your walls clench down hard around him, keeping your face tilted down so that he could see it. 

See your precious lips part and your eyes roll back. 

“G-God you’re so hot. Holy fuck.” The urge to squeeze your throat even tighter was overwhelming. Because you were just so soft and small compared to him. The urge to hurt you in bed was overwhelming sometimes. He wanted to leave bruises. Wanted to claim you in as many ways as he possibly could. 

It was your turn to be oversensitive. Tex continued his assault, thrusting his hips up into you as you loomed above him, trying to breathe through the comedown of your climax. He wasn’t going to give you even a second to rest though, because now he had an end goal. He wanted to cum inside of you twice without pulling out, and then enjoy the sheer amount of himself that was bound to pour out of that well loved pussy of yours. Your moans of pleasure were growing in volume, and the brunette was sure that he had seen a house less than a mile up the road. The last thing he needed was to get the cops called on the both of you, and so with frantic hands he tried to find something that he could use to muffle your screams. 

In his desperate searching his finger tugged at a long string of beads that had been haphazardly hung over the rearview mirror. The clasp gave out easily, the necklace tumbling down into the passenger seat. It was good enough for him. He gathered the long necklace up into his hand before shoving some of it into your mouth along with two of his long fingers. You gagged around him, your cunt clenching around him yet again but in shock. He let out a low growl, his breathing becoming more frantic. 

The long string of rosary beads that weren’t in your mouth felt cold against your chest. There was something that was so blasphemous about the scene. Something that was so wrong and debased that it had Tex beginning to shiver beneath you, eyes wide and glassy. He curled his fingers inside of your mouth, pressing against your tongue. 

And then he was cumming again, his head lolling back onto the headrest, the muscles in his biceps pulling tight. He breathed hard, moving one of his hands to press against your abdomen, and was pleased to find that he could feel himself twitching inside of you. 

Claiming you from the inside out. 

taglist: @knoxvillesshoes@cosmorant@ol1viam@simply-sams-things@haim80s@gabbcabb@8hgel@slutt4him@busy-bee-angel-misska@kaitaesupremacy@dazedshoon @4rt3m1ss@cryingabtab@kittenlittle24@austinsrealgf@austinbutlersgirlfriend@clearbolts @dark-as-love@anni-secret-account-75@ab4eva@starcatchxr @julietamidala @obbsessivereader@gwuide@blurredcolour@the-little-red-haired-girl@meladollsims@poppet05@shrekstheloml@randomwriter888@idc123sworld@vane28282@mirandastuckinthe80s@girlblogger2002@rockerchick05@screechingstrawberrysong@simpforevery1@girlabirla@dre6ming@obetrolncocktails@fairyjanes@jensenswinchester@lo-bells @in-my-body-bag@fxntxsix@petrparkrslut@eliseinmemphis @lelifesaver @screaching-cookie@fantuhsise@areuirish @bcofl0ve@mslizziesblog@shynovelist@ssstrangersblog @harrysthecraic@hangmanswhore@jyvnho@mymamalife @melodydior @18lkpeters @memphis-mania @rjmartin11 @artlover8992

and the big daddy crew: @powerofelvis @ggwritesstuff @woundmetender @eliseinmemphis @polksalademma @flwrs4aust @headfullofpresley @cryingabtab @austinbutlersbaby @lindszeppelin @rosaminny

[gxlds-doodles]

i read this super cute fic abt cliff booth getting a cat on ao3 by @acealpaca and i think cliff and cats is an absolutely a+ combo so i drew him n how i imagined whiskey looking while i was reading <333

[dumb-bitchass]

Welcome to the Soup

---scroll to find reqs info, news, rules, masterlist

☆ featured songs ☆

°•°•i just threw out the love of my dreams - weezer

°•°•wet - dazey and the scouts

°•°•pretty - coco & clair clair

°•°•celebrity skin - hole

currently will write for ~ ☆ °•

•breaking bad

--saul goodman, jesse pinkman

•films of wes anderson

▪︎the darjeeling limited

--francis whitman, jack whitman

▪︎the royal tenenbaums

--eli cash, richie tenenbaum

▪︎rushmore

--max fischer

•miscellaneous

--anton chigurh from no country for old men, hansel from zoolander, cliff booth & rick dalton from once upon a time in hollywood

•possibly - house of the dragon

--aegon II targaryen, aemond targaryen

°didn't watch every episode so can't write details on plot of the show, would focus just on the character

requests info ~ ☆ ° •

open / closed

•will write light nsfw, nothing heavy pls just cause i can't bring myself to write it lol

•YES to angst, NO to including suicide/suicidal thoughts, rape, sh, or sa

•allow time for requests to get done! remember fic writers have lives off tumblr

news ~ ☆ ° •

•BREAKING BAD FULL FIC IN THE WORKS, saul goodman x oc !!!! very excited for it, i have to rewatch some of the series first

•for shits and giggles, feel free to request a character that isn't on my writing list- i may have still seen whatever they're in and liked them lol

•and of course, my inbox is open for friends, mutuals, or any anon questions

masterlist ~ ☆ ° •

---sorry guys no links cause i have to do this on my phone, rip

fight club°•◇

♤{how they'd act with sick! reader / narrator, tyler durden

♤{dating headcanons / narrator, tyler durden

♤{comfort headcanons / tyler durden

♤{teen platonic reader headcanons / tyler durden

♤{street fight reader headcanons / tyler durden

♤{little controversial freaky headcanons / tyler durden

♤{kissing headcanons / narrator

Good Omens°•◇

♤{how they'd be with sick! reader / aziriphale, crowley, jim

[fictionadventurer]

Thoughts about A Biltmore Christmas that could drive me to write fanfiction (spoilers for everything):

The story of his death was a plan "we" concocted just in case. "We" suggests there were multiple people involved. My best guess is that Ava also saw Lucy disappear, and so she was primed to buy it when Jack told her this wild story of time travel.

Maybe the prop guy was involved, too? Repairing a magical time travel artifact has got to give you some insight into the existence of magical time travel.

I still thing that one bearded guy in the crew is a time traveler. He seems more casual about it. Time traveling to help a classic Hollywood film crew just for fun. He could help arrange things, too.

The story of how Jack managed not to get fired after helping a criminal escape against direct orders from the head of the studio.

About five minutes after Jack decides to stay in the future, Margaret stumbles upon them. Her shrieks of joy can be heard from space.

Lucy: Okay, Jack, time to fly back to Santa Monica....oh, wait, you have no ID. /Margaret, somehow making a facial expression that is the equivalent of fifty-seven ecstatic emojis all at once: ROAD TRIP!!!!!!!!!

Lucy: Excuse me, Mr. Tour Guide Riker, sir, I have a film star from 1948 here what do I do with him, please?/ Mr. Tour Guide Riker, handing her a manila envelope: Here are all necessary identification documents to set him up in a modern life. Please ask no questions.

(I know what Tour Guide Riker's name is. Tour Guide Riker is funnier).

Alternately, the thrilling legal battle of trying to get Jack some documentation, the same way that kids whose parents don't get them birth certificates have to.

Lucy comes home to her sister, trailed by the 1948 actor from the film they've watched multiple times a year since they were kids. Lots of freaking out happens.

