#themes of loss and loneliness and regret

[alarrylarrie]

I’m just…

Spinning out, waiting for ya to pull me in

I can see you're lonely down there

Don't you know that I am right here?

She said, "Give me a day or two"

Wishing I could be there for ya

Listennnnn. You don’t want me to do this lol. It’s a CONSTANT theme. I could talk about this for DAYS.

All of Holding on to Heartache? “I called you twice but then regretted it, and changed my number…??!!”

This is a conversation they’ve been having since 1D days, but more pointedly now that they’re solo. HS1? “Even my phone misses your call, by the way.” Fine Line- “it’s hard for me to come home and be so lonely.” Walls- “I cut you off because I didn’t know no better” and basically ALL of Defenceless lol. Don’t even get me started on Faith In The Future.

[seungminsbaldspot]

Six Years, Five months and Two days | FIVE X READER

pairing: five hargreaves x reader

Word Count: this is really fucking long, 9201

Genre: angst

General Notes: Lila x Five did happen here folks :/, sexual themes, crude language, this does not correlate with whatever happens during seasons 4 other than Lila and Five jumping into a different timeline together for seven years, Reader is referred to as female and wife

Trigger Warnings: Relationship Betrayal: Themes of infidelity and emotional betrayal, Reproductive Issues: Discussions about abortion and related emotional impact, Emotional Distress: Exploration of deep sadness, heartache, and loneliness, Loss and Separation: Themes of losing a family and feeling disconnected, Regret and Self-criticism: Characters expressing regret and self-blame, Conflict and Argument: Scenes involving intense emotional conflict and Feelings of Inadequacy: Characters grappling with their self-worth and personal place in the world.

Taglist: @fate-posts @zukki33 @nightfury @lethergy @wingoodlilboymyway @hxllhxund @stxrg3m @bigbobass @mimirockss

Spoiler: not all things have a good ending

Click here for the previous part, Part Four!

The moment you close your bedroom door, a thought strikes you with clarity: Diego deserves to know about Five’s lingering feelings for Lila. You nod to yourself — deciding to look for him.

As you pass by Diego and Lila’s room, you notice the door is ajar. Peeking inside, you see Lila sprawled across the bed, her legs swinging idly in a manner that seems almost childlike. You shake your head in frustration—Diego is nowhere in sight.

You continue downstairs, Maybe the living room?

You make your way through the house, your footsteps echoing in the quiet. As you approach the living room, you see Diego sitting on the couch, absently polishing his knives, a small smile playing on his lips. For a brief moment, you’re struck by how serene and focused he looks, a stark contrast to the pain swirling in your own heart.

You feel a pang of sympathy for him. After all, you're both caught in the fallout of each other’s spouses choices. It's as if you and Diego are unwitting allies in this mess, both grappling with the consequences of their actions.

Swallowing hard, you approach Diego. “Diego,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady despite the weight of the revelation you’re about to share. He looks up, his expression shifting from calm to concerned as he takes in your serious demeanor.

“What’s going on?” he asks, setting the knife down and straightening his posture.

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. “I—I know we haven’t talked about what happened with... well, you know who,” you say, glancing around awkwardly.” But I would really like to. Like right now.”

His eyebrow quirks up in confusion, but he nods, rising from the couch. “Is the garden okay for this conversation?” he asks, gesturing toward the door. You nod, leading the way to the garden. The fresh air and tranquil setting seem to offer a brief respite from the storm of emotions you're both experiencing. Diego follows, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

You nod, leading the way to the garden. The fresh air and tranquil setting seem to offer a brief respite from the storm of emotions swirling around you both. Diego follows, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

As you step outside, the evening light casts a soft glow over the garden, the flowers swaying gently in the breeze. You take a seat on a nearby bench, and Diego settles beside you, his posture tense but attentive.

“All right,” Diego says, looking at you with a mixture of anticipation and unease. “What’s on your mind?”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Five... he admitted to me that he still has feelings for Lila.” You pause, watching as Diego’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening.

“He said that?” Diego asks, his voice low and controlled, but you can sense the anger simmering beneath the surface.

“Yes,” you reply quietly. “And I... I don’t know what to do. I’m thinking about ending things with him, but I wanted to talk to you first. I thought... maybe it would help someone in this mess. At least one of us.”

Diego’s jaw clenches, and he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Unbelievable,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “That little shit.” He takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t seem to calm him much; his fists are still balled at his sides. “I don’t blame you for wanting to end things with him. I can’t believe you’ve put up with him for as long as you have.”

You offer a small shrug, feeling a mix of sadness and understanding. “I guess love makes you kind of stupid.” He goes quiet for a moment, staring off into the distance. “Yeah...”

After a beat, he looks back at you, determination flickering in his eyes. “I’m gonna go talk to Lila,” he says. “See you around?”

You nod, watching him turn and walk away, his movements tense and purposeful. He’s trying to keep his composure, but it’s clear that anger is coursing through him, each step more forceful than the last.

You head back to your room, hoping Five is gone. After everything that’s happened, it would be awkward to find him still there. As you climb the stairs, your mind races. Today has been a whirlwind. You and Five almost fucked again. You found out he still has feelings for Lila, which makes all his apologies feel meaningless. Now, you’re seriously considering ending things with him.

Just as you reach your bedroom floor, you hear shouting echoing down the hallway. Your heart quickens, the knot in your stomach tightening. You strain to listen, trying to make out the voices. It’s unmistakably Diego, his tone sharp with anger. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but it’s clear he’s furious.

And then, another voice cuts through—Lila’s. She’s shouting back, her words a rapid fire of frustration and defense. Your breath catches. Shit. They must be arguing about Five. You creep closer, curiosity and dread warring inside you.

Then you hear another voice — Five’s.

“We thought it would be better to just say it’s yours.”

Your heart skips a beat. What the hell is he talking about? You press yourself against the wall, straining to hear more, a knot of anxiety forming in your stomach.

“You lied about the baby? It’s not mine? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Diego yells.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, broken only by Lila’s frustrated sigh. “I didn’t lie,” she snaps back, her voice wavering between anger and defensiveness. “I just—”

“You just what?” Diego cuts her off, his tone dripping with betrayal. “You thought you’d trap me with a baby that wasn’t even mine?” Five’s voice comes through, low and controlled. “It wasn’t like that, Diego. We thought—”

But Diego’s anger flares hotter, his tone rising with each word. “I don’t give a shit what you thought!” he snaps. “This isn’t just my life you’re fucking with here —there’s a baby involved, and your wife’s life is on the line, too. Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

The room falls into a tense silence, the weight of Diego's words hanging heavy in the air. “Diego—please don’t tell her,” Five says, obviously referring to you. You slap your hand over your mouth, feeling a mix of anger and disbelief. Does he really think you’re that naive?

Diego groans in frustration. “I’m not a shady bitch,” he snaps. “You two are both fucking cheaters. You really are perfect for each other.” He turns to leave and, in doing so, catches sight of you. Your eyes widen in shock as you meet his gaze.

Diego chuckles darkly, shaking his head. “Looks like nobody’s gonna need to tell her,” he says, pointing toward you. Five’s eyes slowly meet yours, his expression shifting from shock to a pained resignation. “Fuck...” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Diego walks past you, giving your shoulder a pat before continuing down the hallway. You gulp, watching him go. As you turn to face Five and Lila, the reality of the situation hits hard. Lila is partially undressed—her shirt off but her bra and shorts still on. It’s clear what they were up to before Diego’s interruption. The sight confirms what you’ve feared and felt all along.

Five steps toward you, his face a mask of anguish. “Listen, I—”

You cut him off, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t fucking speak.” Your gaze locks onto Five, then shifts to Lila, your eyes narrowing with anger. You’re furious with them both. They were both married—how fucked up do they have to be in order to what to do this?

How fucked up are they in their heads, genuinely?

It’s been a few days since the confrontation, and the tension in the house has been palpable. Everything feels strained and fragile. You’ve spent this time preparing for the next steps, including arranging the divorce paperwork. Now, with the documents in hand, you’re feeling a mix of anxiety and resolve.

You take a deep breath and head to where Five is. He’s sitting alone, looking lost and distant. His posture is slumped, and he seems consumed by his thoughts.

“Five,” you begin, your voice trembling slightly. He looks up, his expression a mix of apprehension and sorrow.

“I’ve arranged everything for the divorce,” you continue, holding out the papers. “I need you to sign these.”

Five’s eyes move to the papers, and you can see the conflict swirling within him. He takes a deep breath, clearly struggling with his emotions. “I—I can’t sign these,” he says, his voice strained. “Not like this.”

You stare at him, frustration and hurt swirling inside you. “What do you mean you can’t sign them?” you ask, your voice tight. He sighs deeply, his gaze falling to the floor. “I’m not ready to lose you,” he says, his voice cracking with emotion.

You let out a bitter laugh. “I think you lost me the moment you decided to fuck Lila—and to top it off, get her knocked up.”

He sighs, his face a portrait of anguish. “I know I messed up. But can’t we at least try to talk this out?”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “I think we’re past talking, Five. You lied to me about the baby being Diego’s and gave me nothing but empty apologies.” Your tears start to spill over. “How could I ever trust you again?”

He reaches out to grab you, but you jerk away, your voice sharp and resolute. “I don’t want your filthy hands on me ever a-fucking-gain.” Taking a deep breath, you hold up the papers. “You can either sign them or not. It doesn’t matter. Only one of us has to want to end the marriage. It’s not like we have assets or anything.”

Five’s shoulders slump, the weight of your words visibly crushing him. He looks down at the papers, his expression a mixture of regret and resignation. “I see. So this is really happening,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you.

You stand firm, though your heart aches with the finality of the moment. “Yes, it is,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

He remains silent for a moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll sign them,” he says, his voice low and broken. He reaches for a pen and begins to sign, each stroke a painful reminder of what was lost. You watch him in silence, your emotions a tangled mess of anger, sadness, and relief. When he finishes, he slides the papers back to you, his gaze avoiding yours. You take them, feeling the finality of the act settle over you. “Thank you,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll take these to the lawyer.”

Five nods, not trusting himself to speak. As you turn to leave, you glance back one last time, your heart heavy with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. It's hard to think that the person standing before you was once the man you once loved so deeply. The reality that you had once been so intertwined with this person, now feels surreal.

