#pow pals

[ddesole]

ANDOR 1.08 “Narkina 5” // Rogue One (2016)

#star wars #andor #rogue one #andoredit #rogueoneedit #swedit #starwarsedit #starwarsblr #swsource #cassian andor #ruescott melshi #diego luna #duncan pow #melshiiiiiiii my pal my friend #*

[willowser]

my guilty pleasure trope is like. trash reality dating show au LOL

like you and bakugou on love island ??? HELLO ???? he is 100% the show-stopper that comes in as a twist at the very end, after everyone is already coupled up. thinking they're happy in their pair. ready to move forward and get to know one another. AND THEN BAM. bakugou katsuki. huge and tan and toned. probably a firefighter or something, been single for a long time because he finds it hard to put himself out there — and coming on live, national television was the perfect way to get himself out of his comfort zone LOL

let's say. you're coupled up with denki and you love it ! he's great and funny and charming and will make someone happy — but that someone is just not you. from the get-go, your relationship feels more friendly than anything, but he doesn't try to cop a feel on you in bed and he's a good snuggler and maybe you kiss him once, just to see how it feels, and that's not so bad either. but there are no sparks, no fireworks. you'd be content to even ride out the rest of the challenge in a couple, because he's comfortable, but that's not what either of you came on the show for.

after the first week, bakugou couples up with jirou. her sharp wit and dry humor draws him in enough (and he's always kind of liked that edgy look that she has) — but he very quickly realizes that she's really not that into him POOR GUY. bakugou really isn't her type; besides finding his attitude funny every now and again, they really don't have much in common. don't do much of the same things, share hobbies or interests, so it's a little bit of a bust.

i like to think you're just friends for a week or two. another guy comes in, two new girls come in, but nothing really changes for either of you. keeping your respective couples, just because no one else has really caught your interest — and it's not until a challenge has you kissing him square on the mouth that either of you start to take a second glance across the villa.

you watch him work out in the mornings, make a second cup of tea for when he's done. somehow, you both always end up in the same section, leaning back in the lawn chairs or sitting side-by-side on the beanbags as you chat about how the challenge has been going so far for either of you.

the part of this trope that is so funny to me is that — bakugou really is not the kind of guy that should be on this show LOL he's hard to approach and intimidating and if you don't understand his attitude, then you won't like him. and what little game he has isn't played like this: approaching someone in front of everyone else, nabbing you from your couple, having to put himself out there so that he doesn't get sent home. all while on live television.

but — it's not until you admit, casually one day, that you and denki are just friends that he decides to do anything about it. the two of you have gotten along so well in your couple that bakugou didn't think he stood a chance but after talking to you, he's awkwardly telling kaminari in the kitchen, alone, that he's planning on pursuing you. and denki thinks that's great ! thinks you deserve it !

the week continues on much the same: you and bakugou chat here and there, eat breakfast together away from everyone else, he makes you laugh and you make him smile his crooked little smile at the floor, embarrassed, as he tucks his face and pulls his hat further over his eyes. it's cute and you're having fun with him, but the recoupling is surprising, still.

when he has to stand up there, in front of everyone, red-faced, and grit out that you've caught his eye, that he's enjoyed his time with you, that he'd like to get to know you better — and you're floored. ecstatic, but floored. because he is certainly intimidating, and regardless of the fact that you were with kaminari for so long, you might not have ever approached bakugou, because he's just. so huge and handsome and striking.

and then you're settling in for the night, crawling in to your shared bed for this first time. and he's not like denki, not a cuddler, but you still make a point to wiggle around to him, wait until the lights are off and even breathing sounds throughout the room — and then you tell him, quietly, grinning in the dark:

"i'm really glad you picked me."

you feel bakugou sigh, a bit heavy, and you wonder if you're going in to strong — but then his hand skates over your arm, rests carefully against your hip, and he murmurs, "'m really glad, too."

i wrote this a lil bit ago and have since been made aware of luna's love island bkg !! 🥺 it's so detailed !! there's a whole show for the two of them !!

