#taylor swift masters dispute

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It��s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

#masters of the air #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #gosh is that a first tag? i don’t think so I know I’ve seen schemes at the very least on here #mota fanfic #austin butler #gale cleven #john egan #Major Egan #Major Cleven #buck cleven #Gale Cleven fanfiction #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #austin butler fluff #Austin Butler imagine #Austin butler smut #callum Turner fanfiction #callum turner #harry crosby #anthony boyle #hbo war #band of brothers #the pacific

[iwanthermidnightz]

 A week ago, Billboard magazine named “Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)” the No. 1 best-selling album of the week, making Taylor Swift the female artist with the most No. 1 albums since the magazine began releasing album charts in 1956. Besting the previous holder of this title (Barbra Streisand), Swift is now tied for most No. 1 albums with Drake at 12 and outperformed only by Jay-Z (14) and the Beatles (19).

This chart dominance is clearly an impressive achievement. But what makes it stand out even more is that three of those 12 are rereleases of earlier No. 1 albums deliberately engineered to sound as much like the original versions as possible. While each reissue has contained six previously unreleased songs, the primary motive behind recording and releasing what Swift has labeled “Taylor’s Version” of these albums has not been to share new songs but to reclaim full ownership of her old ones.

That’s because the master recordings of her first six albums belong not to Swift, but to her former label, Big Machine. She and her co-writers retain the copyright for the songs as compositions, meaning if someone wants to reprint her lyrics in a book or — crucially — make a new recording of any of her songs, only Swift and her co-writers need to approve, and only they profit.

But if someone wants to purchase, stream or publicly use the version of any song from her first six albums as it was originally recorded, then Big Machine must give its approval and is entitled to a portion of the proceeds. Even worse, these master recordings (and the rights owning them entails) can be sold without the consent of the artists themselves.

So painful was the idea of letting her early work benefit someone she despised, and so sincere was Swift’s belief that artists deserve to own what they make, that the singer decided to rerecord her first six albums as faithfully as possible to render the masters virtually obsolete.

Swift is far from the first artist adversely affected by not owning her master recordings, a standard feature of recording deals; a similar dispute is why Prince became The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Nor is Swift the first artist to rerecord music to reacquire its control — that’s been going on since Frank Sinatra left Capitol Records in 1960. The scale and pageantry of her project, however, are unprecedented — as is its massive success.

It is easy to see why no other artist has attempted a “Taylor’s Version” gambit despite many agreeing with its principles. Even if they had the time, money and technical expertise to replicate their masters, which exceedingly few do, most artists don’t have the power to persuade fans to repurchase all their albums.

The streaming era has proven this beyond question: No matter how much we love a singer, the majority of us choose the convenience of streaming platforms, even though musicians do not get a fair cut. Rerecording an album is just as costly and labor intensive as recording new work, sometimes even more so. Having enough scrupulously invested fans to make it a financially viable undertaking is beyond the wildest dreams of most artists.

Swift, however, is not most artists. Part of what sets her apart is obvious: Few artists can claim a fan base as large and ferociously devoted as Swift’s. But even among her fellow superstars, there is a mutuality to Swift’s relationship with her fans that is unique.

Many pop stars, Swift included, are worshipped like idols. However, to those same worshipful fans, Swift also feels like a friend. For Swifties, sticking up for Taylor feels synonymous with sticking up for one’s self, and their response to her “Taylor’s Version” project is the ultimate expression of this dynamic — and the benefit to be earned from nurturing personal connections with those who love your work.

Part of the closeness Swift’s fans feel to the star is circumstantial: At 33, Taylor is a literal peer to many of her fans, 45% of whom are fellow millennials. Moreover, from her debut in a country radio world saturated with male voices to her transition into a pop scene dominated by starlets whose words and images were often crafted by and for men, Swift provided a rare, intoxicating dose of genuine teen girl interiority, and young women flocked to Swift in droves.

But more important — what’s led to fans discussing her in therapy or treating places associated with her past relationships as pilgrimage sites — is her career-long dedication to fusing vulnerability and self-assertion. Swift’s unabashedly emotional songs, whether suffused with longing or rage, give voice to a degree of sentimental tumult that still feels radical for a “good girl” on Top 40 pop radio.

As someone who prides herself on emotionally proportionate responses, I was initially alienated by Swift’s penchant for musically litigating her grievances with lovers, friends and even unpleasant music critics. It struck me as petty and immature. Over time, however, I came to admire the boldness with which those same songs asserted the validity of her subjective experience and the bravery required to document her pain so vividly and publicly.

When I was Swift’s age, the embarrassment of admitting someone had the power to hurt me felt so often like it outweighed the catharsis of articulating that hurt, even if I might find community through doing so. Opening myself up to Swift’s work showed me a different path, one her fans had been on all along: By transforming her hurt into massively compelling art, she demonstrated that we could be empowered by our capacity to feel, rather than ashamed.