As you're making your way back to your bedroom, you bump into Diego. He glances at the papers in your hands and raises an eyebrow. “You made it official, huh?” he asks, his tone a mix of curiosity and empathy.

You nod, trying to keep your composure. “Yeah, Just gotta take them to the lawyer.” Diego pauses, then asks, “Who’s the lawyer you’re going to?”

You look at him curiously but provide the name. Diego nods thoughtfully. “Is he any good? I mean,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “I’m, you know, looking for someone so Lila and I can separate.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, yeah, he’s good. Really professional and straightforward.” Diego gives a relieved nod. “Yeah, guess I’ll pay him a visit soon. Thanks for the info.” He pats your shoulder lightly before heading off toward his room.

As Diego walks away, you head back to your own room, feeling the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. The prospect of ending things with Five and the thought of Diego’s own separation weigh on your mind.

You settle into your room, seeking a moment of solitude. The silence around you is both soothing and suffocating, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past few days. As you start packing your things, the task feels oddly cathartic, each item folded and placed into boxes representing a step toward closing this painful chapter of your life.

The process is slow and deliberate. You pick up a framed photograph from the nightstand, a snapshot of a happier time. The image of Five, with his easy smile and bright eyes, feels like a cruel reminder of what was once real. Is this really what’s best? you wonder, your heart aching as memories flood back. You question whether you’re making the right choice, feeling a pang of doubt.

You carefully fold a sweater, the fabric soft against your fingers. Maybe there’s a chance to fix this? You let the thought linger before shaking it away. The reality of Five’s betrayal, his affair with Lila, and the lies about the baby weigh heavily on you. How could you ever trust him again? The thought echoes through your mind, a painful but necessary reminder of why you’re doing this.

As you continue packing, you come across a small box of keepsakes—letters, trinkets from trips, and tokens of affection that once held so much meaning. Each item now feels like a relic of a past that no longer fits with your present reality. The sight of these mementos makes your chest tighten. Isn’t it sad how something that once meant so much can become a symbol of heartache? you think.

You pause to take a deep breath, your emotions a tumultuous mix of anger, sadness, and resignation. Five used to be someone you believed in, you remind yourself. He was full of promise, of dreams and plans. But those promises mean nothing now, shattered by his deceit and betrayal. The framed picture of him, still smiling, feels like a lie, a facade that crumbled the moment he chose to be with someone else.

No, you tell yourself firmly. Five is a liar and a cheater. He betrayed you in the worst possible way, and his apologies were nothing but empty words. You cannot ignore the evidence of his deceit, nor can you overlook the fact that he has continued to deceive, even in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

The weight of the decision presses down on you. You think about the life you’ve built together, the dreams you shared, and how those dreams have been tarnished. This is the right decision, you insist to yourself. It may be painful, but staying in this house, in this relationship, would only prolong the suffering. You deserve better than to be someone’s second choice, a pawn in their misguided plans.

You take one last look around the room, the space that once felt like a sanctuary now stripped of its comfort. With a final sigh, you continue packing.

It’s been a few days since Five signed the divorce papers. The act itself felt monumental at the time, like a heavy door slamming shut on a chapter of your life. Yet, in the days that followed, you’ve felt more like you’re in limbo than moving forward. You’ve spent hours packing up your belongings, folding memories into cardboard boxes, trying to make sense of what’s worth keeping and what needs to be left behind.

You aren’t sure if Five is aware that you’re planning to leave the Hargreeves residence for good. He’s been keeping his distance since that final conversation, but whether it’s out of respect or a desire to avoid confrontation, you can’t tell. Part of you wonders if he even notices your absence from shared spaces or if he’s too wrapped up in his own guilt and shame to care. The uncertainty gnaws at you, and you hate it. You hate that after everything, you still find yourself thinking about him—about what he’s thinking, feeling, and doing.

It’s a cruel irony, you think, as you pull another sweater from the closet and fold it neatly. Despite all the betrayal and heartache, you’re still haunted by thoughts of him. You catch yourself wondering if he’s regretting his choices, if he’s truly sorry, or if he’s already moved on. You try to push these thoughts away, focusing instead on the task at hand, but it’s difficult. They keep creeping back in, uninvited and unwanted, like a song stuck in your head that you can’t seem to shake.

You glance around the room, now half-empty, and feel a pang of sadness. This space, once filled with warmth and the echoes of shared laughter, now feels hollow. It’s strange how quickly things can change—how a place that felt like home can become just a room, stripped of its meaning and significance. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Focus on what’s next, you remind yourself. Not on what’s been lost.

Still, as you move through the house, collecting the last of your things, you can’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Anger, sadness, frustration—all of them swirl inside you, a tempest that you’re struggling to keep contained. The thought of Five lingers at the back of your mind, a constant, nagging presence. Even now, after everything he’s done, you still find yourself wondering about him. It infuriates you.

Why do you still care what he thinks? Why does it still matter?

You want to be done with him, to close this chapter and move on with your life. But it’s not that simple. Love, even when tainted by betrayal, doesn’t just disappear overnight. It clings to you, lingers in the quiet moments, and makes itself known when you least expect it. You suppose that’s the hardest part—learning to let go, not just of the person, but of all the hopes and dreams that came with them.

As you fold the last of your clothes, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look tired, worn out. This whole ordeal has taken a toll on you, both physically and emotionally. You brush a stray hair from your face and take a deep breath. Your’e doing the right thing, You deserve better.

You finish packing the box and tape it shut with a resolute sigh. You step back, surveying the room one last time. It feels surreal to think that this is it—that after everything, you’re really leaving. You try to focus on the future, on the fresh start that awaits you, but your thoughts keep drifting back to Five.

What will he do when he sees you’re gone? Will he even care? The questions twist in your mind, and you feel a fresh wave of frustration wash over you. Why does it still matter?  But deep down, you already know the answer.

Because you loved him. Because, despite everything, a part of you still does.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You can’t dwell on that now. You have to move forward, to think about what’s best for you. And staying here, in this house filled with ghosts, isn’t it.

Grabbing the last of your things, you head toward the door. As you step into the hallway, you pause, half-expecting to see Five coming around the corner, to hear his voice calling after you. But there’s nothing—just silence. And for the first time in days, you feel a small, fragile sense of relief. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. Maybe it’s the start of something new.

With a deep breath, you make your way down the stairs, each step feeling like a step toward a new chapter. You don’t know what the future holds, but one thing is certain: it’s time to leave the past behind.

You make your way to the front door, a heavy box in your hands. Each step feels more final than the last, the weight of the moment sinking in. You’ve rented a moving van that’s parked out front, its back door open and ready to receive the remnants of a life you’re leaving behind. You’ve found a small, cheap, but nice apartment across town—a place to start over. It’s not much, but it’s perfect for what you need — an escape.

As you reach the door, you see Diego standing nearby. He catches sight of you struggling with the box and quickly steps forward, pulling the door open for you. “Thanks,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady, though it’s clear he can see the exhaustion and sadness etched on your face.

He nods, his expression softening with understanding. “You got any other boxes?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s a warmth in it—a kindness that you’ve come to appreciate over the past few days.

You hesitate for a moment, then nod. “Yeah, a few more in the living room,” you reply, shifting the box in your arms slightly. “I’ve been packing them up. This is the last of the stuff from upstairs.”

Diego takes the box from you effortlessly, holding it with ease. “I’ll help you carry them out,” he offers. “No sense in doing this alone.”

You give him a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks, Diego,” you say, feeling a bit of the weight on your shoulders lift—not just from the box, but from the gesture itself. He’s been a surprising source of comfort through all of this. Despite his own heartbreak, he’s been there for you, offering support without asking for anything in return.

Together, you walk back into the living room, where a few more boxes are stacked against the wall. Diego sets the box he’s carrying down and looks around. “You’re really leaving, huh?” he says, more as an observation than a question.

“Yeah,” you answer, a hint of sadness in your voice. “I think it’s for the best. Staying here… it’s just too hard.” Diego nods, understanding. “I get it,” he says softly. “Sometimes, you just need to get away from the place that hurt you, start fresh somewhere new.”

You glance at him, seeing the shared pain in his eyes. He’s been going through his own struggles, dealing with Lila’s betrayal and the fallout from it. You feel a strange sense of camaraderie with him—like you’re both navigating the same storm, even if in different boats.

He grabs another box, hefting it easily. “You know,” he begins, his tone thoughtful, “if you ever need anything… if you ever want to talk or, I don’t know, just get away from all this for a bit… I’m here.”

His words are sincere, and you feel a warmth in your chest. “Thank you, Diego,” you say again, your voice softer this time. “I really appreciate that.” He nods, giving you a small, reassuring smile. “No problem. We’ve got to stick together, right?”

You nod back, a faint smile tugging at your lips. It’s a small comfort, knowing that even in the midst of all this chaos, there’s someone who understands—someone who’s willing to help you through it.

Together, you and Diego carry the rest of the boxes out to the van. The sun is starting to set, casting a warm, golden light over everything. It almost feels like the world is giving you a gentle nudge forward, encouraging you to keep going.

As you load the last box into the van, you turn to Diego. “I guess this is it,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, though there’s a hint of emotion in it.

Diego nods, looking at you with a mixture of empathy and encouragement. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he replies. “But remember, it’s not the end. It’s just… a new beginning.”

You take a deep breath, letting his words sink in. “A new beginning,” you repeat softly, nodding. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

He gives you a reassuring nod, then steps back, allowing you to close the van’s door. As you turn to leave, he raises a hand in a casual salute. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

You nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and sadness. “You too, Diego,” you say. “You too.”

With that, you climb into the driver’s seat of the van. You take one last look at the Hargreeves residence—the place that has been your home, your prison, your battlefield. Then, with a deep breath, you start the engine and drive away, leaving the past behind as you head toward whatever comes next.

You've settled nicely into your new apartment. The place is small but cozy, with just enough room for the few belongings you took with you. It’s quiet, too—so much quieter than you’re used to. The silence, however, kills you.