#pleeeaaaseeee #the image of him sitting on one of those lounge chairs !!!! in just shorts !!!! with some sunglasses and a hat !!!!! #i would be head over heels for him #and he's got his stupid water bottle #brings yours to you filled up and cold #you kiss him up on the balcony a few nights into your couple and it's like BOOM BAM POW #sparks fireworks the whole shebang #akfwkfnjaka it's so cute idk what to tell you !!! #imagine him with a red face standing awkwardly over denki like “...'m...fuckin' interested in her or whatever so...just lettin' you know” #and denki is like “oh sweet! she's interested in you too !” #and bkg is all 👀😳 oh really ??? #unintentionally they probably become pals on the show bc denki wants what is best for you and katsuki knows that too #CUTE !! 🥺 #blast from the past: hiatus q #✿ willow writes #✿ thoughts: bakugou #✿ theme: love island bakugou

[littlekingbergara]

it's always wyd and never twiw(aow)aitmclprbateellboi

#where are we? #TODAY IS THE DAY!!! SUN IS SHINING BIRDS ARE SINGING PALS ARE POWING #weird wonderful world #www #ri.txt #watcher #ahtw

[steelycunt]

considering having someone punch him in the next one. trembling at the thought

#people are being so mean to him i figured well. things will have to get physical won’t they #also it will be funny if it does happen because obviously he’ll lose because he’s r so. between this and the gideon v s fight in the pal fic #they will both have not only fought someone but also lost the fight. they are like the opposite of a powe couple isn’t that fun #*power couple. come on #also thinking of letting one of the prewett twins being the one to do it which is even funnier. prewetts 2 r/s ZERO #they will. punch those guys in the face in every universe…<3

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: 2 Fisted Tales

Stephen King: hey patricia is it true you used to write comics? Patricia Highsmith: [long cigarette drag] Highsmith: who told you that

King: well, i just heard- Highsmith: was it stan lee? Highsmith: musta been stan lee Highsmith: never met a cat who talked so much Highsmith: might as well be a dame with all the yap yap yappin

Dean Koontz: wowwwww did you really meet stan lee, patricia? Highsmith: yeah Koontz: wowwww! what was that like? [flashback] Stan Lee: hey there comics fans its me, stan lee Lee: how bout a date? Highsmith: no dice

Poe: steve King: i just thought she'd like to tell us about her Poe: steve Poe: just no Poe: no King: ok fine Barker: i'm gonna hear the comic story Poe: CLIVE NO

King: ah but patricia i think we'd all like to hear a comics story Patricia Highsmith: i ain't gonna tell no comic story King: well maybe I can't convince you King: but I bet I know someone who can! Alan Moore: [appearing in a flash] who dares summon the arch magus? King: the arch magus! Poe: the arch magus! Koontz: the arch magus!

Moore: speak! what boon ask ye of the arch magus? King: hey alan you've worked in comics King: how about you tell patricia that comics aren't stupid Moore: Moore: i cannot tell her that

Moore: comics are the bane of my existence! a curse upon them! Highsmith: now this guy, this guy i like Highsmith: he's got a real noodle in his noggin Moore: the arch magus would do well to hear your counsel, mortal Highsmith: sure, we could jaw a bit

Highsmith: how you feel about snails, archmagus? Moore: be these your familiars? Highsmith: "familiars" Highsmith: listen to this cat

Highsmith: ok fine you mooks wanna hear about my comics Highsmith: i'll tell ya Highsmith: but only cuz i'm here among bros Highsmith: long as its just dudes Highsmith: cuz these stories Highsmith: they get a little rough Highsmith: and you know how dames are

Highsmith: so this story's just for us dudes Highsmith: so franz Franz Kafka: what? Highsmith: you gotta go Kafka: huh? what? Kafka: why? Highsmith: you just gotta go Kafka: i don't understand Barker: oh my god franz get a clue Poe: clive

Highsmith: submitted for the approval of the midnight pals Highsmith: i call this the tale of the crime puncher Highsmith: it's about this real swole square headed guy who punches criminals Highsmith: pow! punch! bam! Highsmith: that's what comics are all about

Highsmith: so there're these 2 palookas who fight crime Highsmith: named steve and ploopie Barker: i'm sorry what Highsmith: steve and ploopie Barker: steve and WHAT Highsmith: what, you got cabbage in your ears? ploopie Barker: Barker: i'm sorry WHAT

Highsmith: anyway steve and ploopie gotta do some punching Barker: there's a lot of punching in these stories Highsmith: that's what kids want in comics Barker: huh sure yeah Barker: Barker: i'm sorry steve and WHAT Poe: let it go, clive