Instead of viewing herself as weak for feeling “so much” about brief relationships, Swift turned the moments she could not move past into cathedrals we could all inhabit with her. With Taylor, if it mattered to you, it mattered — death is still death, after all, even if it comes by way of a thousand cuts.

It’s this underlying compact that no doubt led fans to turn out in such droves to buy an album most of them already owned; so many that nearly 25% of all albums purchased during the first week of the new album’s release were “Speak Now (Taylor’s Version).” While outsiders might question Swift’s narratives or debate whether her loathing of Braun is reasonable, Taylor’s version of the story was the only information her fans needed.

Swift may be a gorgeous, phenomenally talented, global superstar, but her inability to play it cool has earned her a credibility that no amount of breezy, Springsteenian authenticity could. She has the talent to send a 10-minute version of a song about a 10-year-old relationship that lasted, at most, six months to No. 1 on the Hot 100 — the longest song to ever hold that position. At every stop on her sold-out Eras tour this summer, she has sung all 10 minutes of that song as stadiums holding 50,000-plus fans sing each word right back.

Just as Swift has asked them to, her fans sing her songs as if they feel they are genuinely about their lives. It turns out that kind of mutual understanding works all too well as motivation for buying her albums a second time.

#taylor swift

[shefanispeculator]

Did Toby Keith jumpstart Taylor Swift's career? Oklahoma icon's influence on the superstar

Story by Alexia Aston, The Oklahoman  • 1h

Toby Keith, who died of stomach cancer at 62 on Monday, played a key role in jump-starting the career of arguably the biggest pop star in the world right now — Taylor Swift.

How did Keith help launch one of the most prominent singer's journey to fame?

Here's everything we know.

Toby Keith and Big Machine Records

Record label Big Machine Records was created in 2005 by Scott Borchetta about one year after Borchetta saw 14-year-old Swift perform in the round at Nashville's Bluebird Cafe.

He signed her to the label, which led Swift to become possibly the biggest star Nashville has ever produced.

So how is Keith involved?

Keith announced the creation of his own label, Show Dog Nashville, the same year Big Machine Records launched. The two labels were partners as Show Dog offered the infrastructure and financing Borchetta's label needed.

This means that Show Dog, Keith's label, provided the necessary resources for Big Machine Records to get off the ground, which ultimately kick-started Swift's career.

Was Toby Keith friends with Taylor Swift?

In a 2005 interview with a local news station in Nashville, Swift said there's power in a room shared with Keith.

"I don't think I'll ever get to a point where I won't see him and be like, 'Oh, my god. That's Toby Keith,'" Swift said in the interview.

With stakes in Big Machine Records, Forbes reported Keith earned money when Swift generated revenue, creating a business partner sort of relationship.

In November 2018, Swift completed her contract with Big Machine Records after 14 years and six albums.

Big Machine Records and Scooter Braun dispute

In 2019, Big Machine Records was purchased by Scooter Braun's company, Ithaca Holdings, which resulted in a highly publicized dispute and controversy with Swift regarding the ownership of the masters to her albums for the label.

Following the masters dispute, Swift began releasing re-recordings of her first six studio albums.

[brightsuzaku]

yes i will delete this later maybe

at this point I think I am gonna have to mute taylor swift from my tags because I LIKE THE MUSIC, but damn is it hard not to have to scroll by my eyes with either

a. how much people either seem to hate her

or

b. some of the most rabid fans with the Worst Takes

and like, i'll say it, there is a lot I love and respect about her, but there have been some (deadly) MISSES with the tours

and i have to scroll through the bog of "are people bringing this up because they fucking hate her" or "is this a genuine thing to be worried about" mixed with the fact i had to sit here and read with my own eyeballs about how she got her contract with Big Machine Records and like, YEAH, she's privileged as heck and she's not special or whatever

but also she had a very long and difficult time trying to get *away* from that record label because of a dispute over whether she owned the masters of her own fucking music, which is WHY she is re-recording her old albums on her own terms.

and like, yes, she is a Very Rich and very Privilege White Chick, and that is GRATING for some folks, but damn, I can't stand the nitpicking where it's not needed. Taylor Swift is not punk?

Yeah, sure, she's probably not, but the most punk thing she did *was* the re-recording of her goddamn work, and that may be the ONLY punk thing she has done.

ANYWAY this is aimed at nobody or nothing in particular, but I think I am the ONLY person among my friends that actually likes her, and look, that's most normie shit in the world I like, but

i also like Britney Spears. A lot.

And i have already experienced the vitriolic anti-Britney hate to where I don't wanna have to deal with this again where I have to wade through, "is this malicious" or "is this an ACTUAL problem that should be addressed?"

like, it's going to take Taylor Swift walking out and literally saying TERF shit that would actually stop me, but damn, people love hating on her otherwise.