At the Hargreeves residence, there was always noise, always something happening to keep your mind from wandering. Whether it was Klaus losing his mind over something as simple as misplacing a bottle of booze, or Allison laughing with Luther over some inside joke. There was Viktor playing the violin in the early mornings, his melodies filling the house with a kind of soft serenity. Even Diego and Lila’s constant bickering had its own comforting rhythm—a mix of arguing and laughing that made the place feel alive. But now, in your new place, there’s none of that. Just silence. Heavy, all-encompassing silence.

And then, of course, there’s Five.

God, you miss him.

It hits you like a punch to the gut every time you think about it. You miss the way he would storm into a room, all sharp edges and quick wit, filling the space with his presence. The way his brow would furrow in concentration when he was deep in thought or working on one of his plans. The way his eyes would soften when he looked at you in those rare, unguarded moments when he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

You miss the sound of his voice, that low, smooth timbre that could shift from calm calculation to biting sarcasm in an instant. You miss the warmth of his touch, the way his hand would linger on your back, reassuring and steadying you. Even now, you can still feel the ghost of his touch, the way it sent shivers down your spine.

You hate how much you miss him. How, despite everything he’s done, every lie he’s told, every betrayal you’ve suffered, you still find yourself longing for him. You hate the way your heart aches whenever you think of him, a dull, persistent throb that refuses to go away.

It’s like there’s a part of you that can’t let go, no matter how hard you try. A part of you that still clings to the hope that maybe, just maybe, things could have been different. That maybe he could have chosen you, could have been honest with you, could have loved you the way you loved him.

But he didn’t.

And now, here you are, alone in this quiet apartment, with nothing but your thoughts and memories to keep you company.

You try to distract yourself, to fill the silence with noise. You turn on the TV, but it feels hollow and meaningless. You play some music, but it only reminds you of the songs you used to listen to with Five, the ones you danced to in the kitchen late at night, laughing and spinning around like you didn’t have a care in the world.

You try reading, but your mind keeps wandering back to him, to the way things used to be. To the life you thought you were building together.

Eventually, you give up and let the silence wash over you. You let yourself feel the weight of it, the emptiness that stretches out around you. You let yourself feel the pain, the loneliness, the heartache.

Because maybe that’s the only way you’ll ever be able to move on.

Maybe you just have to let yourself feel it all, let yourself grieve for what was and what could have been. Let yourself mourn the loss of a love that wasn’t meant to be.

And maybe, one day, the silence won’t feel so heavy. Maybe one day, it won’t hurt so much.

But for now, you just sit there, alone in your quiet apartment, and let yourself miss him.

God, you miss him.

You think about what could have been if Five hadn’t cheated.

It’s a thought that creeps up on you more often than you’d like to admit, slipping into your mind in the quiet moments when you’re alone with your thoughts. What if he hadn’t betrayed you? What if he hadn’t gone back to Lila, hadn’t lied to you about it, hadn’t gotten her pregnant?

You close your eyes and let yourself imagine it for a moment—a different reality, one where things didn’t fall apart. Where you and Five are still together, still living in the Hargreeves mansion with all its chaos and noise. You imagine waking up next to him, his arm draped lazily over you, his face soft and peaceful in sleep. You’d watch him for a few moments, taking in the sight of him before he stirs awake, his eyes blinking open to meet yours.

In this imagined reality, there’s no tension, no betrayal hanging between you. There’s only the love you felt for each other, warm and comforting like a blanket. You’d start your days together, sharing quiet mornings with cups of coffee and stolen kisses. Maybe you’d argue about something silly—Five always did have a way of getting under your skin with his stubbornness—but it would be the kind of argument that ends in laughter, in making up and teasing touches.

You’d work together on whatever problems or missions came up, a seamless team. Five would still be his intense, driven self, always planning, always strategizing, but there would be moments of softness, too. Moments where he’d let his guard down just for you, where he’d let you see the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else.

Maybe you’d go out sometimes, just the two of you. You’d walk through the city, hand in hand, sharing stories and secrets, feeling like the only two people in the world. And at night, you’d come home to the mansion, to the noise and the chaos, but it wouldn’t matter. Because you’d have each other.

You’d have a future together—a real future. One where you could imagine growing old with him, seeing the lines of age etch into his face, his hair going a little grayer, his body maybe slowing down a bit. But through it all, you’d still be by his side. Still his partner, his confidante, his love.

And maybe, just maybe, there would be a family. Not like the Hargreeves siblings—a real family, a small one, made up of just the two of you and maybe a child or two. You can almost see it: a little boy with Five’s intense eyes or a girl with your smile, running through the halls of the mansion, bringing a different kind of noise to the place. You and Five would watch them grow, teach them, protect them, love them with everything you had.

But then reality crashes back in, shattering the fragile dream.

Because that’s all it is—a dream. A fantasy of what could have been, what might have been if Five had made different choices. If he hadn’t cheated, hadn’t lied, hadn’t chosen Lila over you.

Your heart aches with the loss of it, with the realization that the life you’re imagining was never real and never could be. You think about the way Five used to look at you, the way he held you like you were his whole world. You remember the promises he made, the plans you made together.

And then you remember the betrayal. The lies. The nights you spent alone, wondering where he was, what he was doing. The sick feeling in your stomach when you found out about Lila, the way your world crumbled around you when you realized he’d been lying to you all along.

The dream fades, replaced by the stark reality of your new life. Alone in your quiet apartment, far away from the noise and the chaos of the Hargreeves mansion, far away from Five and all the pain he caused.

Maybe it’s better this way, you tell yourself. Better to be alone than to be with someone who could hurt you so deeply, who could betray you so completely.

But still, you can’t help but wonder. What if?

What if he hadn’t cheated?

What if he’d chosen you?

What if things could have been different?

You know you can’t change the past. You can’t go back and rewrite history, no matter how much you wish you could. But the thought lingers, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind, a reminder of what might have been.

And as much as you hate it, as much as you want to move on and leave it all behind, you know it’s going to take time. Time to heal, time to forget, time to let go of the what-ifs and the could-have-beens.

You sigh, feeling the weight of it all settle over you once more. You turn on the TV again, hoping for a distraction, but your mind keeps drifting back to him, to what you had, to what you’ve lost.

Maybe one day, you’ll be able to let go of the past and move on. Maybe one day, you’ll stop wondering what if.

But today isn’t that day.

Today, you still think about him. About what could have been. About the life you could have had together.

And you can’t help but miss him.

God, you miss him.

You sigh, the sound echoing softly in the silence of your new apartment. You glance around, taking in the sparse, unfamiliar surroundings. It’s not much, but it’s yours. The walls are bare, the furniture minimal—just the essentials. It still smells faintly of fresh paint and new beginnings, but there’s an emptiness to it that you can’t quite shake. The quiet is suffocating, a stark contrast to the constant noise and chaos of the Hargreeves mansion.

You lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry. What’s he up to now? The thought slips into your mind before you can stop it. You hate that you’re still thinking about him, still wondering about him. But the truth is, you can’t help it. Five has been a part of your life for so long that it feels strange not to know where he is, what he’s doing. The absence of his presence is a void that you can’t seem to fill.

You imagine him back at the mansion, surrounded by the remnants of a life you once shared. Is he in his room, sitting in that old leather chair, sipping on whiskey and poring over some ancient book? Is he pacing the halls, his mind racing with plans and calculations, always thinking, always moving? Or is he in the kitchen, making himself a cup of coffee, his expression pensive as he stares out the window, lost in thought?

Maybe he’s with Lila. The thought makes your stomach twist. You can almost picture it: the two of them together, their heads close as they whisper and scheme. Maybe they’re arguing, as they often did, their voices raised, filled with that strange blend of love and hate that seemed to define their relationship. Or maybe they’re...you can’t even bring yourself to think about it. The idea is too painful, too raw.

You shake your head, trying to push the thoughts away. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, you tell yourself firmly. He’s not your concern anymore. He made his choice. And you made yours. You chose to leave, to start over, to try and build a new life without him. But even as you tell yourself this, you can’t help but feel the ache of longing, the pull of what once was.

You wonder if he’s thinking about you too. If he regrets what happened. If he misses you. A part of you hopes he does—that he’s feeling even a fraction of the pain you’re feeling. But another part of you knows that it doesn’t change anything. Regret won’t undo the betrayal. Missing you won’t mend the trust that’s been broken.

You rise from the couch and move to the window, looking out over the city. It’s a gray day, the sky heavy with clouds. The world outside feels distant, almost dreamlike, as if it’s moving on without you. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ward off the chill that’s settled deep in your bones.

What is he doing right now? The question hangs in the air, unanswered. You imagine picking up the phone, dialing his number, hearing his voice on the other end. But you know that’s not an option. Not anymore. You’ve made your choice, and he’s made his. There’s no going back.

Still, the curiosity nags at you, the wondering. It’s a hard habit to break, the urge to know, to be connected. For so long, your life was intertwined with his, your days and nights filled with him. It’s strange to think of a future without that, without him.

You turn away from the window, forcing yourself to move, to do something. Anything to distract yourself from the thoughts swirling in your mind. You start unpacking a box, pulling out books and setting them on the shelf, trying to focus on the mundane task in front of you. But your mind keeps drifting back to him, to the life you had, to the life you could have had.

Is he thinking about me? you wonder again. Does he miss me? You shake your head, trying to clear the thoughts away. You know you need to let go, to stop wondering, to stop caring. But it’s easier said than done.

You pause, holding a book in your hands, staring at it without really seeing it. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. It’s time to move on, you remind yourself. Time to focus on your own life, on your own future.

You haven’t heard from any of the Hargreeves since you left. The silence is heavy, a constant reminder of the void that has opened up in your life. They were the closest thing to a family you had, a group of misfits who somehow fit together. Now, without them, you feel unmoored, drifting in a sea of uncertainty.

Your thoughts turn to the commission—your former employer, and in some twisted way, another kind of family. That was a lifetime ago. You left that world behind, hoping for something better, something more. But now, standing alone in your small, empty apartment, you wonder if you made the right choice.

The reality of your situation sinks in. You don’t have a family outside of the Hargreeves. You were pulled into their orbit by Five, drawn into their chaotic world, and in a way, you found a place there. But now, you’re adrift again, and the loneliness is almost suffocating.