Highsmith: so this world war i playing ace crashes into a polish swamp Highsmith: when he dies, it creates a big mud monster Highsmith: who goes to america to harass some kid for his model air plane Barker: i'm starting to see why you didn't want to tell these stories Poe: CLIVE

Highsmith: i didn't just do action comics tho Highsmith: i wrote educational ones too Highsmith: like the two-fisted tales of oliver cromwell Highsmith: or don't mess with galileo Highsmith: or catherine the great takes out the trash

King: why didn't you stick with comics, patricia? Patricia Highsmith: eh you know how the comics biz is King: but I've heard its actually a growth industry Highsmith: is that so King: yeah they tell me that there's lots of opportunities in comics for girls Highsmith: ugh pass

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #stephen king #clive barker #edgar allan poe #dean koontz #patricia highsmith #alan moore #franz kafka #stan lee

[precious-little-scoundrel]

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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#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #john Egan #Bucky Egan #gale cleven #john egan x oc #john x acorn #Julie Jean Turner #mota spoilers #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #Callum Turner

[tokillamockingbird427]

Man, imagine Hesh runs across someone he knew pre-Santa Monica and they're just overall surprised at how much he's changed.

Like at first they think he's just had a rough week because he looks shitty and real tired, not realizing his entire life now is that Rough Week in question so that's his new permanent look.

THEN they ask about Logan, because they really can't remember a moment where Hesh was without Logan, attached at the hip as they were. (Always Hesh AND Logan.)

AND THEN when Hesh's immediate reaction is to obviously be real sad about the mention of his abducted brother they just assume Logan's fucking DEAD because "the look" he gets is so similar to the one people get when they're forced to think/talk of of a deceased loved one.

AND THEN THEN Hesh is kinda forced into trying to explain what exactly happened in the shitstorm that is his life without revealing sensitive info (Both in the emotonal sense and literal intelligence.) which is just too much of a gymnastic routine for him to handle so it breaks down to him just stuttering something out about Logan being POW and then said old pal gets MORE sympathetic because shit it's never good to be an American in the Federations hands.

#call of duty #call of duty ghosts #hesh walker #logan walker

[instructionsnotincluded]

Oooh or does Frank also send some to MARGE. Who she knows via letters said yes to Buck? I imagine they become pen pals after Buck and Bucky go down....

YES! Frank happily gives hers to Marge and her mother, they become very close after the boys go down. Frank’s one of the first to find out that he’s a POW and not just MIA, or worse. And so she writes to Marge letting her know.

#mota-chats

[letstalkwhump]

Let's Talk Whump

Welcome to Let’s Talk Whump, a series of interviews that spotlight the amazing people in our whump community! I’m Malice and I’ll be your host today. 

Today I’m talking whump with the amazing @studyofwhump!

Welcome to the show! Do you mind starting with a fact or two about yourself?

I’m Kay and I just turned 26 a few days ago! When not torturing my ocs, I am studying planetary geochemistry and having fun playing with spicy chemicals. I also really enjoy cooking, jewelry making and pen pal letters!

And what does whump mean to you? 

I’ve often thought of whump as a facet of the hurt/comfort genre, with a greater focus on the physical, psychological, and emotional hurt and trauma inflicted on characters. Whump looks into not only characters experiencing intensely painful and overwhelming circumstances, but the hard road to recovery that comes afterward. There can be a lot of overlap with ‘angst’ in that regard, but it becomes whump when direct harm to the character’s well-being comes into play (for me that includes more of the physical harm).

How did you find the whump community? What made you want to join?

I followed the bad things happen bingo tumblr blog for a few years, writing down their prompts for my own story ideas as a little checklist. Then through that, I came across @whump-tr0pes Honor Bound series in its early stages and found the term ‘whump.’ Turns out, it was a concept I had enjoyed nearly all my life and had a flourishing online community! I decided to create a dedicated whump blog since a few irl friends followed my main and weren’t fans of fictional violence, and it’s been one of my favorite pastimes ever since!

That’s awesome as! Do you think your view on whump changed since you joined? 

I started out mostly making generic prompts and reblogging whump art, not really sure about sharing my own fics since I barely shared my writing with anyone irl. I enjoyed fandom whump more, but as I started reading more original work from other whump writers, I grew a greater appreciation for it. Sharing more of my writings for my alien sci-fi series Titan Guard brought some positive feedback, and I’ve felt encouraged to open up my stories to a growing community as well.