Jack, who has trained as an actor in an extremely outdated style, struggles to find a job not only because of his dubious legal documentation, but also because he has zero marketable skills. With the same happy-go-lucky pluck that led him to travel eighty years into the future for the sake of a girl he'd known for a couple days, he makes the best of it and becomes an amazing house husband.

Jack watching the remake of His Merry Wife!, and having a lot of opinions about the comparative skills of the new actors. Is either extremely amused at the new Charlie actor or offended by his very existence. (I can't imagine the Hallmark actors would favorably compare to the original).

Jack: Honey, I'm sure you're an amazing writer, but I can't even begin to wrap my head around the new style of movies.

Lucy: Puts Jack through a months-long training course of classic movies to catch up on the history of cinema.

Jack Huston is an obvious stage name. Jack starts going by his original name in the future. It takes a while for Lucy to adjust.

Jack has to catch up on all of history for the past seventy-odd years. Too much amusement potential to even know where to start.

Did Jack fight in WWII? Does this affect his life at all?

Semi-regular encounters with classic Christmas movie fans: "You look just like Jack Huston." "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Jack cosplaying at Biltmore at Christmastime and having the time of his life quoting the film and getting pictures from people who are amazed that the staff found such a good impersonator.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Dear John | Unsayable Things

Masters of the Air Fanfiction

I banged this out in an hour or two, past midnight, deep in my feels, half chatting with my baby @stylespresleyhearted who put in the initial request for this series and who is now owed a few choice lines herein. If you wanna stew in the pain of Friday’s episode- this is the angst fest for you. With a tiny bit of hope at the end. Tiny. But it’s there.

Summary: months after one drunken letter of horny (and gentlemanly) admiration was sent off by one John Egan to Miss Lana Tierney of Hollywood fame, a written rapport has formed between them, based on a refreshing freedom to be perfectly frank and even trivial in their letters -a tone set by his inarguably appaling initial correspondence. But until today, he’s never dared make use of the number she gave him to dial when he needs to say unspeakable things.

Warnings: angsty as hell? morose and possibly suicidal thought processes? it’s Egan after THAT phone call so, I imagine you can envision that it’s not exactly a stable mentality portrayed here-in.

Masterlist

Date: October 1943

The hotel lobby is as chilled as an ice box with those front doors constantly revolving, letting in gusts of autumn air that’s suddenly turned harsher than he recalled when he stepped out into the daylight this morning. His ride back to East Anglia won’t be here for another two hours and no amount of charm or haggling can get him the petrol to make the journey on his own. It’s a carpool sort of life now, every man, woman and child in Britain knows that but every minute he stays in the great metropolis feels like a betrayal to those boys who just got-

-he will get back in time.

He vowed it, he arranged it, now all there’s left to do is wait until it can be enacted. John was never good at waiting but now all the activities and pastimes he’d once relied upon to fill a slow hour seem intolerable. Imbibe any more booz and he’ll be unfit to fly, seeing the sites could get him more sights than he’d like, polite conversation makes him want to scream in the face of the next passer by that he’s lost something precious today -don’t they know? -and it would be just his luck today of all days to get answered by someone who did know, some parent with a dead child, pulverized to bits while he fucked his demons out.

So John keeps his mouth shut in a stern line and stares venomously ahead at the charming little Renoir hung in the lounge. No one has troubled him yet and by the spooked face of the desk clerk who offered him a menu, he dares to think he won’t be in future.

He is sick to death of it all, of the death itself and the brave faces and the lack of bravery he suddenly feels now and the necessity of it all. He hardly recognizes the hollowed out sinner he’s become with a head full of too many griefs to even formulate a prayer.

He was close to catatonic, eyeball deep in his self abhorrence, when he realized he was spinning round the little lacquered card she had enclosed three letters ago.

“If you ever need to say those unsayables, here’s a private line. Don’t call it if you don’t want me to answer, only you, my mama and my hair stylist have it. Xoxo, Jeanie.” 💋

The unsayable would be to call one of the most successful, desirable and busy women in the world only to admit John Egan has run outta words. But with the mounting desire to do something stupidly productive, and without the kind fist of a friend to dissuade him -he knew walking in front of busses wouldn’t get him any closer to Thorpe Abbots- a starlet’s withering rejection just might do the trick. Just might hurt enough to slice through the fog. His fingers were sweating as he spun the rotary, thumbnail tracing the underside of her extension.

God knows it would be unlikely to get through even the first connection, much less get overseas, much less find her at her home. What time of day was it back there anyway? And this entire conversation would get bugged to hell, he’d have to be careful and this was a terrible idea to start with and-

“Hello you,” the airiest voice he’s ever heard warbles over the static, teasing and warm, “I’ll admit it, that lilac did nothing for my color last night. You win, I’ve got the front page of the Whisper to confirm, please, don’t rub it in.”

John stares out of his little alcove in the lounge with watery eyes, mouthing a silent -what the fuck- to himself before recalling the obvious: only her mother, her hairstylist and him. With this line, Jeanie -or should he call her Lana on the phone?- didn’t expect a stranger. This was an anticipated call and he about hangs up in mortification at not being what she expected.

But then, the hollow idea of one and a half hours of waiting for the ride catches up and John recalls that he had in fact phoned in order to be humiliated and he was a rare sort of chump to take so poorly to a plan gone off to so dazzling a start.

“Can’t imagine a shade that wouldn’t suit you.” he finds himself saying smoothly, the flirtation on autopilot.

He can hear an audible gasp on the other end of the line and a breathy sputter and what might be sheets rustling, or perhaps it’s a dress or paper or-

“JOHNNY?” she all but squeals and he winces at the blare of the receiver in his ear, the flinching crinkle of his blue eyes not without some pleased merriment at her unabashed excitement. “This you? Finally you used it, you silly old thing! Oh gosh, oh gosh say something again, your voice is divine! Oh, I can’t believe I’m finally talking to you. I thought you were my mother! Oh say something! You’re there, aren’t you? Johnny?”

She sounds so pleased he finds his eyes smarting and suddenly this feels like the worst idea in the world. He needed her to be harsh, to fit with every other disillusionment that’s rained down on him this past month, instead he’s met with -care. His stomach roils and not even the mean suspicion that she’s putting on an act can make it calm. “Well, I’m finally somewhere I don’t have to share a line with the whole group.”

“Where’s that, Johnny?” She sounds as eager as if he’s got a lot of options.

“London.”

“Oh!” There’s a waiver to her voice, he’s not sure why, but either way she sounds unsure if she should be merry or sober. “Business or pleasure?” she inquires levelly and it’s got all the sultry teasing he’s read into her scrawled writing hundreds of times, John finds himself flushing despite the morose sentiment that comes up right behind it.

“That, well, uh, that uh“ he picks at the sleek paint on the phone base and questions whether he’s going to use precious time on the phone with the hottest dame on planet earth to throw a pity party, “-I think the intention was a rehabilitation for the nerves. Ironically the guy who suggested it is now toast.”

“Oh John.” she sounds wounded and he bites his lip in savage pleasure at hearing what he wishes he could feel. “Was it -was it someone close?”