Your actual family, the one you were born into, is most likely not even in this timeline. The thought makes your chest tighten with a mix of frustration and sadness. You don’t even know where they are or if they’re alive. Time travel has its costs, and the disconnection from your roots is one of them. Even if you wanted to find them, there’s no way to do it without the commission’s help. And after everything that’s happened, going back there is the last thing you want.

You rub your temples, feeling a headache starting to form. The isolation is starting to wear on you. You’ve tried to fill your days with work, with unpacking, with anything that might distract you from the gnawing emptiness. But no matter what you do, the thoughts creep back in.

What would it be like to switch timelines? you wonder. To find a world where things turned out differently, where you and Five never crossed paths, or where he never cheated, and you lived out the life you once imagined together. But those thoughts are just fantasies, just as unreachable as the timeline they belong to. Without the commission’s technology, there’s no way to hop between realities.

Even if there was, you know it wouldn’t be as simple as that. Time and space are fragile, and messing with them comes with consequences. You’ve seen firsthand the damage that can be done by playing with the fabric of reality. And besides, running away to another timeline wouldn’t change what happened here. It wouldn’t heal the hurt or mend the trust that’s been broken.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. You feel more alone than you ever have, even more than when you first joined the commission, or when you first found yourself thrust into the chaos of the Hargreeves’ world. At least then, you had something to hold onto. Now, you feel like you’re grasping at air.

You sigh, “I need some air.”

You stand up, the heaviness in your chest making it difficult to breathe. The walls of your apartment feel like they’re closing in on you, the silence suffocating. The emptiness is overwhelming. You need to get out, to clear your head, to find some way to make sense of the mess your life has become.

Grabbing your coat from the hook by the door, you slip it on and head outside. The afternoon sun is high in the sky, casting warm rays that offer a sharp contrast to the cold, stagnant atmosphere of your apartment. The city streets are alive with activity—people bustling about, cars honking, vendors calling out to passersby. The noise feels overwhelming, but also oddly comforting. It reminds you that life goes on, even when yours feels like it’s standing still.

You start walking, not really sure where you’re going, just needing to move, to escape the thoughts that have been plaguing you. Your footsteps blend into the hum of the city, lost among the chatter and footsteps of others. You walk past busy storefronts and colorful cafes, the scent of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee filling the air. You pull your coat tighter around you, though the air is mild. The weight of your thoughts is what brings the chill.

What am I doing? you think to yourself. You feel a surge of frustration bubbling up inside you. How did I end up here?

As you wander, you find yourself heading towards a familiar place—the park where you used to go with Five. It was a favorite spot, a place where you’d both sit and talk for hours, sharing dreams and plans, back when the future felt certain. The memories are bittersweet now, but some part of you feels drawn to it, as if it holds some answers you can’t quite reach.

You reach the park and make your way to a bench near the fountain, one you remember sitting on many times before. The sound of the water trickling into the basin is calming, a soft, soothing melody amidst the noise of the city. You sit down, staring out at the small pond, watching the ducks glide across the surface, the sunlight glinting off the water.

The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the ground, and the park is filled with people—joggers, families, couples walking hand in hand. You watch them, feeling a strange mix of envy and detachment. They all seem so carefree, so unaware of the weight that you carry.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to ground yourself in the moment. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of something—someone—that makes your heart skip a beat. You turn your head slightly, your breath catching in your throat.

It’s Five.

He’s across the park, sitting at a small outdoor café, a cup of coffee in front of him. His head is down, focused on a book in his hands, his expression calm and absorbed. He looks different out here, in the daylight, without the familiar surroundings of the Hargreeves mansion. More relaxed, almost like the man you fell in love with. You feel a pang in your chest as you watch him, a mix of longing and hurt.

What is he doing here? Does he come here often?

You hesitate, torn between the urge to approach him and the instinct to turn and walk away. You know that seeing him will only reopen old wounds, but some part of you can’t help but be drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, to calm the racing of your heart.

He looks up from his book suddenly, as if sensing your presence, and his eyes meet yours across the park. For a moment, time seems to stand still. You can see the surprise in his eyes, the flicker of recognition, followed by something else—something softer, almost wistful.

You’re not sure what to do, whether to stay or go, whether to speak or remain silent. Your feet feel rooted to the ground, unable to move in either direction. Five raises his hand in a small, hesitant wave, his expression cautious, almost hopeful.

You swallow hard, your emotions a tangled mess. You don’t know what to say, what to do. You’ve imagined this moment so many times, and yet now that it’s here, you’re at a loss. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your breath coming in shallow bursts.

Finally, you take a step forward, then another, your movements slow and uncertain. Five’s eyes remain on you, watching your approach with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. You stop a few feet away from him, close enough to see the small details of his face—the faint lines of worry, the sadness in his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” you reply, your own voice trembling with emotion.

There’s a long pause, a silence that stretches out between you, filled with all the things you want to say but don’t know how. You can see the regret in his eyes, the apology he’s trying to convey without words.

“Do you…want to sit?” he asks, gesturing to the chair across from him.

You hesitate for a moment, then nod slowly, pulling out the chair and sitting down. The distance between you feels both vast and intimate, a strange mix of familiarity and distance.

Five looks down at his hands, then back up at you, his expression pained. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he admits. “I’ve been coming here a lot lately…thinking.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. Part of you wants to lash out, to demand answers, to make him feel the hurt you’ve been carrying. But another part of you just wants to understand, to find some kind of closure.

“I miss you,” he says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. “Every day. I think about you, about us. About everything I’ve ruined.”

Your heart clenches at his words, his voice full of that quiet sincerity that used to melt your resolve. But now, all it does is stir the anger that’s been simmering beneath the surface since the day you found out. You want to believe him, but the wounds are still too fresh, the betrayal still too raw.

“Miss me?” you scoff, your voice rising, unable to keep the bitterness out of your tone. “You don’t get to miss me, Five. You lost that right when you decided to screw around with Lila. And what about your baby? You want to talk about what you’ve ruined? Look around. You did this. You chose this.”

Five's face contorts with pain, but he pushes through, his voice trembling. “Lila… she lied about the baby.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, leaving you momentarily stunned. The sharp edge of your anger is blunted by shock.

You shake your head in disbelief. “So the baby never existed? She lied?”

Five nods slowly, his eyes filled with deep sorrow. “Yes. There was no baby. She told me it was a lie to manipulate me, to keep me from leaving.”

He looks down, his face falling further. He takes a sip of his coffee, making a face at the taste. He was always very particular about his coffee, and clearly, this one didn't meet his standards.

You feel overwhelmed, the weight of his confession settling heavily on your shoulders. “I—I don’t know what to say, Five.”

He shakes his head, a mixture of resignation and frustration in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he says softly. You sigh, your mind rushing, Should you even say this?

“If I’m being honest, I guess that I’ve missed you too.”

Five’s expression shifts, a flicker of hope and disbelief in his eyes. He seems to struggle with his emotions, clearly taken aback by your admission. For a moment, the tension between you both eases slightly, though the weight of everything that’s happened still lingers heavily.

“You’ve missed me?” Five asks, his voice barely audible. There’s a vulnerability in his tone that makes your heart ache even more.

You shake your head, “Don’t let that get to your head. We were together for years. Of fucking course I missed your dumbass.”

Five’s face falls slightly, his vulnerability giving way to a trace of hurt. He opens his mouth to respond but seems to reconsider, his words catching in his throat. He simply nods, a resigned look settling over him.

You continue, trying to keep your tone steady despite the flood of emotions. “Don’t take that the wrong way. It’s not about wanting to fix things or go back to how we were. It’s just… hard to completely erase what we had.”

Five’s eyes are focused on the swirling coffee in his cup, his fingers drumming on the mug. “I understand,” he says quietly, as if trying to make sense of everything himself. A heavy silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken words and lingering emotions.

You shift uncomfortably, your mind racing. Was coming over here a mistake? you wonder. The weight of the conversation feels overwhelming, and you start to question whether reopening this wound was the right choice.

Breaking the silence, Five sighs heavily. “She was kicked out of the house,” he says, his voice tinged with a mix of relief and sadness.

You look up, startled. “Lila was kicked out?” The shock is evident in your voice. You had imagined many possible scenarios, but this wasn’t one of them.

Five nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. After everything that happened… Diego couldn’t take it anymore. He asked her to leave.”

You pause, your mind racing. After a moment, you ask, “Do you not have feelings for her anymore?”

Five turns his gaze to the side, his face a mixture of frustration and regret. “I… I’m not sure. I fucked up, really fucking bad. I don’t think I deserve to feel any way about anything at this point.”

Five turns his gaze to the side, his face a mixture of frustration and regret. “I… I’m not sure. I fucked up, really fucking bad. I don’t think I deserve to feel any way about anything at this point.”

The honesty in his voice stings. You want to believe him, and you almost think you can see the sincerity in his eyes. But he’s lied to you before, What does this matter?

You sigh, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m glad you’re finally starting to become self-aware. It’s a start, at least.” You look at him, trying to gauge if there's any real change in him or if this is just another layer of his guilt.

Five shifts uncomfortably, his eyes avoiding yours. “I wish things could be different.”

“I do too,” you say, your voice soft as you look away.

The silence stretches out, filled with the weight of unspoken regrets and shattered dreams. You take a deep breath, fighting back the emotions threatening to overwhelm you. "I should go," you finally say, turning to leave.

Five nods, his face a mix of sorrow and resignation. As you walk away, you feel the sting of finality in every step. The distance between you grows, and with it, the painful realization that some wounds may never fully heal.

It really fucking sucks what Six Years, Five Months and Two days can do to a person.

Final Author's Notes: Starting off, I want to thank everyone for loving this fic. This fic was the first time I've really wrote angst -- and I had no idea that I would love writing it so much.