And now everyone’s favourite question: Favourite whump tropes? 

WHIPPING (favourite since I was a kid and whipped my Polly Pocket and Lego figures for the plot!), interrogation, used as bait, bound and gagged (again, tying up all my toys for the plot haha), manhandling, stress positions, slavery, POW situations, isolation, nightmares, forced to watch or choose, caretaker turned whumpee, whumpers who are cold and calculating and don’t hold back, and so many more!

Torturing your childhood dolls is such a universal whump experience! Would you mind sharing a favourite piece you've written? 

Ooh that’s a hard one…

Alek’s First Whipping was one of the earliest scenes I had for Alek’s backstory in Titan Guard that I was really excited to share. It’s one of the first instances of Alek experiencing intense and body-altering pain that is public and degrading. It was a fic I had written several years prior to sharing it, and while some minor changes were made as I developed the story more, it’s still largely the same as the original which I really enjoy. And of course, it uses one of my all-time favorite tropes!

The explosion arc I’ve been writing has also been a favorite because I wanted to use the circumstances of that arc to show how dire the situation for the Pax Rebel group stranded on Earth is, essentially showing one of their lowest points. This arc also is the most effort I’ve dedicated to laying out more of the actual plot for Titan Guard and what it’s about. With this, I’ve also tried including some morally gray situations where there’s no clear answer to dealing with a friend’s impeding death, and opening it to readers to think on what they think is ‘right’ in just a scenario.

Public whipping is so good! And I loved Alek’s reaction, the poor guy. Do you mind sharing what your writing routine looks like?

I try to write 200 words a day in one form or another (although the past couple of weeks I’ve definitely fallen behind), and usually like to work on one WIP to fill that quota. I’m not a morning person at all, so I’m writing mainly in the afternoon or evening. I’ve found that if I’m able to sit outside while it’s nice and dark, that’s actually the most productive time for me!

Do you find that your ability to write varies between topics?

I have the most fun writing dialogue, both spoken between characters and internally, and especially if the two contradict each other. The dialogue for a scene is usually the first thing that comes to me, revealing an oc’s inner feeling and fears that guide their actions through the rest of the scene. I’ve been writing more arguments between characters recently, which has been really interesting sorting out group dynamics and complicating relationships.

I’ve also been told I’m good at delivering soul-crushing angst suddenly during an already whumpy moment!

And is there anything you're working on at the moment? 

I’ve got a list of fics I’m trying to work on at the moment! Now that I’m over the hill on graduation and family stuff, I’ll hopefully have more time to get working on them. Alek and Lulan are in the line of fire right now, and the next few fics with them will be pretty pivotal! Some of their defining moments are coming up…

I’ve also tried to start focusing more on worldbuilding for my verse and the history of the main conflict leading up to the main story. Part of that is trying to get back into conlang, which is one of my favorite things!

Do you have a joke or pun you would like to share to spread some smiles today?

Of quartz I have good puns! As a geologist, I must never take puns for granite. And it’s always gneiss to spread smiles and laughter when schist happens and things get wacke. Not to get too sediment-al, but the whump community is like geology puns…

They rock.

I’m dying at that last line. That was awful but also very good! Is there any writing advice you’d like to share?

If you’re planning a larger project, let the ideas flow. I’m sometimes pretty rigid when it comes to sticking to the main canon of my own writing, but I still try to create alternate scenes for my own enjoyment and to help get through writer’s block. Even if you have a set plot or idea in mind for how you want the story to go, if a cool idea gets stuck in your head just write it out or take notes or do whatever even if it’s completely random! Write that AU, create alternate endings and any kind of ‘what if’ scenarios. You never know what random little ideas you’ve collected over time will become the answer to a writing block or a new idea you love.

Are there any blogs you’d like to shout out?

@whump-tr0pes @ashintheairlikesnow and @wildfaewhump for being the first few whump blogs whose original work I found captivating and inspiring as an introduction into the whump community!

@for-the-love-of-angst @noirineverysense @justplainwhump @aprilwaters @sableflynn @actress4him @tormentum-ab-intra @clockworknightmares @sweetwhumpandhellacomf @winedark-whump @straight-to-the-pain and @lektricwhump who are all amazing creators and lovely people I’ve gotten to know over the past couple of years. Go check out their work!