“A couple hundred, more like.” he sulks, his jaw ticking so hard he might break a molar if he keeps on. “But yeah. Yeah today was-“ he tries to think of the censors and that makes him laugh at the thought of all their previous filthy correspondence making it through but some slip of the tongue about a dead friend could land them in the hot spot, his following laugh is snotty and he could gag at himself for it.

“Johnny, darling man, are you-“ she shifts course and he holds his breath, depending on her for something, he doesn’t even what, “-does this happen to have something to do with our duet’s harshest critic?”

He smiles at her cleverness, she’s not a complete airhead then. And she recalls Buck. Of course she does, she hasn’t stopped sending him kisses via Egan’s letters even though she didn’t recall meeting either, not even when John had sent back photographs of the both of them to jog it. The flow of correspondence hadn't stalled despite this strike out and neither had the morale boosting glamor shots of certain of her assets which John kept locked in the false bottom of his footlocker and one small one folded in in the hollowed heel of his boot.

_“keeping it handy for the emergency tug off?” Gale had scorned him but Egan liked having her with him._

“Yeah, Shirley Temple- he’s been uh, he’s been traded, ya see.” Egan manages the metaphor once more and winces at the truth it hides.

He hears Je-Lana?-Jeanie?- suck in a breath on the other end. “Gosh. John. Any sign of, of-“ she begins to stammer, “of chut-“

-chutes, she’s going to say. John coughs loudly into the reviver and her voice trails off in recognition of his warning. “This was a mistake.” he decides, “I just -you can see why- I just thought I’d like to hear a-a-a voice, a-“

“A friend!” she replies eagerly, “I’m here, I’m here don’t go, not yet, not unless you have to, Major. Are you waiting? You’ll be wanting to get back, no? Or will you be staying on? In London?”

“I’m not staying.”

“Of course.” she whispers, “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.”

His grip on the receiver has turned white. “No,” he decides, “I’m the one who’s sorry. Bringing this up, never even talked to you before and I go and make it this the call. Pretty girl like you doesn’t need this.”

“I told you to call.” she reminds him gently, “And Johnny, I’m ever so happy to hear your voice, I’ve imagined it a million times rereading your letters and looking at your photographs. I can concede that my imagination failed.”

“You reread them?” he is amused.

“Yes. Don’t you reread mine?”

“Mhmm you bet.”

“Gosh your voice gives me shivers.” she whispers into the phone and he feels an odd rising of the hair on the back of his neck. “Are you having to beat the London women off with a baseball bat?”

“I just let ‘em swarm.” he admits and she makes a noise of intrigue, “I was with a widow last night.” He blurts. “Polish. We watched the bombs from my hotel room.”

“How relaxing.” Without missing a beat Jeanie’s soft tease comes through, “Did the one balance the other for the nerves?”

“I’m dehydrated and hungover.”

“And grieving.” she adds.

That’s an unsayable. “I just needed to talk to someone.” he decides.

“Did she not speak English?”

He’s gone this far, he might as well be honest. “She didn’t know Buck.”

“Mm.” She makes a mournful noise of assent.

“I-I’m tryin’ not to do something stupid Jeanie,” he hates how his voice shakes but to her, it sounds more like rage than fear, “and I thought if I could hear your voice I’d -id get some peace. And wait for my ride without bustin’ up the Carleton.”

“Yes, I forbid you to bust up the Carleton without me, Major.” she warns and his pulse leaps at the simple direction, it’s a joke of course but it lodges heavy and wanted in his chest. “Promise me, Johnny, one day we’ll cause a great scandal there, you and I?”

“Miss Tierney,” he bites at his lip, “it’s a kindness for me not to make promises. To girls -to anybody.” She’s got to know that, she’s just being nice. “Especially not to special little ladies with nice long futures ahead of them.”

“It’s Turner, actually, Miss Turner if you’re going to be so formal.” She corrects, not a single part of her name Hollywood hasn’t meddled with. “But you must know, it’s far too late for that John. I miss you like mad.”

“We haven’t even met.” he reasons.

“What, and you don’t miss me?”

He curses under his breath fondly and shrugs. “I adore you.”

There’s a beat of silence in which he thinks he may have blown it by being so gushing but in fact, Jeanie finds herself milking her throat to dislodge the lump of painful glee settling there.

“Then you do whatever you have to, Bucky Egan,” she commands him, imperious but fervent, “you punch and get punched and drink as much as you need and bed as many girls as it takes and go after Buck-“

“-hold up, how’d you kn-“

“-but you come home. It’s much too late to tell me not to get my hopes up. You’re all I dream about anymore. There’s got to be some future for us, there’s got to be, Johnny, I’m not asking you to promise I’m asking you to try. Do what you’re good at.”

The pause is long and heavy and Bucky thinks he hears her sniffling on the other end. Unmoored by the unprecedented honesty he’s receiving and the juxtaposition of being someone’s risky bet for happiness when just this morning he’d come to resign himself to letting go what could only ever be a passing night's comfort- “Hell of a business.” he finds himself repeating.

“But you’re the best at it.” she retorts, “So stay the best.”

Everything certain, everything he thought was a given got blown to hell with Gale’s plane today. “Used to tell him if everybody else went down it’d be just him and me. I believed that.” He mumbles into the phone, turning to tuck his neck into the device like it’s the soft crook of her neck, “Now to be the best- that’s just me, and charred Europe under me and no one else in sight. That’s what you’re asking? ‘Cause that’s how this ends.”

The sun is shining bright and brutal in California, a cheery morning to mock her cocktail hangover and now she thinks it’s to hurt him as well, everything is so far removed an ocean away. Such bleakness is hard to even fathom for her, but the man she’s come to know, to love even, on paper is hoarsely spilling his guts to her over the phone and she’s not sure what one says to such a prediction. Her agent hovers in the doorway, the angry swats of her hand not sufficient to deter him from fretting with the press conference approaching. “So what, this is a suicide note?” she winces as soon as she says it but honesty has always been their currency.

“No.” he replies at long last and her shoulders sag. “I thought- i just wanted to hear your voice once before I go up again, Jeanie.”

“And I’m glad you called.” she swears, “And now I’ll have a voice to go with all the wicked things you do in my dreams.”

“Oh fu- Jeanie that’s unfair.” He balks and she grins at the little victory.

“Alls fair in love and war, Major.” She reminds, “Now tell me, do you want to tell me about him? Buck-“

“No, fuck no!” he hisses, angry at himself, “I wanted to talk to you to forget. I wanted to hear your voice.” He repeats it like an idiot.

“Then tell me,” she soothes, unphased by his outburst, “what would you like to hear in my voice, Major? The latest score? Perhaps the front page of the Times? They brought it in with my toast. Or some dirty line from one of your letters? I’ve got them here under one of Salinger’s books. They’re safe from the fiancé there, he’s a complete ignoramus with a phobia for learning.”

Bucky chuckles at her unabashed derision for her hotel scion intended and grins at the idea of her sleeping so near to his scrawled professions of lo- obsession at the very least.

Love is another unsayable.

“Just -tell me about your day, sweetheart?“ he begs, hoarse with the need to teleport elsewhere for the remaining forty minutes of his wait.