I had come up with the idea for this literally the day I posted part one -- but the ending was completely different. Reader was supposed to stay with Five and work things out, but after seeing how people reacted -- I decided to adapt and change some things. I really like how this ended, (UNLIKE THE SHOW)

and given that I will be writing a happy Five Fic / oneshot coming within the next few days bc season 4 was fucked up :P

[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. 💋

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[iminthetunnels]

i cannot bear the pain. it is an embarrassment. i am a fool. how could i have done this. i wont hold back. i cannot lie. my entire life is filled with pain and regret. i’ve been given a horrible hand. i hate i have to make myself withstand it. i hate i have to be strong and bear the sorrows. i am not a victim. i refuse to make myself wallow in pity. i’ve written it before. i have spoken about how you’d never expect me to have lived the life i did. abused at 3, abused continually through adolescence. my entire childhood, sexualized. the one person, never believing me. my believer and confidant, my one true hero, died in a horrific accident. she was taken too soon. but it’s also gods time. this is probably where i developed chronic vaginal pain and back pain. from being penetrated at 3. i remember this all. i remember the day. i never, ever blocked it out. i had a baby sister shortly after and i remember her birth too. it was normal to me. 3. from then on, just abused myself the way i was abused as a toddler, as a child. went on to be abused by others as well. seek out thrills and “exciting” life of drugs, sex work, partying, addiction, homelessness, eventually loneliness. i pulled myself out of all of this by myself. i picked myself up. i got myself a career. i found what worked for me. i eventually went on to travel more. met someone who i loved endlessly. had their child. turned extremely abusive as the pregnancy began. and what’s cruel is, he comforted me in all my miscarriages. i had a traumatic one, where i saw the sac. it was large and i was 12 weeks along. he helped me tremendously. only to slam my head into a window and break my tooth out. it was a porcelain tooth anyway. still. my tumors and pelvic inflammation from when i was a toddler grew even larger in my uterus and pelvic floor. my entire pregnancy was agony. i even struggled with wanting to get an abortion. but i didn’t really want that. i really wanted my baby. i had dreams of him, and truth be told. i thought id miscarry. even ultrasound i expected the “im so sorry” but i eventually got to end mark. and i wanted this baby so bad i prayed for it. i almost died during labor. preterm laboring for lord knows how long. leaking fluid and my stomach clenching with each contraction. i almost died on the OR table. so did my baby. he suffered loss of oxygen and by the absolute grace of god, he came out only having minimal damage. we are on our way for testing for cerebral palsy. he has seizures, and nystagmus. he’s technically blind and developmentally delayed. but he’s so intelligent. singing to sade at just 2 years old. he’s very musically inclined. he’s a miracle. i saw angels surrounding me on the or table. i saw lights. i felt angels talking to me. nurses laughing at me. i remember so vividly. all i wanted was for my baby’s father to reach out and hold me. what a common theme. just wanting to be held. i had the worst time breastfeeding and horrible panic attacks over formula feeding. don’t care what anyone says about formula. i hated it. i switched to goats milk at 6 months old. and donated breast milk. he never slept, in fact, he was a “colicky” baby. he was angry. looking back, i had no idea he had brain damage. the only thing i noticed immediately were the eyes. the nystagmus. diagnosed retina damaged due to non delayed cord clamping. resulting in the nystagmus. tried fighting a case. completely dismissed because i had no money for a lawyer. no legal backup. the caused so many interventions. pitocin should be illegal to gove to women. induction due to preterm labor should be banned. i’m not even making a harsh claim. against all odds, i feel my child saved my life. my baby is 3. the age i was changing diapers, feeding my sister, abused. i remember it so vividly. i couldn’t imagine this life for my son. he’s so happy and so full of bliss. no matter what. i pray to god we make it thru. no evil intentions shall prevail. for the lord has me. i don’t feel scared saying anything. because the lord has me.

i looked at my blog from years ago. when i was a sex worker, when i was trafficked around and raped by several men, they shoved money in my mouth and spit on my face. they tormented me and told me my life was worthless. all for the “kink” i was a sex worker at 15, meeting up with men. men in the military, police men, hospital workers, pediatricians. the worst one was a dentist who paid for my dental pictures and teeth work. it was so insane. he literally went mia one day and could never find him. all these men told me they loved i was underaged. they knew. that’s why they were around me. and even more strange, i would go in public with these people. i would drink, smoke, do all these things in public with no ID, no hope, no anything. it truly makes you wonder how these things can even exist? the world has always been so gray and cruel to me. i know the advantages people in power get. i know the world is ran by filthy, nasty people. men and women. i know i felt like cattle. i knew they knew i was just “waste” i could die and no one would even bat an eye. i was homeless. but to everyone else, i was just a “runaway” i could of seriously been hurt. i don’t even know what happened when i would pass out. even more curiously, i never blacked out. no on alcohol, not on xanax, or mdma, or acid, or mushrooms, or coke. i was always so very aware of what was happening. and i took a lot. just crunching on 5-10 bars 2x a night. what is that? i can only think of it as it is happening in my head right now. what is that? what kind of life is that? i know that when i got older, past 13-16, men loved hearing how damaged i was they got off to it. i took the attention as love. oh these men want to hear me and listen to me. i became a mute at what?? 18. i was institutionalized and drugged at the mental hospitals. i struggled with panic attacks my whole life. different ones too. i feel like im floating talking about this. i’ve never typed it out. i’ve always written it down. i have a son who loves me very much and i love him very much. he is the light in such a dark place

my boyfriend broke up with me because i’m too negative. i had just taken my son to the cancer specialist and eye doctor. i was so overwhelmed with everything. all i wanted was a big hug and kiss. instead. he treated me like an anomaly. he treated me like i was insane. all these men. they look past men. all these men, they only see value in me when i give them my fake little happy faces. what if i told u i loved life. but i’m tormented. i have flashbacks every single day. i am not healed, i am only existing in such a world that i can’t even believe to be real. the only thing in my entire life, that has ever grounded me, that has ever felt real, are the words my son says to me. my son. the only thing that feels real. i feel pain in every fiber of my being. i feel it so deeply. i haven’t slept in days. i cannot eat. i am getting sick, throwing up and shaking. i can tell ive lost weight, in just 2 days? i was happy and eating before. this person gave me such clarity and hope. i thought i had an angel by my side. i thought the world wasn’t as cruel as it is. i thought i found true and honest love. i thought i was to marry him. the way my son would look at him and love him. they way my son grew with this person by them. only to be terrible betrayed. are all men like this. is this how my life is to be. i want only the best for my son. i will be going to school soon and finding a job thru my degree. i hope i make enough. it doesn’t need to be a lot. just enough for my son to be okay and know i did this all for him. because he’s the most important person in the world. i would lose all my color and oxygen to give him it all. he is my rock in this world and nothing will ever change that. i hope and pray no evil intentions prevail. he is the best thing to ever happen to me. he is why i still try. he is the reason. i dreamt about him before i ever had him. voices in my head told me he would protect me and that this is the life. voices in my head tell me i chose this life in particular. i am so glad i did. if it meant i got to meet my beautiful son.

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

‘Don’t Say Goodbye’

Misaki Unasaka doesn’t seem to have many fans from the fandom.

There was a particular post criticizing her reappearance saying Misaki only wanted to take Miri back b/c she didn’t want to have regrets on her death bed. But of course! Don’t dying people have a fervent wish to rectify their mistakes if they could? If only they would have that opportunity, the ones who they left behind would be more accepting of their loss.

No dying person grieves for his death. He mourns only what he didn’t do. Why did I wait? Why did I not…? Why did I neglect to…? (Rumi)

“Don’t Say Goodbye” is, without a doubt, her theme. On episode 3, the piano accompaniment of the song she was singing when K first saw her was playing during her heated conversation with Kazuki. It became turbulent, full of anguish and regret. She had intrusive thoughts, true, but she never acted on them. Until she sent Miri away, which was clearly a child neglect.

On episode 10, it was again playing the moment she showed determination to get Miri back. Faced with the possibility of a second chance with Miri she was cunning enough to lay out the cards to make Kazuki and Rei to give up the custody.

You can hear again her theme song when she was dying in Kazuki’s arms asking him to take care of her daughter (episode 11). This time with vocals singing in English.

No one to talk with /Just all by myself

No one can save me/Just all by myself

But suddenly everything has changed and then I met you

The truth inside of me/My reason to live

I'm saving my love for you/Even a thousand miles can't keep us apart

Don't say good bye/ Don't say good bye

I wanna spend as much time as possible with you

I wanna feel and touch your smile/But are there just dreams?

I'm saving my love for you/Because my heart is wherever you are

Don't say good bye/Don't say good bye

Oh, so l'm takin' this chance to sing

Don't say good bye

Can't let this moment end

But now we have to move on

Don't cry/Don't look back

And, Don't even remember my name...

(Source: Buddy Daddies blu-ray inlay card)

As she was about to expire, Kyutaro kneeled down so she could touch Miri’s face for the last time, the first two lines and the last four lines could be heard playing with the ending “Don’t cry. Don’t look back. Don’t even remember my name...”

The lyrics bear sadness and loneliness until one person came into her life, which we could all surmise as her daughter Miri and her second chance to be with her. But Misaki felt the weight of the words as she sang the truth because it was for nil.

[kushanna]

I wanna ask a question 🥰😇

What do you think are the major THEMES of the story? Perhaps these may help you to find the story’s “heart”

hmm. i really took the "without love, it cannot be seen" thing to heart lmao and i'm constantly trying to figure out what it means, what it really means, so there's that. at some point during this whole process i said umineko was "an exercise in empathy" and i was told i was correct, so there's also that, which i guess must be kinda the same as the love one. i can also see it somewhat being about faith/belief... people who believe, people who don't, people who mock the ones who do... there's also a general melancholic thing i can't really put a specific word to, i don't know if it's loneliness or grief or loss or all of that. also something about regret and something about growing up/what it means to grow up. i think

[anysin]

Fic: On a Tender Guard

For anon requester, a Jon/Elias with "putting a blanket on" theme! Set right after S1's last episode, Elias looks after worm-ridden Jon. Hope you enjoy!

On A Tender Guard

"Sorry," Jon says as he opens the door for the two of them, "it's messy."

Elias takes a peek over Jon's shoulder, and isn't surprised to see a perfectly tidy, if just slightly dusty, flat inside. He shakes his head, but refrains from commentary as he follows Jon in, closing the door behind them. He allows himself to look around, taking in every detail.

This is his first time inside Jon's home; as much of a mundane, ordinary moment it is, it's still thrilling. Seeing that Jon is taking his coat off, Elias reaches out for him, trying to take it from him, but Jon steps out of his reach, giving him a sour glance as he shrugs his coat off.