A special shout-out to @gritpyre, connoisseur of buff women and lycanthropic turmoil who I’ve commissioned artwork from in the past and is seriously talented! Frankie is truly amazing!

And while not whump specific, my two irl writing fiend friends @chaotic-tired-cat and @buggy-about-town who have enabled my whump obsession and found some connection to the genre as well! I love you both!!

And finally, anything you'd like to add? <

Just to say that the whump community has been there to help me get through some pretty tough times, and I am so, so grateful for it. I’ve met some truly kind and wonderful people here I can call friends, and I look forward to seeing what creations are coming in the future!

Thank you for joining us, @studyofwhump! 

And to all you lovely folks at home, have a whump-derful day!

[bracketsoffear]

TMA: The Musical, Version 2.0:

Thanks to all the posters whose ideas I added to this one.

EYE

Touch-Tone Telephone by Lemon Demon

Electric Eye by Judas Priest

Busted from Phineas and Ferb

Aha! By Imogen Heap

LONELY

Waving Through A Window from Dear Evan Hansen

Invisible from MLP Equestria Girls: Forgotten Friendship

I Am A Rock by Simon and Garfunkel

Love Like Ghosts by Lord Huron

Frozen Pines by Lord Huron

Drift Away from Steven Universe: The Movie

Mister Cellophane from Chicago

Have A Seat Misery by Shayfer James

VAST

Infinitesimal by Mother Mother

Major Tom (Coming Home) by Peter Schilling

Waiting For The Drop from Ride the Cyclone

Stranded Lullaby by Miracle Musical

Dream Sweet in Sea Major by Miracle Musical

Achilles Come Down by Gang of Youths

BURIED

Debt Collector by Jhariah

The Woods by San Fermin

Why We Build The Wall from Hadestown

Way Down Hadestown (Reprise) from Hadestown

Pressure by Billy Joel

Sixteen Tons by Tennessee Ernie Ford

DARK

Hometown by Twenty One Pilots

Come Wayward Souls from Over The Garden Wall

The Night by Aurelio Voltaire

Snuff Out The Light by Eartha Kitt

Friends Who Don't Go Out At Night by The Deadly Syndrome

STRANGER

Mirror Man by Jack Stauber’s Micropop

Faceshopping by Sophie

The Stranger by Lord Huron

Mr. Roboto by Styx

Doll Parts by Hole

Suit by Boom! Bap! Pow!