“If you’re sure.” she sounds only mildly skeptical, “It’s been very loungey, rather frilly.”

“Perfect.” he sighs, closing his eyes.

“Well, it’s actually morning here so I haven’t been up to much,” she begins and he feels guilty for just dialing away, damn the timezones, “I’ve not even dressed.”

“What color are you wearing?” he begs before he even realizes it.

“White.”

Hey sucks his teeth and nods approvingly. “White what?”

“A silk top and- no! Go away Herbert, for the last time!” Some interruption seems to occur on her end as a man’s voice comes through in snatches and Jeanie’s raised one drifts through the hand she’s cupped over the receiver, “Herbert, for the love of God, I am talking to one of the men protecting our country, the reporters can wait!”

Jeanie’s snappy loyalty soothes some raw edge he’s felt since watching *her* leave this morning without more than a kiss. “Reporters, huh?” he sympathizes, fully ready to give her an out.

“You’d think they’d have enough to report, there’s a war on.” she seethes and he has to smile again, “Anway, where were we? Oh, my pajama shorts.”

“White.”

“Yes Johnny, white.”

“Send me a picture?”

“Awfully demanding for a man who hasn’t even promised me he’ll try to live and see them in person.”

John puffs out a laugh at being snared so easily. “Alright, I’ll try.”

“Promise?” Her voice sounds so small.

“I promise.” He’s dazed by the shift, how did he end up being the one begged by Miss Hollywood herself? Perhaps he’s still drunker than he thought.

“It’s all any of us can do, Johnny,” she says, “but we’ve gotta try. You got your pinky up?”

“What?”

“For your oath- pinky swear.”

“You're not even here.” he laughs.

“I’ve got mine crooked, come on Major, meet me halfway.”

And so John Egan finds himself sporting a watery, helpless grin as he lifts his finger into thin air and crooks it around her imaginary little digit. Her sigh sounds as if she can feel it a ocean away. Perhaps he’s gone fully looney in the way he thinks he can, too.

He doubts she’ll appreciate his choices in the next few weeks, maybe even doubt his intention to keep his oath, but what matters is he’s going to try. Even if it’s an angry, furious, blind sort of determination, it keeps him firmly out of the London bus lane until Hobbs and his transport arrive and then it’s goodbye Jean Turner, hello again Thorpe Abbots.

Taglist: (I’m sorry for tagging y’all twice in a single day, oops)

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

[tomb-bloom-noctem]

"bUt thE wRIteRs stRiKe wILL rUiN mY sHoWs!"

Buddy, I used to be the biggest diehard fan of Once Upon a Time (2011-2018), a show that was untouched by the writer's strike and yet still managed to completely break itself in terms of writing. Look at Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, look at any show really. There's always the possibility or capacity for a show to fall from grace. Without any strike.

The strike is about the people. Whether they do good writing or bad, they deserve a fair and living wage. They deserve to not be screwed over by the big corporations/entertainment industry higher ups. They deserve to not have their jobs threatened with AI, their work history erased for tax write-off purposes and to avoid paying residuals.

Yes it's likely that if this strike lasts long enough that we will see some damage done to the shows on that we love right now. But it's far more important to support the people who write them for a living. If we fail them now, we will only continue to see shows that could be great but don't achieve that. We will see people abandoning the career they want and work so hard for because it is unobtainable. A horrible spiral of bad entertainment and poorly treated people will go hand in hand. There is literally no point to not supporting the strike, for no good will come out of it's failure. Look beyond the short term. Your favorite showing having a bad season or even at worse being canceled too soon will hurt yes but it will hurt far less than the longer-term consequences of Hollywood and the entertainment industry's abuse of people will.

Even if you're someone like me who doesn't really watch much for TV/movies anymore, please support the strike. Do it for any story you once loved or do love. Do it in the name of authors. Of fanfiction writers. Of the kids in school saying that they want to be a writer for their When I Grow Up I Want To Be assignments.

Remember that no matter what the headlines read or the fan outrage is or how current and future projects are affected by this strike, remember the people. This. Is. About. People. Support the people. Without people, there is no art.

[lollytea]

You said that asks may help you formulate your au thoughts and prompt you to talk about it so if it helps- I'm very curious about the cliffhanger the last lore dump left us on, re: Luz! Very curious to see how she fits into all of this. Sidenote about hunters deal: is Belos like. A stagemom in this au? A stage uncle? Highly entertaining if so. Demoted in power but still just as evil

Hmm!! Yeah I think it would absolutely be easier to drop info about the AU in little bits at a time depending on what questions I get. I've already thought about almost everybody in this AU and where they're situated but I guess I was getting overwhelmed with thinking about writing it all down at once.

Anyways!! Miss Luz Noceda!!

In this universe, the "fancy hospital" was located in California so Luz and her parents packed up and moved from Conneticut when she was a little kid. Her Dad Manny spent a few years drifting away, slowly at first, and then all at once. And Luz, a girl who's already a bright and imaginative storyteller, falls deeply in love with the fantasy book he left her.

What begins as a healthy coping mechanism devolves into escapism as Luz desperately clings to fiction in order to endure the difficulty of real life. School is hard, making friends is hard and nobody really understands her hobbies and passions, not even her mom (Even if she tries. She tries so hard.)

Living on the outskirts of the world of showbusiness, Luz quickly takes an interest in the magic of the screen. More than anything else, Luz wants to create. And creation comes in many forms and she has no intention of being confined to just one. Luz wants to be an actor, a writer, a director, an artist, an animator, a singer, a dancer, etc etc.

It's when her mom Camila finally puts her foot down and insists that Luz needs to learn to separate fantasy from reality, that her life really kicks off.

The Reality Check Center, an after school program which Luz is meant to attend every week day at 3:30pm sharp.

But after meeting somebody special, this is not where Luz goes every day after school.

Instead, Luz is hanging out in the house of Edalyn Clawthorne, an ex-starlet who Luz recognized on sight as Hecate in the 1980s Azura film adaption.

It's always been a mystery why Eda did not reprise her role for any of the sequels/spinoffs that Hollywood churned out for years afterwards. But upon meeting her and learning a little more of her story, Luz learns the truth from behind the scenes.

Eda has a chronic autoimmune disease and she was considered too "inconvenient" to have as a star of the franchise, so she was quietly let go after the first film released. She hasn't acted since and really has no intention of returning to that life.

Luz idolizes Eda and quickly latches on to her, demanding that she be her mentor and show her the ropes of showbiz. Eda hems and haws for a while before being worn down by Luz's persistent enthusiasm.

Luz meets Willow when the latter is trying to talk herself out of having a complete meltdown and the two quickly bond over being a pair of neurodivergent academically and socially challenged silly billies.

Willow is weak for pretty girls so she lets Luz talk her into sneaking her on set. Predictably, Luz causes havoc and gets banned from the premises within a few hours.

But that's okay! Because guess what! Turns out Luz is a perfect third musketeer for the funky little friend group Willow and Gus already had going on.

Luz does tons of stuff. She writes fanfiction. She has several notebooks full of anime art. But most notably, she has a YouTube channel.