I go to tumblr to ENJOY fandom and things i like, and I do ym best to stay afloat even in The Horrors, but tit-for-tat "i hate this artist" makes me feel like I am in middle school again, and it's beyond upsetting

#brightsuzaku #i am so goddamn tired #i don't like the idea of muting tags of artists i like but NOBODY ELSE I KNOW actually likes her #i am probably going to delet this later but #this smacks of how cool it was to “hate” britney spears back in the day #and like i liked her music and so on but never understood what makes some artists the coolest thing to hate #and what does not #for the record i am exceedingly neutral about mcfreakin justin bieber #and i once WAS in the “heehee he sounds like a girl he's so cheesy i am glad i am not 12” #and how kpop used to be cringe but then #I KIDNA GREW THE FUCK UP and realized that cringe is dead and people should be happy #like goddamn i will deal with some of this stuff later and sort it out but like #folklore and the re-recordings were my 2020 onwards and it was so fucking nice

[phoeebsbuffay]

Imagine “Star Wars” especial edition: crossovers.

Fire, Honor and Blood. [1/?]

Imagine: you are the daughter of a powerful king whose realm is located in a not so far away galaxy. You have an older brother who died, and thus you are the king’s only heir. The council is obliged to acknowledge your inheritance, but upon the king’s death, you are found usurped by your half-brother—the king’s son by his second married. You need to fight back, but you also need more allies. Hence, you contact Anakin Skywalker, your old friend from the days where you almost became Jedi yourself. However, when he comes to you, he finds you a very different person… Will your friendship remain in these turbulent days? What will be of you?

Warnings 1: this is based on “House of the Dragon”s plot. For those who might not be aware with the upcoming “Game of Thrones”’s spin-off, it’s about the dispute of the iron throne by Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half brother, Aegon II. Names are changed here and some other details are different too, but the story is basically the same (hence the crossover).

Warnings 2: contains A LOT of angst and drama, in this part that wasn’t meant to be part 2. Do not read this if you are either sensitive to the themes or a minor. Of course there’ll be fluffy ending because of reasons.

Warnings 3: this is getting too long, oh boy. There’ll be a part II.

Recommendations: “This Love” by Taylor Swift prompted me to write this idea. So if you like to listen music whilst reading it, you know where to begin.

***

Intro. Your POV.

King’s Landing.

You were finishing your lessons tutored by your father’s trusted adviser that day. You surprised master Pyuk by your quick wit: how could you be so fast in comprehending what was requested of you? How did you get everything properly done? He’d never seen a daughter of a monarch this bright before. In fact he was so impressed by your intelligence, sensing the Force in you. He suggested to the king that you should be sent to the Jedi Order, an idea Viserys was not fond of. He was too attached to let go of you, but since you were not willing to compromise in marriage…

A knock on the door interrupted your concentration in your studies. You rose your eyes to see a servant of the king you were familiar with to have you summoned at the throne room.

“What could that be?” You asked the old maester, but he could only speculate, though he shrugged his shoulders, indicating he did not know.

Unbeknownst to you, king Viserys decided that you were too special to be kept in King’s Landing and be married off. Even he could see the potential there was in you. Queen Æmma was reluctant to the idea, once arguing that by marrying you off would keep you close to home. But in the end his decision was made. Moved by a strange intuition, he sealed your fate.

Accompanied by one of your mother’s maids, you walked holding your head high right where you were expected. The delight of the realm was how you were known by so many around you, and you enjoyed to be known as such. You beamed at all who crossed your path and your good aura was always so captivating, even to your father’s adversaries.

So there you were. Your silver hair was perfectly braided on top of your head and the gown you wore today had the colors of your house. Because you were constantly at court and because you were proud to be a Targaryen.

“Y/N, my child. Step forward to greet your papa.”

As you did so, you never failed to remember your manners and performed a gracious curtsy before him. Your mother’s eyes sparkled with pride. After that, you found yourself by your father’s side.

“You are a very special Targaryen, my daughter. I think marriage does not make you justice, at least not now when there are plenty of opportunities ahead for you”, said the ever generous king. “Therefore, your mother and I decided that you should be educated along an order of skillful knights. Master Pyuk told me there’s something in your beyond our understanding so perhaps these Jedis will provide you a proper training to you.”

Until then, you hadn’t heard about the Jedi Order. Upon the look in your eyes, the king explained in words you understood better.

“If I am special as you say, papa, how come am I being sent away? Shouldn’t I be made your heir instead?”

“Y/N!” Your mother snapped at you. “Watch your tongue!”