SPIRAL

The Mind Electric by Miracle Musical

Discord by The Living Tombstone

Crazytown from 35MM: A Musical Exhibition

Who's Crazy/My Psychopharmacologist and I from Next to Normal

Spiraling Shape by They Might Be Giants

SLAUGHTER

Culling of the Fold by The Decemberists

This is Why We Fight by The Decemberists

Courage Knows No Bounds by Heather Alexander

Ready to Die by Andrew WK

Ballroom Blitz by Sweet

The Ballad of Sara Berry from 35MM: A Musical Exhibition

Three-Five-Zero-Zero from Hair

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park by Tom Lehrer

Murder, Murder! by American Murder Song

Peacemaker by The Mechanisms

HUNT

The Mariner's Revenge Song by The Decemberists

Blood and Thunder by Mastodon

Catch You by Sophie Ellis-Bextor

One Way Or Another by Blondie

A Confession by PhemieC

Getting Into Knives by The Mountain Goats

FLESH

Body Terror Song by AJJ

We Started This Op'ra Shit from Repo: The Genetic Opera

A Little Priest from Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

64 Little White Things by Cake Bake Betty

Final Form by Everything Everything

END

The Ballad of Jane Doe from Ride the Cyclone

Leslie Anne Levine by The Decemberists

Dead Girls by Penelope Scott

For The Departed by Shayfer James

The Yawning Grave by Lord Huron

Fall Fair Suite from Ride the Cyclone

Dust and Ashes from Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812

End of Life by Death Spells

EXTINCTION

Feed the Machine by Poor Man’s Poison

Countdown’s Begun by Ozzie Osborn

It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) by R.E.M

Seed Song by The Mountain Goats

Welcome to the Internet by Bo Burnham

We Will All Go Together When We Go by Tom Lehrer

How Bad Can I Be? from The Lorax

DESOLATION

Lucky Sevens by The Mechanisms

No Children by The Mountain Goats

The Dismemberment Song by Blue Kid

The World Ender by Lord Huron

That's Not How the Story Goes from A Series of Unfortunate Events

Arsonist's Lullaby by Hozier

Burn It Down by Daughter

Until It Doesn't Hurt by Mother Mother

World Burn from Mean Girls

CORRUPTION

Dysentery World from The Trail to Oregon

Tongues and Teeth by The Crane Wives

I Love You Like An Alcoholic by The Taxpayers

Sweet by PhemieC

Sticks & Stones by The Pierces

Entomologists by Ghost and Pals

WEB

Candy Store from Heathers the Musical

New Invention by I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

Wires by The Neighbourhood

Red Right Hand by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Kiss Me, Son of God by They Might Be Giants

Redesign Your Logo by Lemon Demon

.

#asks #song tournament

[benjhawkins]

We’re staying at the oldest house in Northampton for the weekend and there’s an apocryphal story of the house being haunted by a girl who died sneaking out of the house to meet her secret lover, a British prisoner of the American Revolutionary War.

What I love about legends like this is there’s always a nugget of truth— because British POWs WERE held in Northampton, including our pal Midshipman Richard Stillingfleet of the HMS Margaretta (and he sadly passed away in Northampton too at the age of 18 or 19)

#fun with history!!

[mystickinz]

BOOM POW SKETCHBOOK PAGES FROM THE LAST FEW MONTHS WHOOPEE!!!! :DDDD

(ft appearances of @fishy-sandwich and @kricketskorner ocs :3 and lil silly notes from my pals @p-phantasmag0ria , @/mewirui_ on insta , and @/yanessa5225 on insta :3)

#my art #my ocs #dialtown fanart #pokemon oc #dialtown oc #sketchbook page #JERMA #also total drama and splatoon doodles that arent prominent enough for main tag #AND NERDY PRUDES MUST DIE theres a lil of that in there too #olandy #FORGOGT TO TAG

[katmaatui]

based on what I've read so far here's my hal timeline

year 1- Hal receives the ring, details unknown about this year

year 2 - Hal meets the Guardians for the first time, Sinestro, Star Sapphire, the Shark, first time he's taken to the 58th century, Tomar-Re

year 3- Black Hand, Sonar, more gls, Katma <3333

year 4- mission with Alan, not much is known, Sinestro again

year 5- Hal leaves Coast City after Carol gets engaged

year 6- wanders for a bit, Idaho Sightseeing pilot for a few weeks, settles down as an insurance adjuster in Evergreen City, Washington, Howie turns 1

year 7- insurance adjuster still, promoted to an insurance agent in high city for a while

year 8- traveling toys salesman, Tom has had 3 kids since year 5

year 9- gl/ga for 6-8 months

---- (have not read these years yet)

year 15- Hal is in space for a while looking for new recruits for the rebuilt gl corps before returning to coast city

year 16- Coast City is destroyed, Kyle becomes gl, Zero Hour

year 17 - Final Night, Hal becomes the spectre

year 18- Quiver, continued Spectre adventures

year 19 - Green Lantern: Rebirth year

20 - one year later, pow for 3 months

year 21 - Secrets of the Star Sapphire, Sinestro Corps War

year 22 - Orange Lantern, Red Lanterns, Blackest Night, Brightest Day

year 23 - War of the Green Lanterns, n52 Gl, Rise of the Third Army, Wrath of the First Lantern

year 24 - Hal's gl leader arc (trades: Darkest Days, Lights Out, Green Lantern/New Gods: Godhead)

year 25 - Hal's renegade arc, gl corps disappears year 26 - team up between the gl and sinestro corps is formed and dissolved, gl corps returns

year 27 - later half of hal and pals, zod's will and the rise of the blackstars

year 28 - morrisons gl and far sector year 29 - gl vol 7 + 8

#Hal Jordan #Timeline

[themculibrary]

Steve/Bucky WWII era Masterlist

2005, 2012, And a Whole Lot of the 1900s In Between (ao3) - bashfulpenguin T, 10k

Summary: AU where Peggy Carter dies before Steve Rogers wakes up from the ice and her daughter, tells stories about how her mother was gay. Obviously, people ask if Steve knew and she explains that of course, he did. Now Steve wakes up in 2012 and has to deal with the world knowing he was gay and the threat of Hydra.