Remember mid 2000s YouTube? Before it became the corporate husk that it is today? Back when it was just kids dicking around and posting their dumb silly vlogs.

Thats what Luz does. She posts dumb silly vlogs. She infodumps to the camera about her interests, she films herself while she's out with her friends. She just has fun, yknow?

Willow and Gus have fun too. Considering they are featured in like 90% of Luz's videos, laughing and joking around with her. But thats not all they do.

Willow, who has spent several months being the butt of the joke in the the Hexside show, is experiencing what it's like to be behind a camera while being respected and loved.

Willow is an exceptionally talented rollerskater. So of course Luz is filming her do tricks around the skatepark, whooping and hollering and chanting her name. Willow has a huge interest in botany. And superhero comics. And photography. And romcoms. And Luz will let her share fun facts about her interests, or maybe even babble for a bit, and Luz will act as though she's privileged to speak to a professor of the subject. It makes Willow blush and giggle, pretending it's not a big deal.

It's a huge deal actually.

It's through Luz's vlogs that Willow's authentic personality finally bleeds through the screen. Willow Park is not Paulina. She's not ditzy. She's not unobservant. She's something else entirely.

Willow Park is soft spoken but opinionated. She is witty and expressive. She's tough and sporty. She's wise beyond her years. She's wild and mischievous. She's sweet and silly. She's so many things that she'll make your head spin.

The scripts of the final Hexside S1 episodes are beginning to trickle out around this time and honestly? The writers are sick of Paulina. They're tired of the character. They're tired of the "She's stupid" joke. They feel like they've hit a brick wall with her, in a creative sense. But now they have Season 2 to work on and...ugghhh...

That's when one writer just happens to stumble across TheGoodWitchLuzura on YouTube and finds two young actors that they know very well, just existing outside of the set.

Willow is different on Luz's videos. While on set around the likes of Amity and Adrian, she simply keeps quiet, keeps her head down and does what she's told. She doesn't really spark any inspiration, yknow?

But after seeing this? This bright, sharp witted, skater girl on a griny camera recording? Well after seeing that, they really start feeling the urge to maybe spruce up Paulina's character a bit. Make her a little more compelling.

So, in that way, Luz Noceda completely changed Willow Park's life.

Willow still doesn't think she believes in God but if angels exist, Luz is definitely one of them.

If you said this to Luz, she'd disagree. She'd prefer to be a Demon >:3

________

ANYWAY!! On to the Belos question.

See, I think I'm going to take inspiration from the show's canon version of the Wittebane family as an endless cycle of pain and suffering.

Philip and Caleb Wittebane were a pair of orphan boys that managed to somehow weasel their way into the spotlight at an early age. It fed them well. It kept a roof over their heads. So that meant that this was a nice life, right?

The two brothers were considered timeless stars and their names would go down in history as some of Hollywood's finest.

In the year 1990, Caleb Wittebane was found dead in his home at the age of 30. Based on the evidence, it appeared he had taken his own life.

Philip was then given custody of his brother's infant son and promised that the boy would be raised to understand just what a wondrous legacy his father left behind.

Caleb Wittebane may have been buried 6ft under but Philip had no intention of letting him die. His DNA was still preserved, attached to this fat clump of an infant.

This baby was Caleb's second chance to live. Philip was going to make sure his stupid brother made the right choices this time.

Caleb wasn't going to throw it all away this time. Philip wouldn't let him.

[kamreadsandrecs]

Title: Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)

Author: Olivia Dade

Genre/s: contemporary romance

Content/Trigger Warning/s: portrayals of discrimination against dyslexia; fatphobia; uncaring parents

Summary (from the author's website): The world may know him as Aeneas, star of the biggest show on television, but fanfiction readers call him something else: Book!AeneasWouldNever. Marcus gets out his frustrations with the show through anonymous stories about the internet’s favorite couple, Aeneas and Lavinia. But if anyone discovered his online persona, he’d be finished in Hollywood.

April Whittier has secrets of her own. A hardcore Lavinia fan, she’s long hidden her fanfic and cosplay hobbies from her “real life”—but not anymore. When she dares to post her latest costume creation on Twitter, her plus-size take goes viral. And when Marcus asks her out to spite her internet critics, truth officially becomes stranger than fanfiction.

On their date, Marcus quickly realizes he wants more from April than a one-time publicity stunt. But when he discovers she’s Unapologetic Lavinia Stan, his closest fandom friend, he has one more huge secret to keep from her.

With love and Marcus’s career on the line, can the two of them stop hiding once and for all, or will a match made in fandom end up prematurely cancelled?

Buy Here: https://bookshop.org/p/books/spoiler-alert-olivia-dade/14843759

Spoiler-Free Review: This was such a fun read! It feels like reading fanfic in the BEST possible way, and all the nods to ACTUAL fanfic communities is very much icing on the cake. It’s been YEARS since I actively participated (in that I post fic and comment on other people’s work), but there were plenty of moments when I felt warm and fuzzy over memories from when I was more active. I also appreciate how the author CELEBRATED the good things about fandom and fanfic writing, not least because fanfic is still looked down upon by a lot of authors - this, despite the fact that some of the most popular authors, especially in genre fiction, used to write fanfic themselves, and their work as fanfic authors shows in how they write their own original works.

I was also delighted by the way April’s weight and Marcus’s dyslexia were handled. Their respective drives to heal from the trauma caused by their upbringing and a less-than-kind world was very touching to read about, but what really got me was how they supported each other through their most challenging moments. I also appreciated how their romance didn’t necessarily “fix” their respective traumas; their love and support for each other are very important factors in HELPING them heal, but it does not in any way FIX them. This is a distinction I deeply appreciate.

Overall, this was a wonderful, squee-worthy read. The nods to fandom and fanfic writing were thoroughly enjoyable to read about, as was the development of April and Marcus’ relationship. This reads like fanfic in the best way possible, and is guaranteed to give anyone who’s ever been involved in fanfic and fandom the most wonderful warm and fuzzy feelings.

Rating: five kudos

[livvyofthelake]

every time one of those movies comes out that’s like. a good movie for people who don’t watch good movies. think knives out, think saltburn, think once upon a time in hollywood. you know what i mean. anyway every time one of these movies comes out and we all have to sit here and watch like. young fandom people get their grubby disgusting little hands on that movie and turn it over and over and they thirst over the hot male lead and they ship things and they write fanfiction all while insisting the whole time that it’s like. the savior of cinema. and we are all like ok are you 17 years old have you ever seen an actual good movie before?? and then they get mad at us for that because they’re actually 18-20 and watched one indie film five months ago starring some dude they want to fuck, so of course they know all about Real Cinema. and there’s nothing to be done we just have to sit here and ride it out. this is the circle of life i’m starting to think.

[fortunatelychaoticphantom]

Highlighted Posts - Fandom Topics

For some explanation, see serious topics post.

Avatar the Last Airbender / Legend of Korra:

Aang, forgiveness and violence in The Southern Raiders (meta).

Aang’s (lack of a) character arc (meta) + same response, posted independently from the original chain post with a bit of revisions (meta).

Avatar, violence and last second anti-killing rhetoric (meta).

The actual advice the past Avatars gave Aang (meta).