But your father looked rather amused by your remark. It was only logical how you thought, but when you were remembered that you were not the first child and therefore unable to inherit the throne, you understood that you were being recompensed for it. With a sigh, you came to terms that this was better than being married to a stranger whom you might not enjoy and who could be ambitious enough to get some advances over you.

Besides, how many noblewomen would enjoy the same degree of liberty?

You accepted your new destiny gladly. It only meant you were meant for greatness, after all. So you decided you’d do the best with what you were given.

Master Pyuk was the responsible for taking you to the Jedi Order, in a long, distant realm from yours. Once you shipped, you came to realize how you’d miss your family, being the joy of Westeros and all that came with it.

“Remember, my daughter, you are every inch an Arryn as you are a Targaryen”, you recollected your mother’s words. “Though the Targaryens are moved by Fire and Blood, keep in mind that reason is often how you go As High As Honor.”

In other words, as far away as you might be going to for a great period of time, you were not allowed to forget your origins, where you came from. You said goodbye to your brother, never thinking that was the last time you’d see him.

***

Anakin’s POV.

He thought he saw an angel cross the room filled with younglings the moment you entered dressed in new robes that you were once accustomed to dress. Your silver hair, porcelain skin and lilac eyes differed you from everyone there. Whilst some might look down on you, because initially you behaved in a self centered manner not exactly earning sympathy from other children, he was actually attracted to your energy.

“Hi.” He approached you. The distrust in your eyes made him chuckle. “I know how you feel. I came to be friends with you.”

“And how’d you know that?” You asked him, folding your arms.

“Because I was once there in your shoes. I thought I was better than anyone here. In fact I am, but Master Obi-Wan tells me this is not nice to say.”

You chuckled at his words, although unwillingly so. Anakin felt full of himself for this accomplishment.

“Well you are not bad”, you decided. “Perhaps we could team up.”

He pretended to be offended by your words.

“And who do you think you are for saying so?”

Unsure whether he was joking, you hesitated. But the words that came out of your tongue sounded more arrogant that you planned:

“I am a princess of the Seven Realms, the delight of the realm. You should know better.”

He laughed at you, offending you by doing so. Clearly you were expecting to receive the same treatment from your homeland.

“You better team up with me if you do not wish to see how cruel children are here, princess”, he purposely used your title for sarcastic means.

If you seemed to sympathize with him, you now antipathized with him. But to your dismay, Master H/N paired the two of you.

It was true that in the beginning the two of you disliked each other profoundly. But eventually as time passed and the exercises you were forced to do evoked the mutual trust.

“If the two of you were in a mission together”, said Master H/N, “your lives would depend of that trust.”

It was when everything changed. He saw how often lonely you were. Deprived of your family and even ladies-in-waiting, you began to realize all the privileges you had and how, living amongst those Jedis l, these could easily be taken from you. To rebel against it would do you little good.

“Could you tell me of Westeros?” He asked you, surprising you when he took your side. For some reason you haven’t been assigned a Master yet and so Anakin decided that he’d be yours in some ways. “What’s it like there?”

You appreciated his kindness and good will in trying to get to know you. You weren’t putting an effort in making friends with other children, but you decided to give Anakin a chance.

“There are seven kingdoms under one”, you said. Upon the look of confusion in his face, you explained yourself better. “Well, long time ago, my ancestor Aegon of the House Targaryen came to Westeros. There were seven independent kingdoms, each responding to their kings. He ended that by subduing all of them to his authority.”

Anakin was impressed to hear about that.

“That sounds like the stories I read, although I don’t think Jedis are conquerors of any sort. We are mostly the peacekeepers.”

You chuckled softly.

“Peace is good. Master Piuk once taught me the importance of keeping it for the sake of the seven realms.”

“You miss your home, don’t you?” Anakin subtly changed topics. He wanted to understand you better: how on earth did Maker allow a privileged princess end up by your side?

“I do”, you admitted rather reluctantly. “But my papa told me I’m special. And daughters of kings often display significant roles in diplomacies. It was what I thinking when I came here. It’s better than marrying a strange by force, I suppose.”

The two of you were sitting in the gardens, and Anakin contemplated what you were telling him. He felt your vulnerability, but sensed your fear and insecurity that the pride upon which you were raised sought to mask.

By studying your sentiments, Anakin realized how similar you were, after all. He recognized a fierce in your heart that most assembled the one in his.

“You judge me, don’t you?”, he heard Y/N say with some resentment.

“I don’t judge you, Y/N”, Anakin said. “But let’s be honest about one thing, though. You are not helping yourself here.”

You looked at him, stunned by his words.

“What do you mean?”

You’d think Anakin would be careful with his words not to offend you, and the youngling could tell that was what you thought. But he could not care less about that. In his view, truths should be spoken.

“You are proud. How should you conquer people’s trust by behaving like a brat? I know you are not one of the kind because I’m getting to know you. But you should be nicer to people.”