"You really didn't need to come here with me." Jon is trying to be stoic, pretending that every movement doesn't hurt, but even if Elias didn't know, it would be easy to see the distinct, deep discomfort on Jon's face, tugging the corners of his mouth downward. Still, Jon meets his gaze. "As you can see, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. So actually, you can go."

Elias sighs, taking his own coat off.

"Jon, you don't have to put up an act around me." He keeps his movements brisk so Jon will think twice before trying to stop him, hanging his coat and taking his shoes off too. "I saw you there afterward, you know. You made quite a rough sight, and you don't look that much better now. You need help, and since I know you won't ask for it, it's my duty to give it."

Those are all pragmatic, practical reasons for Elias's presence here, and as such they should be acceptable to Jon. But Jon frowns, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You weren't too concerned about us when we were under attack." Jon makes an effort to sound neutral, but the accusation comes through clear. "Are you trying to ease your guilt?"

The answer to that is easy, and therefore the question is not worth answering; the answer to why Elias is here in the first place is less straightforward. Maybe he wants a moment with his Archivist, who has survived his first true ordeal; while they could have managed with less damage to the Institute and without the loss of Sasha, Elias is proud of him. Or maybe he really is here for Jon's well-being, to make sure that Jon won't be further bothered tonight, except in his dreams. But none of that has anything to do with what he needs to say out loud.

"I would have a reason to, wouldn't I?" he asks softly.

As he hoped, Jon is caught off guard.

"Well-" Elias can tell that Jon wants to say 'yes', but bless him, he manages to restrain himself. Instead, Jon says: "I do appreciate your concern, although I think it's unnecessary." He sighs, his tense shoulders falling slack. "But I guess-"

"I can help?" Elias smiles. "Let's get you to bed, then. I think that's the most important thing now."

"Fine." Jon starts to walk, leading the way.

Jon's bedroom is like the rest of his flat; mostly tidy and organized with some fussy details, screaming loneliness. It's in the bedroom when Jon seems to give up on his strong act; once he's close enough on the bed, he just climbs up on it, lowering himself down on it with a deep sigh.

"You will regret not changing later." Still, Elias takes the blanket that has been folded on the back of a chair and walks over to the bed with it, spreading it over Jon.

"Probably," Jon agrees. "I guess I just want to close my eyes for a moment. Just be." Jon closes his eyes for a second, but opens them quickly in order to look at Elias. "You can leave if you want to. I can manage."

"You could, but you don't have to. I'm not in a hurry to anywhere." Elias gives into his own desire; he reaches out and strokes a lock of hair out of Jon's face, grasping his glasses carefully. "You can be at ease now, Jon. I'll be there when you wake up."

Jon scoffs at that, but doesn't stop Elias from pulling his glasses off him. "If you want to," he says, and closes his eyes.

Elias wants to do so many things with him. But indeed, for now, he will just be here.

[denimbex1986]

'When the losses and grief of the past are too great, the present becomes populated by ghosts, those ghosts that you call to yourself in your memory and then can't get rid of. “All of us Strangers” is a tale of ghosts and suffering, a great inspection of modern man and his way of mourning.

And it is one of the most tender love stories in modern cinema. The fact that it is the affection between two men that is illustrated here in a subtle, at times reverent way is important and also not. Being gay is a significant but not the only theme in the Andrew Haigh-directed film. With Adam (Andrew Scott) and Harry (Paul Mescal), the two lovers, it becomes clear what a challenge intimacy, understood as mutual recognition and acceptance, means - beyond sexual orientation.

Meeting the dead parents

The two men are neighbors, both residents of an anonymous high-rise apartment building in London. Harry makes very direct advances to Adam. At the beginning it's just a flirt, you spend a night together. Adam is a screenwriter, working on a script about his own story, his youth in the eighties. He regularly drives out to the suburbs to his parents' house. There he miraculously meets his parents, who died in a car accident when he was twelve years old. Adam's puberty, his queerness, his life as an author - his parents missed all of this.

Who is this couple, played by Jamie Bell and Claire Foy, who live as if the eighties never passed? Are they projections of the son, on whom the unresolved grief is playing mental tricks? Are they ghosts, stranded in an intermediate realm of nostalgia? Are they actors in Adam's script scenario, which takes shape in concrete reality, just as an artist's imagination can become real, as concretizations of a poetic higher truth?

The puzzle is not solved. This is the film's outstanding aesthetic achievement: despite all its openness to interpretations and readings, it shows something very directly, namely what grief is like. That the injuries, the missed opportunities, the unspoken insults of yesterday help shape our today.

Catch-up coming out

Adam visits his parents three times, who now get to know their son as an adult. They didn't know he was gay, and his coming out is the cause of many touching, painful moments. “Aren’t people being mean to you today?” asks the mother, whose world is that of the Thatcher era. “No, things are different today,” says the son with a mixture of indulgence and amusement. “They say it’s a lonely life,” worries the mother. “If I’m lonely, it’s not because I’m gay,” Adam replies.

Andrew Scott plays this man in his mid-thirties as a self-confident man who is at the same time hurt by loss and loneliness. The longing for closeness and comfort from parents is covered with a fine veneer of disappointment. His polite way of tutoring his father and mother about life in the 21st century is mixed with defiance and resentment.

The conversation with the father, who suspected that his son was gay - "you were pretty tough as a child" - but didn't stand by him and forced the boy to perform rituals of masculinity (sitting with his legs apart, playing football) is one of them moving highlights of the film. Because the father regrets his lack of sensitivity and solidarity, and in turn longs for closeness to his beloved, but always estranged, son. Rarely has one seen the high moral and emotional demands that a serious reparation must achieve illustrated in such a way in a film.

Parallel to the journey through time and memory, Adam and Harry get closer to each other in the present - although present is a questionable term in this narrative that weaves the levels of time and imagination together. Harry, for his part, is hurt: by the averageness of his family, which, in its bourgeois saturation, has to repress and marginalize the queer. Harry seems lost, one wandering through nightclubs and casual romances. Adam's affection could be an anchor in this life weighed down by self-doubt and fear.

Virtuoso camera work

In his brilliant portrayal, Paul Mescal shows us the breaking points of modern manhood. How difficult it is to appear cool and at the same time remain sensitive, casual and yet serious and authoritative in personal matters. Jamie D. Ramsay's camera work is masterfully tailored to this differentiated game: primarily in close-ups, he literally brings us closer to the characters and captures their ambivalent nature in precise images.

“I know how easy it is to stop taking care of yourself,” Harry says at one point. This describes a burden that burdens every fragile, fundamentally damaged person: the effort to lead a middle-class, conventionally successful life. The encounters of today and the connections of yesterday: Both represent social, mental and psychological challenges. In order for the present to succeed, the past must, if not cleaned up, then at least be recognized and accepted in its formative effects. “All of us strangers” demands this project from its heroes and us, the audience. And this impertinence is cinematic bliss.'

[starreadssstuff]

Fate is cruel - Megumi Fushiguro

Warnings-  This fic contains themes of grief, loss, and intense sadness. It has the emotional thoughts of a character dealing with the death of a loved one. 

Authors note- YAYAY!!! New character unlocked! LOL but seriously I have only written about the “older men” of the JJK fandom and wanted to do something else! anyways hope you enjoy this very fic love,star ♥️

The rain poured relentlessly outside, matching the heaviness in Megumi Fushiguro's heart. He sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, surrounded by silence that only seemed to amplify his loneliness. Thoughts of you, the one person who had brought him solace and joy, consumed his mind.It had been weeks since he last saw you, since that fateful day when circumstances tore you apart. Fate had a cruel way of playing with their emotions, and now Megumi found himself drowning in a sea of sadness.

 He missed your laughter, your smile, and the way you made him feel alive.As the raindrops cascaded down the windowpane, memories of your time together flooded Megumi's thoughts. He remembered how your eyes sparkled with happiness, how you understood him without words, and how your touch could mend even the deepest wounds. You were his sanctuary, a safe haven from the darkness that consumed his life.But then came that dreadful day when you were taken away from him. A tragic accident had stolen your life, leaving Megumi to navigate the world without you. The void in his heart was unbearable, a constant ache that refused to subside. Every corner of his apartment held a reminder of you, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. 

Megumi longed for one more moment with you, to hold you in his arms and tell you how much he loved you. The pain of regret consumed him as he realized he never truly expressed his feelings, never had the chance to create more beautiful memories together. The weight of those unspoken words suffocated him, leaving him in a state of perpetual sorrow.In the depths of his grief, Megumi found solace in the memories of your time together. He would close his eyes and imagine your warmth, your voice, and your presence beside him. But no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough. The yearning for your touch grew stronger with each passing day, leaving him broken and empty.The rain continued to fall outside, a somber symphony that matched Megumi's heartache. He wondered if he would ever find happiness again, if he would ever find someone who could fill the void you left behind. But deep down, he knew that no one could ever replace you. You were his soulmate, his other half, and losing you was an indescribable tragedy.

As the night grew darker and the rain persisted, Megumi clutched a photograph of you, tears streaming down his face. He whispered words of love and longing, hoping that somehow, in the vastness of the universe, you would hear him."I miss you, my love," he whispered into the void. "Every day, every moment, I miss you. I wish I had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, to hold you one more time. But until we meet again, I will carry your memory in my heart. You were the light in my darkness, and I will love you for eternity."With a heavy heart, Megumi closed his eyes, allowing the tears to wash away the pain, if only for a moment. The rain continued to fall, a reminder of the sorrow that consumed his world, as he held onto the memories of a love that was lost but never forgotten.

[tragedicna]

#TRAGEDICN  ―  a study of tragic circumstances , fabricated worlds , journey to healing , pathways to destruction , forming and dissolving relationships ; exploring themes of finding release & relief from strong , repressed emotions by observing tragic instances . [blog]

#SHCNSHI  ―  a study of war crimes, existentialism, life after death, loss of innocence, justified killings, loss of identity, finding purpose to living, morality, shouldering guilt  ,  burying the dead  ,  resentment and regrets  ,  daddy issues  ,  bloody hands  ,  and praying for redemption  . [blog]

#HUSONGZHE  ―  a study of life & death, life after death, the afterlife, cycles of reincarnation, deityhood, meaning of life, guiding hands, messages from beyond  ,  immortality  ,  self-discovery  ,  isolation & loneliness  ,  altruism  ,  and coming to terms  . [blog]

ind. sel. multiversed muses as written by GENIE / 27 / EST timezone blogs contain mature subjects, not recommended for those under 18 (cr.)