Aang vs. Ozai final battle and Star Wars influences (meta).

The Great Divide is good actually (meta).

Aang being rewarded by the universe? (meta).

Third season Scorched Earth plan out of left field (meta).

Bloodbending and Energybending (meta).

Katara didn't have a “plot armor” in the final battle with Azula, she's the epitome of a warrior (meta).

Katara and non-lethal battle winning (meta/joke).

Katara didn’t beat Pakku (meta).

Katara didn’t choose Aang “over” Zuko (meta).

Anastasia!Zutara AU (headcanon).

Mai and Zuko, what should have been (meta).

Mai happily joined Azula to hunt Zuko (meta).

Kanna and Pakku... why??? (meta/joke).

Gender equality in the Fire Nation and WW2 equivalents (meta).

Legend of Korra, the status quo and the institution of the Avatar (meta).

Making Korra’s dad chief is just… awful (meta).

Harry Potter:

The Malfoys didn’t have a redemption in canon (meta).

Michael Gambon is great, you guys are just mean (meta).

Snape, Dumbledore and the Defence against the Dark Arts (meta/joke).

No thanks, I don’t need a young Snape movie (joke).

What Harry’s reaction to his name being pulled from the Goblet should have been (joke).

The Tri-Wizard tournament has no rules (meta).

Star Wars:

Star wars and Pirates of the Caribbean are the same story (meta).

Kylo Ren and redemption in the Star Wars universe and Hollywood [tlj post] (meta).

DC:

so... does Superman have an appendix? (joke).

Why Selina Kyle never goes to Arkham (joke).

The Scorpion King/Wonder Woman comparison (joke).

Marvel:

Infinity War and the horror of the snap (meta).

Who’s the avengers’ designer? (joke).

Black Panther and The Lion King similarities regarding women (meta).

Shipping in the MCU (joke).

Antman and family (joke).

Pirates of the Caribbeans:

Elizabeth and Will’s relationship is the heart of the movies (meta).

The best things about PotC (meta).

Disney:

I sort of wrote a one-shot about the bimbettes from Beauty and the Beast (fanfiction).

Belle in the Hunchback of Notre Dame (meta).

Del Toro, monstrosity and Beauty and the Beast (meta).

Inner Workings is amazing (meta).

Frozen’s Anna and Hans (joke).

Quasimodo is awesome (meta).

Around the world with Captain Phoebus (joke).

Pocahontas’ ending is subversive as fuck (joke/meta).

Hercules didn’t know who Hades was (joke).

Other:

Bullshit “feminist” retelling and Mad Max Fury Road (joke/meta).

“Feminist” retellings explanation (analysis).

She-Ra and the inherently good protagonist (meta).

I hate the ending of She-Ra (meta).

Once upon a Time, Regina and redemption (two diverging threads of the same post) (meta): First and Second.

Ross Geller isn’t that bad, you guys are just mean. Or: The unbelievable cruelty of what Carol did to Ross (meta).

Bella Swan and Hermione Granger comparisons are bullshit (meta).

Twilight and depression (meta).

New Moon reread comments (meta).

Eclipse reread comments (meta).

Breaking Dawn reread comments (meta).

The Good Place is the greatest show in history. But also I have thoughts (meta).

The single most beautiful Geralt and Jeskier art ever made [The Witcher] (fanart).

Dimitri wanted to find the real Anastasia all along in hopes that she survived the revolution [Anastasia 1997] (meta).

Godzilla, Pacific Rim and Hollywood: between grim-dark and camp (meta).

Wednesday Addams and the usurpation of the summer camp for rich white kids (meta).

Debbie Jellinsky is the best [The Addams Family Values] (joke).

Achilles and Patroclus sitting in an urn. K.I.S.S.I.N.G. (joke).

Of course the Jewish women are the witches in Oz the Great and Powerful… (joke/meta).

Bird Box and mental illness (meta).

My problems with Carmen San Diego (meta).

Ice Princess and teenage movie tropes. Or: They're lesbians Harold (meta/joke).

Lord of the Rings life goals (joke).

The School of Good and Evil and that little bit of antisemitism… (joke).

Game of Thrones / House of the Dragon genetics are weird (joke).

Why wouldn’t I keep talking about old fandoms? (joke/analysis).

I hate Barbie. Sorry. (meta).

[pseudobabble]

My Really Lukewarm Take on Damien Chazelle’s Babylon

Subtitled “Playing Jenga With The Devil: Or, The Price You Pay For Once Upon a Time In Hollywood AU Fix-It Fanfiction”. I touch upon Whiplash + Once Upon a Time in Hollywood at some length here too. Whatever

     At a certain period of time, in certain circles, there was a recurrent phenomenon of people who made a big deal out of liking “film” but seemingly had no real grasp of the medium or major contributions to it beyond the most recent (How are you going to have a release from within the last calendar year on your Letterboxd favorites?) or the least arcane of the canon (Citizen Kane, Scarface, Psycho—Film Appreciation community college level core. Not to knock community college). What these people had a preternatural grasp on, though, was what made a bad movie—and it wasn’t uncommon to come across people who professed a deep, significant, undying love for cinema and who could not name a movie they liked that wasn’t a significant part of recent pop culture, but who could at length describe everything wrong with movies like Troll 2, Manos: The Hands of Fate, Birdemic, The Room. It got to a point where it seemed like there were more people who defined their love of film by their capacity to recognize when things were bad. Pointing to the obvious faults and flaws in low-budget movies, frequently made by non-Americans, where there were obvious and glaring lilts in conversations, plot movements, and character motivations, somehow constituted a keen sense of film criticism, even though a lot of it felt more like when a child knows that the gifts Santa supposedly brought had the same wrapping paper that their mom used for her coworker’s Christmas gift. To sit with a movie and enjoy it is to buy into an illusion, to let a lie happen to you. Sometimes the lie works. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s variable. Some lies are obvious to everyone. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out that Santa didn’t conveniently have that same roll of paper, and likewise it doesn’t take much sage wisdom to understand that a first time filmmaker working with a limited budget and minimal proficiency (and weighed down by overconfidence) will have a harder time pulling the wool over your eyes than people with filmic pockets deeper than most graves, understanding of what works due to years of immersion in the field, and a steady level of what they are and aren’t capable of. 

     I don’t know if this category of person still lingers in the dredges of YouTube and Letterboxd, living life through the lens of 2011 like girls who are still devoted to One Direction members. I also don’t necessarily lack understanding of their thought process: negatives always stick out more than positives, and there’s a sense of community and unification in all collectively laughing at the same elements of something. The problem ends up being that in that collective experience, it is at the expense of someone’s expression. Remember, a lot of these same people have huge aspirations of making it big as a filmmaker, possibly the next Snyder or Fincher or Aronofsky. I think John Krasinski actually said something really lame about this that Paul Thomas Anderson told him:

He recalled an incident that happened at his house where during a discussion about a film, Krasinski casually remarked, “It’s not a good movie.” Anderson quietly explained the actor as to why it is important not to label films as good or bad.