Collected Letters (1930-1943) (ao3) - brokentoy, triedunture T, 16k

Summary: The collected private correspondence—unedited, uncensored—of Steven Rogers, later known as Captain America, and his longtime companion, James B. Barnes, spanning the years from childhood to World War II.

dancing on my own (ao3) - biblionerd07 G, 1k

Summary: George Aiken's been a pub owner a long time--not much escapes him, not even the way that dark-haired soldier looks at his friend when he thinks no one's looking.

For the dead there is no story (ao3) - hansbekhart N/R, 24k

Summary: Twelve days ago, Captain America had landed in England, on a ten stop tour to cheer our boys in service, one of the first USO shows to ever brave the front. Seven days ago, Captain America had gone AWOL in Italy after learning that the 107th had been decimated, and many of its forces captured by the Nazis. Three days ago, he arrived back in the Allied camp, having crossed thirty miles of heavily fortified enemy territory with nearly two hundred POWs in tow, chief among them one Sgt James Barnes.

"Well that - that does rather sound like Steve," Mother says.

-

Or: the Barnes family, during the events of The First Avenger.

Orders came for sailing (ao3) - Ark E, 2k

Summary: Bucky drops into the trench. It’s pitchy black, and he’s good; there’s no warning save the displacement of air. Steve is wedged into a sentry stance beneath the earth, on guard and half-awake, when he feels Bucky come in like wind.

“What’s the secret password?” stage-whispers Steve.

“It’s ‘fuck off.’” Bucky displaces more air, wending Steve-wards. “Didn’t wanna startle you. Hoped you were gettin’ some sleep. You don’t sleep enough, Steve.”

“Whose fault is that?” Steve says, smiling under the ground in the dark. “C’mere.”

Pianissimo (ao3) - Odsbodkins E, 15k

Summary: Steve and Bucky from the 30s to 1945. Inspired by an Avengerkink prompt about Steve and Bucky hiding their relationship.

Sincerely, Your Pal (ao3) - lettered M, 65k

Summary: "[...] lesbians and gay men writing letters to their lovers and friends faced the special problem of wartime censorship. Military censors, of course, cut out all information that might aid the enemy, but this surveillance made it necessary for gay and lesbian correspondents to be careful not to expose their homosexuality. To get around this, gay men befriended sympathetic censors or tricked others by using campy phrases, signing a woman’s name (like Dixie or Daisy), or changing the gender of their friends. Sailors became WAVEs, boyfriends became WACs, Robert became Roberta. There must exist, hidden in closets and attics all over America, a huge literature of these World War II letters between lesbians and between gay men that would tell us even more about this important part of American history." - Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women In World War Two, by Allan Berube

Stars and Moons (ao3) - likeshipsonthesea G, 2k

Summary: “Where did Captain America learn to steal a car?” “Nazi Germany. And we’re borrowing. Take your feet off the dash.”

*~*~*

On a hot day in Germany during World War 2, the Howling Commandos, and more specifically Bucky, teach Steve how to steal a car.

Strangers in the Street (ao3) - crinklefries T, 15k

Summary: (Every five years, Bucky meets the same tall, blond stranger.)

Subjective Histories (ao3) - Odsbodkins M, 11k

Summary: Extracts from materials relating to the official biography of Steve Rogers (A Kid From Brooklyn, Yale University Press, 1999)

The More Things Change (ao3) - Skew T, 9k

Summary: As far as Bucky's concerned, neither Steve's transformation or the events of the war have changed the friendship between them. However, when a mission doesn't quite go to plan, he finds himself making a foolish decision that might change things forever. (NB: contains cartoonish violence, some use of period-appropriate offensive language.)

there's nothing left of you (ao3) - notallbees E, 22k

Summary: Bucky’s having a hard time reconciling Captain America with the friend he left behind in Brooklyn. It’s bad enough that every time he closes his eyes he sees the inside of a torture chamber. Now, every time he opens them again, he sees a stranger with Steve Rogers’ eyes and smile.

the secret circuit home (ao3) - ftmsteverogers E, 3k

Summary: In which Bucky escapes Azzano on his own with the other Howling Commandos, rough around the edges, but alive. He makes it back in time to watch Captain America's godawful performance, not knowing that it's his best friend up there in tights.