Anakin knew you did not like what he said and thus expected you to snap back at him. But you surprised him by taking a deep breath and, fixing those lilac, profound eyes on him, said:

“Very well. I’ll do that.”

Anakin rose his eyebrows.

“You will?”

A sly smirk crossed your features. Anakin rolled his eyes when realizing there’d be a condition.

“If you promise to be pair with me always and convince your master to train me.”

Anakin furrowed his eyebrows. You could be so difficult to him. But because he didn’t want to see you alone, he said:

“Just because you look like an angel”, he liked how you blushed. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

And that was how you finally and truthfully bounded.

***

Your POV.

You became more reckless than you’d ever dream to be. Your child-self would be horrified if she saw what you were now.

Running with Anakin in the fields of the Jedi’s temple, you laughed all the way after the two of you played a prank to Obi-Wan. It was funny enough to end in endless laughters that echoed in those cold corridors and continued as you ran behind Anakin.

Obi-Wan was usually well composed and very aware of how mischievous you and Anakin grown to be. He was prepared for every attempt his Padawans planned to scary him out. But that day he was stressed with how an apparent war of clones might affect the Jedis and, as a result, the role the peacekeepers knights were expected to play. He barely knew that you and Anakin hid away your signature.

So when he sighed and stepped into your direction, the two of you “booed” him, making him lose his balance and fall on the floor.

“ANAKIN SKYWALKER! Y/N TARGARYEN!”

And there you were. The princess of silver hair and the knight of sandy curls rolling out in laughters before finding yourselves away from Obi-Wan’s tantrums.

You had never been so less princess like as right now you threw yourself in the grass, side by side to Anakin. In an unconscious gesture, you held his hand and he laced the fingers of you together.

“That was funny.” Anakin said breathlessly.

“I’ve never had so much fun in my life before”, you answered and it was true. You did not enjoy this degree of freedom in King’s Landing. It was curious how you didn’t miss your home that much. You felt so free.

“You can thank me later”, said Anakin, smug as always.

You scoffed before giggling. A nice silence befell on you, whilst contemplating the blue sky. It was cloudless and sun reigned uncontested.

“How have you been doing with the exercises?” Anakin asked you, breaking the comfortable silence that had been installed not so long ago.

He was on his elbows and it was right there, you took notice of him not as toddler, but as a boy. The thirteen year old you realized that… Anakin Skywalker was a boy. A handsome one.

Oh.

But you refused to meet his piercing blue eyes. Whatever it was that made your heart skip a beat, it shouldn’t be good. Right?

“I’m finally overcoming my difficulties”, you were telling him, softly. The temper you brought from King’s Landing had been tamed. You remembered when Obi-Wan told you about how little good possessing a temper would do to you. It’s better to develop a strong will, he said, than throwing tantrums. Anger was the worst weapon to blind oneself for the events that ran around you. A lesson you learned. “I do not wish to go to the dark side at all.”

Anakin searched for your eyes. There was something in how he looked at you that you could not tell what was. But it brought you a smile to be displayed on your lips.

“Your heart is good. Stubborn”, he teased you, “proud, but good.”

You laughed heartily and turned to snap at his arm. Your eyes lingered at his features, appreciating his short hair cut and the blue that painted the irises of his eyes.

“Proud?” You feigned to be offended. “If I remember correctly, you were the one who is always contesting Master Obi.”

Anakin pulled a grimace with the nickname you came for your master. He rolled his eyes and said:

“Sometimes his methods can be…well, antiquated. I try to make all new.” He rose his eyebrows, a smile dancing on the corner of his lips when he made you giggle.

“How arrogant of you, Ani.” Your smile spreaded easily when seeing him flush at his pet name. You decided you liked the view. “But come now, we have to meditate.”

Both of you took your seats at the grass. You enjoyed sun light right in your face, appreciating the warmth that came from it.

“Meditate uh?” He smirked at you, always a mischievous boy at his heart. “Since when did you calm yourself?”

You laughed. How easily he brought you to laughters.

“Concentrate, Ani. Come on, stop foolishing yourself.”

These were the moments where you were so happy. You’ve learnt to appreciate the singularities of life, to see beyond all the material goods you and your family had. Even though you didn’t make a lot of friends, you were not looked upon by your fellow Padawans anymore.

And despite the fact that due to your royal birth you were not expected to fully be knighted as Jedi, somehow you managed to participate of the trainings. The Force in you proved strong, perhaps just as strong as in Anakin.

As you meditated, you felt the force of your ancestors flow to you. The fire of the dragon, you began to sense there was an egg waiting to hatch as soon as you got back to King’s Landing.

And you began to see things… to a certain extent. Through the eyes of the dragon that hasn’t been born yet you began seeing King’s Landing…on fire.

…and dwelt on blood.