[thelonelybrilliance]

Taylor Swift Megamix Themes/Personas/Facets

SHADOW: shyness, questioning the world & love, embarking on a new beginning, self-doubt, feeling like an outsider, faith, chagrin, wistfulness and longing

ULTRAVIOLET: passionate, blunt, accusatory, seeking certainty, holding people accountable, regret, jealousy, euphoria, youthful love, forgiveness

CHERRY: innocence, dreaming of true love, fun-loving/sense of adventure, the power of choice (your own & others'), challenge, idealism

RUST: bitterness, self-sabotage, secret-keeping, wanting to be saved, weariness of the soul, rage, thirst for justice, lust, reflection, wisdom

SAPPHIRE: honesty, nostalgia for the past without necessarily wanting to return to it, loneliness, maturity, loss, realization, healing

AMBER: homecoming, desire for forever-love, remorse, reliving the past, warmth & comfort, self-love & criticism, farewelling what you'll never have again

AURORA: pride, truth, realism, indulgence, hope, vows & promises, embracing contradiction (fragility & strength), permanence

[the-tzarina-alexandra-paracosm]

Something hit me nowadays, namely that my current project, Fireworks in the Fog, is in more ways than one, fulfilling the vision (in terms of overarching themes) that I had for my very first novel, The Image through the Thick Glass (I was 12-13). ITTG was supposed to be about dealing with suffering, rejection, loneliness, depression etc but it ended up a very incoherent and depressing story, with a hopeless ending and no clear vision. But I'll never regret I wrote it, and at least my intentions were very good. Now my current story is about much the same themes. Love and suffering, mental illness etc. But it feels like it's got much more of a purpose and hopeful ending. Though the characters are very different, the themes are rather the same. The misunderstood gifted kid Kaito could not find happiness in the end. He could not find somebody who truly loved him in the end - even while married to her! Such a blameless person and yet suffering so much. Contrast that with Laurențiu, who is also suffering a lot, but some of it is self-inflicted. He does find love but in the absence of a higher purpose it becomes toxic. But he does reconcile with her in the end! And he does get better in the end! He's decidedly not a very innocent person, but he suffers, gets better, forgives, is forgiven and ultimately has a hopeful ending.

Or take the love interest as an example. Kata is a very indecisive and changing person, and her loyalty is always quite questionable. She suffers in her own right from a fear of loss. Objectively she doesn't have much reason to treat Kaito the way she does, but she lowkey only loves him back briefly, after which, regardless of the fact that they're married now, she kind of rejects him as before they were even together. She distances herself from him as he is basically on his deathbed. Part of it is explained by her fear and avoidance of any suffering, but logically it doesn't make much sense. Now take Mădălina, who is decidedly a much more complex character. She loves Laurențiu, but their relationship turns rather toxic over time, and she does wrong him in several ways. However, that's not her completely abandoning him, but instead treated as a low point which the two do recover from. She is just as broken if not more so that her love interest. She's dealing with a lot and suffering a lot in her own right. She can be rather self-destructive! Certainly more so than she is toxic towards others. But it doesn't end there for her. She reconciles with Laurențiu and the two eventually get to have a very loving and healthy relationship. She gets help for her issues, and she tries to right all her wrongs. She is also very much motivated by her fear and avoidance of abandonment and suffering in general but she deliberately tries to deal with that.

Other characters that are in many ways similar are the supportive siblings on each side. Kaito has an older brother who is very protective of him and frankly the only one who loves him in the true sense of the word. Mădălina has two siblings that she relies on, especially her older sister. Only in her case she doesn't act like, in comparison to a romantic relationship, the love her siblings have for her is lesser or doesn't count as much.

Even the titles express very similar things which I only noticed recently. The Image through the Thick Glass is obvious a very blurry one. The glass in question refers to the glasses the main character wears. But it also refers to his mindset. He cannot see life clearly. His vision is clouded in some way. Fireworks in the Fog also suggests a blurry image. The fireworks are a New Year motif but not only. The fog part also shows that the characters see life in an unclear way. In both stories it's implied that this is due to mental illness.

[irunevenus]

The Legend of the Lady in White: The Sorrow and Mystery of a Lost Soul

The "Lady in White" is one of the most famous and enigmatic urban legends, spanning various cultures around the world. This mysterious figure is typically depicted as the spirit of a woman dressed in white, who appears at night, wandering along deserted roads, forests, or riverbanks. Her image evokes sadness and loneliness, often tied to tragic stories of love, loss, and betrayal. Known in countries across Latin America, Europe, and even Asia, the Lady in White has become a supernatural icon and a symbol of an eternal search for peace.

Origin of the Legend

The legend of the Lady in White is as old as ghost stories themselves. It originates from different historical periods and cultures but shares a common root in tales of women who suffered tragic fates. These women, upon dying, were left trapped in a state of intense grief or mourning so deep that their spirits linger in the world of the living.

Some stories suggest that the Lady in White may be the soul of a woman who died violently, such as a young bride betrayed or a mother who lost her children. In many cultures, she is depicted as a woman in search of justice, redemption, or simply peace for her soul. Each version has its own details, but all share themes of suffering, unrequited love, or vengeance.

The Lady in White’s Appearance

The description of the Lady in White varies, but she is generally seen wearing a long, white, flowing dress that glows in the dark, giving her an ethereal appearance. Her face is pale, and her eyes often reflect deep sorrow. In some versions, the Lady in White is portrayed as a beautiful woman who uses her looks to lure unsuspecting travelers. In others, she is terrifying, with an expression of agony and hollow eyes.

The Lady in White’s appearances are frequent in isolated places such as deserted roads, cemeteries, forests, and, in some versions, along riverbanks. Witnesses report that she appears and disappears suddenly, leaving behind an intense chill and a sense of fear. In some stories, she interacts with those who cross her path, while in others, she is only seen from afar, watching mournfully.

The Many Versions of the Lady in White

Although the Lady in White is known across various cultures, each country and region has its own version of the legend. Here are some of the most well-known interpretations:

La Llorona (Latin America): One of the most famous versions, La Llorona is the spirit of a woman who drowned her children in a river after being abandoned by her husband. Regretting her actions, she ultimately threw herself into the water and died. Condemned to wander forever in search of her children, La Llorona is seen along riverbanks, crying and lamenting her deeds. This version is especially popular in Mexico and Spanish-speaking countries.

The White Lady (Europe and North America): In Europe, the Lady in White appears in castles and old villages. She is said to be the ghost of a woman who died tragically, like a bride murdered on her wedding night or a young woman who committed suicide after a betrayal. These White Ladies are often associated with historical places and are seen as keepers of ancient secrets.

The Legend of the White Lady in Japan (Yūrei): In Japan, the figure of the woman in white is also popular in folklore and is associated with the yūrei, spirits who wander because they were improperly buried or died violent deaths. They often wear white kimonos, the traditional color of mourning in Japan. The Japanese Lady in White is frequently portrayed as a soul seeking vengeance or redemption.

Brazil (The Bathroom Blonde): Although not exactly the same figure, the "Bathroom Blonde" is a Brazilian variation of the Lady in White. The legend tells the story of a blonde woman who died tragically and appears in school bathrooms and public buildings. Her spirit, like the Lady in White’s, bears the anguish of her premature death and the search for peace.

Symbolism and Meaning of the Legend

In many interpretations, the Lady in White represents a form of grief and regret. Her white dress symbolizes purity and lost innocence, while her restless spirit reflects the suffering of a life marked by pain and betrayal. She is a figure seeking justice or understanding, a powerful symbol of how intense emotions can cross the boundaries between life and death.

For many, the Lady in White also serves as a warning about the consequences of actions. Versions that involve betrayal, infidelity, or violence remind us of the weight of decisions and how they can resonate even beyond death. The sadness of her story reflects the lament and frustration that many people experience in difficult moments, making her a character with whom, in a way, one can empathize.

The Lady in White in Modern Times

The legend of the Lady in White lives on in popular culture and is frequently depicted in films, books, and even television shows. She is one of the most popular figures in ghost stories and is often adapted to modern horror, keeping the mystery and emotional drama that characterize her.

Today, stories of Lady in White sightings are told at campfires, schools, and Halloween parties, making her a character that adapts to different cultural and historical contexts. Her image remains a strong symbol of the supernatural and the eternal struggle between the desire for rest and the impossibility of finding it.

Conclusion

The Lady in White is a legend rich in symbolism and emotion, one that fascinates and chills those who hear her story. She is a reminder that certain feelings, such as grief and regret, can mark us deeply. Condemned to wander between the worlds of the living and the dead, she is a dark reminder of how pain and sorrow can echo for eternity. Next time you hear footsteps or feel a presence along dark roads, remember: it may be the Lady in White, finally seeking peace for her tormented soul.

[poemshubs]

Are There Sonnets of Dark Love?

Sonnets have long been associated with themes of love, beauty, and romance. Traditionally, these 14-line poetic forms are celebrated for their ability to explore the subtleties and complexities of love in a structured and lyrical manner. However, not all  sonnets are dedicated to the light and joyous aspects of love. Some delve into the more shadowy, complex, and often unsettling dimensions of romantic relationships. This article explores the presence of “dark love” in sonnets, examining how poets use this form to convey themes of anguish, despair, obsession, and forbidden passion.

The Nature of Dark Love

Defining Dark Love

Dark love refers to the exploration of love’s more negative or troubling aspects. This can include themes such as unrequited love, destructive relationships, betrayal, or intense emotional turmoil. Unlike traditional romantic sonnets, which often celebrate the beauty and idealism of love, dark love sonnets confront the darker, more uncomfortable sides of human emotions and relationships.

Historical Context

Throughout literary history, the portrayal of dark love has been a recurring theme. While the classical sonnet form was often used to explore idealized love, poets have also employed it to address the more painful and disturbing aspects of romantic relationships. This exploration can be traced back to early poets and has evolved through various literary movements.

The Structure of  the Sonnet

Traditional Sonnet Forms

The sonnet is a highly structured form of poetry, traditionally consisting of 14 lines written in iambic pentameter. There are several types of sonnets, including the Shakespearean (or English) sonnet and the Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet. Each form has its own specific rhyme scheme and structural conventions.