“He so sweetly took me aside and said very quietly, ‘Don’t say that. Don’t say that it’s not a good movie. If it wasn’t for you, that’s fine, but in our business, we’ve all got to support each other.’ The movie was very artsy, and he said, ‘You’ve got to support the big swing. If you put it out there that the movie’s not good, they won’t let us make more movies like that,'” Krasinski revealed.

Praising the Phantom Thread director, the actor said Anderson is “defending the value of the artistic experience.”

     Crazy how you can afford to not be cutthroat after several Oscar noms. What a nice guy!

     The thing about the bulk of these people is the most they’ll accomplish (if they ever do this) is filming an unmemorable short of worse quality before either dropping out to become a pothead, switching majors to something their parents are more approving of, or maybe persevering, making a few other shitty shorts, hacking it out through the bottom slums of the film school industry wherever is closest to them, writing Letterboxd reviews where they rate the movie out of five in the review despite the star rating being a native function. Maybe they will make YouTube videos reviewing the newest Netflix and Marvel releases. But I don’t think these people end up miserable about their fate. They acclimate. People stretch and shrink and contort to the box they find themselves in. Especially if they lack drive and discipline—if they’ve invested nothing more than time, shed no blood, sweat, or tears, then departure from one’s fantasy is really easy because they didn’t really do much to bring it forward. They imagined a glimpse of it, and that was enough. There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s what a movie is at the end of day—you concoct a fantasy. Sometimes no one else gets let in to your dream and careers die before they’re even born and entire galaxies no one will ever know about go down with them. 

     Sometimes, though, other people will make movies about characters who are super motivated, totally slavishly devoted to their craft and the idea of being the best at it. Even if it’s something as banal as slamming sticks against a drum set, over and over again until your palms are torn open and blood is all over the drums, but it’ll come right off, and all over the drumsticks, and you’re not sure if there’s some kind of finish on them that prevents staining or if end of day they’re just plain old porous wood that will let your blood seep into its crevices, bright red right now but you can just see it turning brown, because that’s inevitable—as inevitable as your attempt towards greatness, and as futile, too. And because every movie about art is really supposed to be a movie about the filmmaker in relation to filmmaking, this is about how you will break your own bones, hurt your own body, ruin your relationship with the hot girl who works at the theater you go to with your daddy because film is just that important to you. 

     But also, sometimes the idea of that and the presentation of it is a lot more romantic and grand and big than the follow up, and sometimes you make a movie about that because the caring is what you know people care about, and not what happens after to people who care too much about the wrong things, because nobody really thinks they care about the wrong things and if you say afterwards in an interview “I think there's a certain amount of damage that will always have been done. Fletcher will always think he won and Andrew will be a sad, empty shell of a person and will die in his 30s of a drug overdose. I have a very dark view of where it goes” no one really thinks twice about how the movie is kind of weird and in bad faith then. 

     Because really then the entire movie is build-up to a moment, and everything before is preordained because the characters are just your puppets to get a specific moment out of them. Everything is carefully, perfectly arranged, like a tea party, but you want bad things to happen. You want your stuffed animals to be horrible to each other, and you want a hint of gruesomeness—think of bloody hands being submerged into an iced pitcher, the diluted blood when he takes his hands out being evocative of Andrew being rendered into submission by his want. Think of a 19 year old boy, bruised and bleeding after running from a car accident, getting blood all over a drum set for the second time in the movie. Think of the tableau Chazelle paints in his description of what happens after the movie: for some reason, he wants someone to suffer. Not really because of something they wanted at a point; remember: he decided they wanted that, because it made it easier to justify their suffering. And that suffering culminates in a shared glance across a stage, and that’s the point of the movie: disrupting a live jazz show for a look of vague approval, and eventually you die after. Every moment of this is a blip on the radar for everyone else. 

     A lot of specific sequences and events that have been documented to history are, to us, preordained because we know how they go. A lot of stories share the same arc, the same premises, the same kind of order. Sharon Tate will have never not been murdered on Cielo Drive; for whatever reason, in Once Upon a Time In Hollywood, Tarantino offers her a reprieve, along with the rest of her housemates. Why? Tarantino obviously doesn’t have any particular fondness towards women. But he makes sure to show her off, safe and sound, not even necessarily rescued but glossed over by her would-be assailants at the very end of the movie, after the forces coming after her have been vanquished, after the brute who vanquished them has been safely carried off to the hospital for minor wounds, with the promise of bagels in the morning and a command to his only friend—and thus his best friend—to go to bed, enjoy his night with his spooked wife. But instead Rick’s invited to have a drink with Tate, and Jay Sebring, and everyone else. Tarantino didn’t need to make a statement on the fate of the characters after the movie—waning careers, marriage troubles, or hospitalizations aside, everyone’s alive and fine when the credits roll. But for some reason he decided to describe Rick Dalton’s revitalized career after the movie ends. Tarantino’s not a director known for empathy or being kind to his characters or giving characters in his movies space to live—but Once Upon a Time is an exercise in all of those things. Even the bloodbath towards the end could be far more gruesome or unwarranted, and it’s easy to sneer at just how excessive it does feel until you remember that those are fictional representations of the people who actually did kill Sharon Tate, and while the movie is in part about the possibility of preserving a life, it’s also about comeuppance. Cliff’s comeuppance is in his history of brutality making him the perfect candidate to fight off three unruly teens; Rick’s comeuppance is his career finally taking off after participating in the spaghetti westerns he so harshly slandered. Tate’s comeuppance is getting to live, and getting to see herself in a movie. You get the idea: Tarantino’s only being harsh in his just deserts as is requisite. 

     I want you to imagine, as I have frequently since seeing Babylon, Damien Chazelle sitting in a dark room with Once Upon a Time In Hollywood playing, and seething thinking about what a waste so much of it is—why is it so slow? Why isn’t Brad Pitt the lead? Why isn’t Margot Robbie in more of this? I want to see Margot Robbie naked, she’s so hot in Wolf of Wall Street. Why hasn’t the Manson family actually shown up yet? Who’s that blonde girl with the big tits? Why isn’t this movie more 60s? Why isn’t Charles Manson in this that much? Why isn’t he celebrating the beauty and magic of cinema? Where are the drugs? Where are the hippies? Why isn’t there more jazz music? 

     Whiplash is a good movie. This seems to be a fluke attributable to the performances in it and the simplicity of the plot in comparison to La La Land—which isn’t at all complex, it just isn’t about a 19 year old college student who wants to be the best little drummer boy in the world. First Man is the first ever AI generated movie, featuring a goodie bag of small roles from a lot of C, D, E, and F list actors. Clint Eastwood was originally supposed to direct it. It probably would have been better if he had. None of these three films, nor the one film that preceded them, could have prepared anyone for Babylon, a movie about a day laborer (?) a rising starlet (?) an italian larper (?) Jeff Garlin as Harvey Weinstein (?). There’s a lot, it’s a lot. 

     The components of the movie are overbearing and earnestly not worth dissecting. What’s more compelling to me is Damien Chazelle eviscerating Robbie and Pitt because he doesn’t really get to see them get eviscerated in Hollywood. The actual propulsion and process of the movie and the landscape and trajectory it takes you through really doesn’t matter because it’s less a film and more of a woodchipper. There’s an input and an output. Input: Actors. Output: their demise, all caught on film. 