Much like the motto of your house.

Events seemed confuse for you, whilst all you began feel was despair, fear and…

“Y/N! Y/N!” Anakin was shaking you, bringing you from your stupor. “Are you okay?”

You were floating, but there were also tears rolling down your cheeks, hence Anakin’s preoccupation.

“I don’t know, Ani”, your voice chocked. “I’m scared. I saw…”

A sob escaped your lips and he engulfed you in his arms, a much appreciated gesture. What was that? You did not know. In all frankness, you didn’t want to.

You were also about to have a difficult week. You were training with Anakin the arts of mind when Obi-Wan stepped into the red room. The two of you exchanged glances filled with amusement. What did you do now that he felt the need to reprehend you?

However, all smiles died when Obi-Wan said:

“Y/N. I’m afraid bad news are to be delivered. Your mother was carrying a child in her womb. Unfortunately neither survived the labor. My condolences.”

You were silent. Stunned. Both your Master and Anakin looked at you compassionately. It was your friend who helped you when you fell on his knees without even noticing the weakness in them.

“Hey, Hey. I’m here”, he whispered as you leant so close to him. “I’m right here. I understand you more than you’d know.”

You did not weep, though. To be fair, the bound you had with your mother was not as strong as you had with your father. But the loss weighted on you. Guilt came with it. You were not there for her. You were away.

“It’s gonna be all right”, Anakin said, perhaps sounding a little anxious when you were so self composed.

Obi-Wan furrowed his eyebrows.

“Y/N, the sentiment of grief is normal. There is no need to repress yourself like that. What we often try to teach our Padawans is how not to be subdued by emotions.” And he softened when coming to you, closer this time. He pressed a hand over your shoulder. “It’s all right, my dear.”

You nodded, still too shocked to speak. You barely paid attention to the silent communication between Anakin and Master. Or noticed that Obi-Wan left silently, giving you both privacy.

“I wasn’t there for her”, you heard yourself saying.

Anakin comprehended your loss, you could feel it. It felt overbearing though, pressed by guilt. You wanted to go home. You did not belong there.

Such were your thoughts. Anakin perceived them, and the idea of losing you was too much for him. He soothed your fears, though, and embraced you. You stayed like this for a long time.

Until a tear dropped your right eye.

The time for changes was about to come and you had a bad feeling about this…

(To be continue)

#star wars #house of the dragon #game of thrones #imagine star wars #star wars imagine #Anakin Skywalker #Darth Vader #house targaryen #rhaenyra Targaryen #Viserys I #Aemma Arryn #house Arryn #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Anakin x you #Anakin x reader #anakin x y/n

[redwineconversation]

Jean-Michel Aulas Le Progres Interview (August 30, 2023)

Blah blah standard disclaimers apply; this heat wave is killing my AC bill @OL Comms pls do something, etc etc.

Translating this because I can feel in my arthritic bones that people with Tumblr JDs and/or Tumblr Masters in Finance will suddenly declare themselves experts in both Lyon matters and French legal affairs.

Alexa, play "Vigilante Shit" by Taylor Swift

Jean-Michel Aulas: "If anyone has been wronged, it's me"

The Holnest company, owned by Jean-Michel Aulas, has started a legal proceeding in front of the City of Lyon Commerce Tribunal and achieved a hold of approximately 14.5 million euros from the club's account. The former president of Olympique Lyonnais gives his version of events on the conflict with John Textor.

Why bring a case against Olympique Lyonnais to the Commerce Tribunal?

It's not against Olympique Lyonnais but against Eagle. I just wish to receive the amount owed to me. We signed an agreement where you would sell a third of your shares on August 10 and the remaining two thirds a year later. I'm therefore in a situation where when one is not respecting the terms, and the only path forward is to go in front of the commerce tribunal. If anyone has been wronged, it's me.

Your successors feel as though you are acting against the club's interests.

I serve every time I am asked to. I found a solution for the DNGG [Financial Watchdog], but John [Textor] did the exact opposite and was sanctioned. I respect everything I am asked to do.

They say that you froze the club's accounts for seven days in the middle of the transfer season.

That's not what happened. I am owed 14,5M euros since August 10, so we put Eagle on notice to pay us via OL Groupe. They responded they couldn't do that. We pushed back and wanted to make sure there was enough money in the accounts. We quickly learned that that there was an account with more than the sum owed. John Textor then asked me to unfreeze the other accounts, I did that that very night. My interest is that Lyon continues to develop and gets back to its top form.

Santiago Cucci said that you had him over for dinner without telling him that you were going to freeze the accounts the next day.

It was 48 hours later. We didn't speak about that, he came to see me to find out how the transaction with Michele Kang could take place. [Note: Kang being in contact with Aulas more than Textor is both good and bad]

So you deny then acting against Olympique Lyonnais?