Then he hits on him after the show.

to memory now I can't recall (ao3) - Etharei E, 102k

Summary: While on a mission storming a HYDRA facility, James Buchanan Barnes touches one of the many strange alien devices collected by the Red Skull. He does this, in fact, twice— in the past, and in the future.

Next thing he knows, Bucky Barnes is opening his eyes in the 21st century, which is full of great gadgets and coffee, and at least includes his old pal Steve. (And, inexplicably, a different Stark.) Meanwhile, the Winter Soldier finds himself in the middle of World War Two, helping Captain America hunt down HYDRA (which is at least familiar), pretending to be Bucky Barnes (which is not), and figuring out the very noisy group of soldiers who call themselves the Howling Commandos.

You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To (ao3) - EmilianaDarling E, 26k

Summary: “What about you, Barnes?” asks Dugan. The sound of his voice brings Bucky back to the present, dredges him out of memories of a beat-up little apartment with sunlight streaming in through the windows. “Got yourself a girl waiting for you back home?”

There’s an answer on the tip of his tongue, one that he’ll deliver with a cocky grin and a half-laugh and a little shake of his head. But Bucky is exhausted and hungry and so sore it hurts to move, and one of the guys in their platoon fucking died yesterday. His mouth tastes like iodine water and his feet hurt and none of it’s going to get better any time soon, and all at once Bucky misses Steve so badly he can barely see straight.

“Yeah,” Bucky declares abruptly, the word escaping from his mouth before he fully realizes what he’s saying. “Yeah, I do.”

#themculibrary #mcu #marvel #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #ww2 #ww2 masterlist #masterlists

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: The Big Fight

Stephen King: Submitted for the approval of the Midnight society i c- Elon Musk: [rising from bushes] eyy stephano king Musk: eyy you hear i fighta zuck? dissa tima for real Musk: dissa time i no maka da bullshit Musk: 100% you can trusta me dissa time Musk: dissa time i mean it

Musk: dissa time i tella my mom 'eyyy shaduppayouface, you no tella me what to do!' Musk: pretty cool, ey? King: Musk: yes yes Musk: i AMA da pretty cool

Musk: ey stephano king issa pretty cool i fighta da zuck ey? King: well sometimes my boy joe has disagreements with his little friends at school Joe Hill: dad, i'm not a baby anymore King: hush joe King: you'll always be my special little guy no matter how big you are Hill: daaad

King: sometimes my boy joe has disagreements with his little friends at school King: and i tell him what i'll tell you King: violence is never the answer Musk: King: have you tried just sitting down with this zuck boy and talking out your differences?

King: i just don't see why you have to fight Musk: you shadda you face stephano king! Musk: you notta the mama of me! Barker: yeah so speaking of Barker: what kind of approval are you seeking here anyway Poe: clive Barker: like do you want steve to be your dad or your son or what

Musk: i donta need stephano kings approval! Musk: i gotta da approval offa my son! Musk's Secret Child Roleplay Twitter Account: Datsa right! I lova my cool dad! Musk: watch, he saya it again as i drinka dis cuppa water!

Elon Musk: eyy itsa me your funny pal elon! gonna fight da zuck, pow pow! big laughs! eyyy! Mark Zuckerberg: [flat, robotic intonation] gaze into my eyes, elon musk, and know the form of your destruction Musk: Zuckerberg: [flat, robotic intonation] make peace with your god

Zuckerberg: [flat, robotic intonation] men know me by many names, but to you i appear in the form of Shiva the Destroyer, know me by my garlands of skull & serpent. i ride a pale horse this day, elon musk Musk: Musk: [grabbing leg] ey! ey! charlie horse! Musk: time out! time out!

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #stephen king #clive barker #edgar allan poe #elon musk #joe hill #mark zuckerberg

[the-empress-7]

Would i like the P&POW to step up more? Sure, after seeing their amazing participation in the coronation events this weekend, they have a lot of potential.

But is it just me or it’s curious that two Charles’ friendly media pals (Rayner and jobson) have written a very similar article…. Talking about foreign tour particularly and how they need to step up more

When it comes to the BRF, nothing is a coincidence. It looks like BP has no intention of laying off from briefing against the Waleses, which is deeply disappointing.

The thing I have learned about Royal watching over the years is that most of what we are shown as public is smoke and mirrors. It's takes a lot of practice and discernment to see through the smog.