     What also sticks out to me significantly, too, is the “so bad it’s good” movie seems to be a relic now—everything mediocre now always has a slick sheen to it, a polish, a once-over and special attention that the previously mentioned laughingstocks would never have gotten. Babylon is something of a drain to watch because of its utter humorlessness—what happens when the fuck-up isn’t even that fun to gaze at anymore? What happens when there’s nothing to jeer at? 

     I don’t think Chazelle played well with others as a kid. He isn’t very nice when he sees someone else playing with a toy he wants, to the point of taking it and breaking it. Now no one has the toy, but Chazelle has the satisfaction of knowing he made something bad happen. 

     Film is illusory and you can make the same car crash happen a thousand times but it’s a simulation and synthetic and even if it feels real or doesn’t feel real, no matter the staging or the framing, it’s not a real thing that’s happened. It only goes so far as you buy into it. Who’s buying into Babylon? Letterboxd contrarians desperate to formulate a hot take? Chazelle, because he’s decided to? 

     The problem with Chazelle is the same problem with most other 3rd generation/Millennial era filmmakers: what’s left when everything is homage? What’s left when everything is pastiche? You take acknowledgement of the canon and break it down like Legos because end of the day, who cares about creating a new canon? People obsessed with it won’t even let their own stuff in—which is why Tarantino worships Pauline Kael instead of Welles or Truffaut. The 2nd generation of filmmakers never anticipated the 3rd taking their work as seriously as they had once taken the previous masters. No one can indict them for that, but what happens when the guy looking up to you isn’t all that younger than you? Tarantino himself is already just playing with the toolset left to him. Chazelle’s just doing the same. The only difference being they’re both playing with it at the same time and one has clear comprehension and mastery and the other is just really really interested in fucking around with what the other one built. 

     Do you think Leonardo DiCaprio feels left out because he wasn’t in Babylon? Or do you think he’s more worried about global warming? Or dating another 25 year old? Do you think Miles Teller is relieved Damien Chazelle abandoned him for Ryan Gosling, or do you think he’s too busy enjoying being the new face to the military propaganda film complex? I think he’s probably grooming his mustache. Who cares 

[rose-of-the-martyr]

My Fics, Sorted by Account

Hi! I’ve never had a blog specifically for my own fanfiction so I might take a minute to get a hang of using it lol. My main blog is @blessed-be-the-fool and my Ao3 accounts are rosethornwraith (for bands) and killy0urdarlings (for straight up fiction). Active fics are sorted by account and inactive/abandoned fics are compiled into their own little section.

If you'd like to hear about potential fics I'm thinking of, I list them here!

fics under killy0urdarlings

We’ll Be Okay (SERIES) // Dead by Daylight // Centers around exploring how the people of DBD would function in the average world. Heavy focus on characters + relationships. Stories are listed in chronological order but can be read in basically any order. Currently features two fics.

Commitment to Change (SERIES) // Assassin’s Creed // Based on the best ending of Odyssey.  Deimos!Alexios and the road to recovery (+ the adventures he gets into with his newfound family). Currently features one fic.

Frank Morrison Is Not Okay // Dead by Daylight // Part of We’ll Be Okay // Frank Morrison is not okay; this is true. Frank Morrison is in love. --- Oneshot, Frank Morrison/Quentin Smith (with very, very minor Julie Kostenko/Susie Lavoie).

Ready to Face Whatever Life Sends // Dead by Daylight // Part of We’ll Be Okay // Once upon a time, Michael Myers lost his two sisters. After fifteen years spent completely alone following the destruction of his family, Michael gets one back. It's been fifteen years since he last saw the outside world, fifteen years since he lost his way, fifteen years leading up to this moment: Laurie taking his hand in hers and leading him back to the light. --- Ongoing, planned for 4 chapters (currently at 2). Gen, centers on Michael Myers & Laurie Strode. Last updated Jul 6, 2022.

Gasping for a Breath // Assassin’s Creed // Part of Commitment to Change // Deimos cannot sleep. It’s his fifth night on the Adrestia, his… family is asleep, and he hasn’t even been able to close his eyes. --- Completed at 3 chapters. Gen.

Abnormality // Assassin’s Creed // Abnormality; a condition in which someone possesses nonhuman qualities. --- Modern/Magical AU. Multi-chaptered, ongoing (currently in limbo until I figure a few things out). Last updated Dec 7, 2020.

(MAJOR TW) i shook hands with the devil himself // Stranger Things // Six months before Steve Harrington shows up battered and bruised on Jonathan Byers' doorstep, he meets Billy Hargrove for the first time. OR. Steve, with a freshly broken heart, no real friends, and now in self-discovery mode, ends up trapped in a deeply traumatic dynamic with Billy. When things finally come to a head, his tentative friends try to pick up the pieces. --- Multi-chaptered, ongoing, last updated Nov 25 2022. HEED THE WARNINGS. PLEASE. I do not try to pull my punches on this one.

---

fics under rosethornwraith 

Colors (OLD) // Assassin’s Creed // VERY old; written in 2016, months before my 13th birthday. I keep it up solely because it was the first serious piece I wrote and was proud of. I like to reflect on it and see how far I’ve come.

The Time Is Now // Hollywood Undead // Five men who have never known each other are brought together by what seems to be the hand of fate. Something is very wrong, and unfortunately for them, they are in the center of it. --- The version of this fic linked in this post is the unfinished first draft. Rewritten version will be linked instead as soon as I start posting. Modern with Magic AU. 

---

inactive fics/fics with uncertain fates

We’ll Figure It Out. Together. (killy0urdarlings) // Red vs. Blue // Unfinished, currently standing at 3 chapters. Continuation of this fic and/or its series is extremely doubtful atm.

the world is (y)ours (rosethornwraith) // Hollywood Undead // Abandoned as it is. May be repurposed in the future.

we are the mythic (rosethornwraith) // Hollywood Undead // Abandoned. 

the undead are your family (rosethornwraith) // Hollywood Undead // Abandoned.

[renecarpenters]

I love this photoshoot, but the fanfiction-y element is a bit questionable, I must say. 😐

[dweebsfilingcabinet]

Cliff and Rick spread in my sketchbook, all art based off my Fic series, Blow My Mind, And I'm In So Deep! It starts here :) if you check it out, remember to review the tags :)

[therealslimshakespeare]

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

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

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

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

Word count: a whopping 8k

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

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

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

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

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

Scribbled hours before going up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her Johnny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hallo?”

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

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

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

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

“Who told you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

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

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

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

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Pilot?”

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

“To you?”

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

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

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

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

————————————————-

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lana!”

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

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

“It’s Egan, actually.”

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

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

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

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

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

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

———————————————-

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

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

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

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

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

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

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

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright. Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

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

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

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

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you’d like to be tagged in my MOTA writings, drop a note below. 💋

Taglist:

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

@euryno-j47

@justheretoreadthhx

@bookotter01

@mads-weasley

@ka-ski

@justheretoreadthhx

[dweebpheles]

Started a new series because Quentin Tarantino didn't give me enough information in the OUATIH as to WHAT HAPPENED IN THOSE 6 MONTHS IN ITALY????? So, enjoy the first 2 fics :)