When I accepted that an investor come in, it was so that we could do much better than I had done the two previous years. It's terrible that people are accusing me of acting against Lyon. I am going abasing the investor who was chosen by Pathe and IDF and who was supposed to bring hundreds of millions [of euros]. I'm concerned that he will look for any excuse to save money by not paying any single person. We'll go in front of the tribunal if he doesn't intend on paying me.

Will you still be a Lyon fan?

Never will I support another club. I will die thinking of Lyon. I hope that we won't have to enter into a litigation dispute. But when I see that we were forced to bring in a Danish player via Belgium [In order to get around the financial watchdog sanctions, Textor's Belgian club bought a player and then sent him to Lyon on loan], I'm scared for my club.

Will you try and retake control of the club?

It's unimaginable. I want to be in charge of women's football at the [French Football] Federation.

Will you take part in the match against PSG?

I will be at the stadium on Sunday, even if they won't give me a place in the presidential loge which I am allowed as an administrator. I will get [a place] because Holnest has bought a lot, as they do each year.

#all good love stories start in the rain #jean michel aulas #olympique lyonnais #John textor #and a Michele Kang cameo I guess

[skeppsbrott]

Är detta din bakgrund? https://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salvator_Mundi_(m%C3%A5lning) coolt! Verkar vara en försvunnen tavla, vilket adderar till mystiken kring verket. Sätt Ture Sventon på mysteriet!

D e den här:

So the lore for this painting is immense. Indeed, it was a "lost" Leonardo, which is a big deal because we have VERY FEW surviving Leonardo oil paintings. Like, maybe twenty -few, plus a handful of drawings and frescos as well as his manuscripts. Why Leonardo even is a big deal to begin with is a whole other question - in a bunch of ways his works are certainly astonishing in their own right, but are they really that much more amazing than any other renaissance artist? This is me playing the devil's advocate.

(ETA: this got long)

The thing about fame and notoriety is that it isn't even about quality to begin with. Taylor Swift isn't the biggest pop star because she makes the greatest pop tunes, she's the biggest pop star because she also embodies an ideal of what that even means, because her persona plays in to her works in a way that is emblematic of pop music and pop culture. Leonardo is that great but he is also an excellent frontman for the renaissance and a very particular idea of a Master Artist. I have seen one Leonardo face to face and the work is immaculate. It is very strange to be in the presence of because it is an immense amount of value and work into something that today mostly functions as an artifact. It is a glimpse into a different way to imagine value.

Back to the subject at hand - there are like, twenty Leonardos, and out of pretty much nowhere this painting Salvator Mundi shows up. We know it is a "lost work" because Leonardo had a studio with people who studied or aided him in his production and so there are a lot of master studies and reproductions of it. This particular painting showed up at an auction in 2005, attributed as a copy, where it was purchased by art dealers. If you know anything about this painting, it is probably that in 2017 it sold for over $450 Million, the greatest sum of money paid for a painting by a WIDE margin (over $100 million more than the second most expensive if Wikipedia is to be believed - by the way, take a look at that list, there's a lot of great art on it). The dealers originally paid less than $2,000 for it so that is a pretty penny for them.

But the thing about that price tag is that it is really just shorthand for what an utterly outlandish object this even is - Starting at the provenance it was already one of the most famous lost paintings of western tradition.

It is attributed to the defining artist of the European art tradition. It is a "male companion" to the most famous painting in the world. Between the late 1700s and its reappearance in 2005 we don't really know what happened to it. Or rather, we never knew what happened to it, or where this particular painting has been. We assume it is the object described in inventories and sales notices in the 1600s! We assume that that object noted as inventory is the original but really we do not know! There is a painting in a 1525 inventory that is believed to be the original, but even that, we have no idea!

The story of how this object got deemed an original was and remains a bit of a scandal in the art world. The Lost Leonardo is a 2021 documentary that goes into it in a very through and compelling way.

As you notice, the image I have for a lock screen is not the restored painting but the cleaned and scraped one. The restoration was also highly controversial and many believes the painting in its current state is way overdone, especially for such a historical object, especially considering how disputed its attribution has been.

(The story of how this object got deemed an original was and remains a bit of a scandal in the art world. The Lost Leonardo is a 2021 documentary that goes into it and it is absolutely worth a watch.)

I think the restored painting is gorgeous. I obviously haven't seen it in person (as far as we know the buyer was a proxy for the crown prince of Saudi Arabia and the painting itself has not been on display since) but there is a silent power in the gaze of the saviour that I admire.

That said - the painting post-cleaning but pre-restoration is what really does it for me. What that Saudi prince paid 450 000 000+ USD for was not the image but the object. When I look at the scuffed up and damaged wooden panel, while I see the image of Christ gazing at me through five hundered years, I also see the object and all the ways in which it seems to drive people to a sort of rational delirium.