Shakespearean Sonnet: This form consists of three quatrains followed by a final couplet, with a rhyme scheme of ABABCDCDEFEFGG. The Shakespearean sonnet often explores complex themes within its structured format, allowing for a progression of thought and a resolution in the final couplet.

Petrarchan Sonnet: This form is divided into an octave and a sestet, with a rhyme scheme of ABBAABBACDCDCD or CDECDE. The Petrarchan sonnet typically presents a problem or situation in the octave, which is then resolved or reflected upon in the sestet.

Adapting the Sonnet for Dark Themes

The structured nature of the sonnet allows poets to explore dark themes with a sense of order and formality. The constraints of the form can enhance the emotional impact of the poem, as the poet must carefully select words and phrases to fit within the rigid structure. This constraint can create a powerful contrast between the form’s elegance and the darkness of the content.

Notable Examples of Dark Love Sonnets

William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30

William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30, also known as “When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,” is a prime example of a sonnet that delves into the darker aspects of love and memory. The poem reflects on the speaker’s emotional suffering and sense of loss.

In Sonnet 30, Shakespeare explores themes of grief, regret, and the passage of time. The speaker recalls past sorrows and injustices, which have compounded his pain. The sonnet ultimately finds a glimmer of solace in the enduring nature of love, even amidst personal anguish.

John Milton’s Sonnet 19

John Milton’s Sonnet 19, “When I consider how my light is spent,” addresses the theme of personal suffering and loss in the context of a spiritual and existential crisis. While not explicitly a love poem, the sonnet’s exploration of loss and darkness can be seen as an indirect reflection on the concept of dark love, especially when viewed through the lens of Milton’s own struggles with blindness and personal grief.

Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “What Lips My Lips Have Kissed”

Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sonnet “What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, and Where, and Why” examines themes of loneliness and lost love. The poem reflects on the fleeting nature of romantic relationships and the sense of emptiness that can follow the end of passionate affairs.

Millay’s sonnet is characterized by its melancholic tone and introspective nature. The speaker laments the loss of past lovers and the emptiness that remains, capturing the essence of dark love through the lens of regret and disillusionment.

Thematic Exploration in Dark Love Sonnets

Unrequited Love

Unrequited love, where one person’s feelings are not reciprocated, is a common theme in dark love  sonnets. This type of love can lead to feelings of despair, longing, and emotional pain. Poets use the sonnet form to explore the intensity of these emotions and the impact they have on the individual.

Destructive Relationships

Sonnets that address destructive or toxic relationships often delve into themes of betrayal, manipulation, and emotional damage. These poems can reveal the complex dynamics of unhealthy relationships and the profound effects they have on those involved.

Obsession and Forbidden Love

Obsession and forbidden love are other aspects of dark love that poets may explore in sonnets. These themes often involve intense emotional or psychological states, where the speaker’s feelings are all-consuming and potentially harmful. The sonnet form can capture the intensity and complexity of these experiences.

The Impact of Dark Love Sonnets

Emotional Resonance

Dark love sonnets can have a powerful emotional impact on readers. By confronting the more troubling aspects of love, these poems can evoke a deep sense of empathy and understanding. The exploration of pain and suffering in a structured poetic form allows readers to connect with the speaker’s experiences on a profound level.

Expanding  the Sonnet Tradition

The incorporation of dark love themes into the sonnet form demonstrates the adaptability and versatility of the genre. By exploring unconventional or challenging subjects, poets expand the boundaries of the sonnet tradition and contribute to its ongoing evolution.

Reflecting Human Experience

Dark love sonnets reflect the complexities of human experience and emotion. They offer a means of exploring and articulating the more difficult aspects of love and relationships, providing insight into the range of human emotions and the impact of personal struggles.

Conclusion

Sonnets of dark love reveal the rich and multifaceted nature of human emotions and relationships. Through the structured elegance of the sonnet form, poets explore themes of unrequited love, destructive relationships, obsession, and forbidden passion. These poems capture the intensity and complexity of dark love, offering readers a means of connecting with and understanding the more challenging aspects of romantic experience.

While the sonnet form has traditionally been associated with idealized and romantic themes, the exploration of dark love demonstrates its versatility and enduring relevance. By addressing the darker sides of love and relationships, poets contribute to a broader and more nuanced understanding of the human condition. The continued examination of dark love in sonnets ensures that this poetic tradition remains a vital and dynamic form of artistic expression.

[jongsecg]

Behind The Story of Our Music

Hey guys, it's Jorao (@iminggyu) and Christian (@Chrlistian) from EuphonicTape! So, we were given this cool mission to swap three meaningful songs each. Today, we're teaming up to share our stories and thoughts about the songs we exchanged. Let's get into it!

-iminggyu pov-

The first song is 'Out of Time' by The Weeknd. In my opinion, this song is incredibly soothing and perfect for listening to while working or relaxing. As a fan of several of The Weeknd's songs, it's definitely going on my playlist! However, it's also quite sad as it tells the story of loss and regret in a relationship that has ended.

The second song is 'Leaving California' by Maroon 5. I've never heard a song as good as this one before; it's really enjoyable to listen to. Once again, it's a song filled with emotion, about saying goodbye and moving on after losing someone you love. The lyrics reflect the sadness and longing felt when leaving California, often seen as a symbol of freedom and dreams. This song also depicts the emotional and physical journey of finding peace and healing after a breakup—Hey bang Crisht, don't dwell on it too long!

The third song is 'Holy Grail' by Jay Z. This time, the song is full of solid beats and rap! I've never heard this song before, but it's really hitting the spot. It reflects on fame, success, and its consequences. The lyrics convey mixed feelings towards success and fame, as well as the burdens that come with that status. The song also portrays how celebrity life often isn't as perfect as it seems from the outside, touching on themes like isolation, loneliness, and internal struggles.

-chrlistian pov-

Some type of love by Charlie Puth. I think this song delves into the concept of an everlasting and fulfilling love that transcends the passage of time. The song portrays a deep and unbreakable bond between two individuals who vow to remain together through life's ups and down. The song conveys a message of commitment, selflessness, and the enduring power of love that can stand the test of time.

Stand out fit in by ONE OK ROCK. A song about the society’s hypocrisy which, at the same time, encourages the individual to ‘Stand Out’ and demands him to ‘Fit In’ into a standard created by the society itself. There is a lot message in this movie video. The song is about being yourself despite the voices around you that tell you to be a certain way.

Save Yourself by ONE OK ROCK. The song is a call to take care of yourself and save yourself from the pain of love. It encourages the listener to trust themselves and their own fate and to not rely on anyone else, even if they feel tempted to do so. The chorus repeats the message of 'saving yourself' in order to protect from the potential pain of heartbreak. It also encourages everyone to be brave, and to have the courage to take their own path and to trust themselves.

And that's our opinion on the songs given by our partner. We really enjoyed the songs provided; there's no doubt our partner made the right choice.

-End of mission.

[noahfandomstudies]

Fanwork 3

"Woke Up This Morning" by Alabama 3 - The opening theme that introduces the audience to the world of Tony Soprano and sets the stage for the show's exploration of power, family, and morality, however it also symbolizes walts mentality to leave his safe life as a teacher and take risks while pursuing his thrilling life as crime/.

"White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane - Represents the surreal and often hallucinatory nature of Tony's and Jesse’s psyche, as well as both show's exploration of identity, self-awareness, and his desire for what can’t be.

"The Sound of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel - Reflects the underlying repressed loneliness and existential crisis experienced by many characters, despite their outward displays of power and bravado. This can relate to Jesse hitting rock bottom after the death of jane and feeling worthless in life. This can relate to Tony due to his constant panic attacks that stem from having the pressure of dealing with two familys in his life.

"Gimme Shelter" by The Rolling Stones - Captures the pervasive sense of danger and instability that permeates the world of The Sopranos and walt and jesse being under watch by the Dea, as well as the constant struggle for survival.

"Sympathy for the Devil" by The Rolling Stones - Symbolizes the morally ambiguous nature of Tony Soprano and his fellow mobsters, who often justify their actions as necessary evils. This also relates to walter white who justifies his wrong doings as a way to provide for his family

"Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival - Represents the generational conflict between Tony and his children, as well as the broader tension between tradition and modernity. This also is shown in Breaking bad as walt tries to instill morally correct values on to his son while simultaneously acts immoral in his secret life of crime.

"Behind Blue Eyes" by The Who - Reflects the inner turmoil and conflicted emotions experienced by Tony and other characters as they grapple with their dual identities as family members and criminals and how that effects their relationships. This is also seen with walt constantly trying to keep his family afloat when his meth business starts to interfere with his wife noticing him become distant.

"Paint It Black" by The Rolling Stones - Symbolizes the darkness and nihilism that visually and metaphorically lurks beneath the surface of The Sopranos' seemingly idyllic suburban setting. Throughout breaking bad Walt is seen to live a dual life as a family man and a drug kingpin which the lyrics in the song also explain as he tries to cover up his separate lives sometimes in favor of keeping his family safe.

"Hurt" by Johnny Cash - Captures the profound sense of regret and existential despair that haunts Tony and Walt and Jesse as they confront the consequences of their actions.

"Everybody Hurts" by R.E.M. - Reflects the universal themes of pain, loss, and vulnerability that permeate The Sopranos, as well as the characters' shared repressed humanity beneath their hardened exteriors. The repression is also shown in breaking bad as Jesse and walt know what they’re doing is wrong but continues to do it because they know that it will ultimately complete some kind of objective within their own lives for satisfaction/

“Money” by the Flying Lizards- Reflects on the contant theme of greed with money that is present throughout the show and how it ultimately becomes alot of the characters downfall. Both tony and walt are victims of greed and desire to money which ultimately lead them into the life of crime and causes all of their troubles.

"Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd - Symbolizes the characters' in both The Sopranos and Breaking bad including Christopher and Jesse as they attempt to escape from reality through substance abuse, as well as the emotional numbness that often accompanies a life of crime.

"Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey - The controversial final scene of the series, which invites viewers to question the nature of truth, reality, and redemption through its interpretive lyrics. For breaking bad this song could also signifies closure for the viewers of the show and gives a sense of completion and finality for conflicts and character arcs