Fittingly for my theological inclinations, I also do not particularly care if it is indeed an authentic Leonardo or not, the mystery is what intrigues me and either way the object itself is captivating. It is a piece of wood with pigment on it. Some guy made it five hundered years ago in the likeness of a model in an attempt to capture an idea as massive as Christian theology into a single picture for a single customer. It survived wars and revolutions and reformations and while I know the image and the story of the object intimately, I have never actually seen it and I probably never will, it is paint on a wooden panel and it is quite likely to outlive me by centuries.

Pretty whack shit.

#bluh bluh #put ture sventon on it if anyone can do it it is him #i decided to publish this because i wanted to go on a rant #hope you dont mind #this is my new ask tag #liljakonvalj

[yashkarolia]

 Taylor Alison Swift (born on December 13, 1989) is an American singer-songwriter. Her discography spans multiple generations, and her narrative songwriting—often inspired by her personal life—has received critical praise and media coverage. Born in West Reading, Pennsylvania, Swift moved to Nashville at age of 14 to become a country artist. She signed a songwriting deal with Sony/ATV Music Publishing in 2004 and a recording contract with Big Machine Records in 2005. Her 2006 self-titled debut album made her the first female country singer to write or co-write a U.S. platinum-certified album entirely.

Swift's next albums, Fearless (2008) and Speak Now (2010) explored country pop. The former's "Love Story" and "You Belong with Me" were the first country songs to top the U.S. pop and all-genre  charts, respectively. She experimented with rock and electronic styles on Red (2012), which featured her first Billboard Hot 100 number-one song, "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together", and eschew Off Shake It Offffd her country image in her synth-pop album, 1989 (2014), supported by chart-topping songs "Shake It Off", "Blank Space", and "Bad Blood". Media scrutiny inspired the urban-flavored Reputation (2017) and its number-one single "Look What You Made Me Do".

Exiting Big Machine, Swift signed with Republic Records in 2018 and released her seventh studio album, Lover (2019), followed by the autobiographical documentary Miss Americana (2020). She ventured into indie folk and alternative rock in her 2020 albums Folklore and Evermore, whose singles "Cardigan" and "Willow" topped the Hot 100. Swift began re-recording her first six albums after a dispute over their masters, re-releasing two in 2021—Fearless (Taylor's Version) and Red (Taylor's Version). The latter's "All Too Well (10 Minute Version)" became the longest song to top the Hot 100. Her tenth album Midnights (2022) and it's lead single "Anti-Hero" broke numerous streaming records. Swift has self-directed music videos and films, such as All Too Well: The Short Film (2021), and had supporting roles in others.

Having sold over 200 million records globally, Swift is one of the best-selling musicians of all time. She is the only act to have five albums open with over one million copies sold in the US. Among her accolades are 11 Grammy Awards, including three Album of the Year wins; an Emmy Award; 40 American Music Awards; 29 Billboard Music Awards; and 84 Guinness World Records. Swift has been featured in rankings such as Rolling Stone's 100 Greatest Songwriters of All Time, Billboard's Greatest of All Time Artists, the Time 100, and Forbes Celebrity 100. Honored with titles such as Artist of the Decade and Woman of the Decade, Swift is an advocate for artists' rights and women's empowerment. Her music is credited witinfluenceen cing a generation of singer-songwriters.

Life and career

1989–2003: Early life and education Taylor Alison Swift were born on December 13, 1989, at the Reading Hospital in West Reading, Pennsylvania. Swift's father, Scott Kingsley Swift, is a former stockbroker for Merrill Lynch, and her mother, Andrea Gardner Swift (née Finlay), is a former homemaker who previously worked as a mutual fund marketing executive. Her younger brother, Austin, is an actor. She was named after singer-songwriter James Taylor and has Scottish and German heritage. Her maternal grandmother, Marjorie Finlay, was an opera singer. Swift spent her early years on a Christmas tree farm that her father had purchased from one of his clients. Swift identifies as a Christian. She attended preschool and kindergarten at the Alvernia Montessori School, run by the Bernadine Franciscan sisters, before transferring to The Wyndcroft School. The family moved to a rented house in the suburban town of Wyomissing, Pennsylvania, where she attended Wyomissing Area Junior/Senior High School. During her childhood, Swift spent summers at the beach in Stone Harbor, NJ, and performed in a local coffee shop.

At age nine, Swift became interested in musical theater and performed in four Berks Youth Theatre Academy productions. She also traveled regularly to New York City for vocal and acting lessons. Swift later shifted her focus toward country music, inspired by Shania Twain's songs, which made her "want to just run around the block four times and daydream about everything." She spent weekends performing at local festivals and events. After watching a documentary about Faith Hill, Swift felt sure she needed to move to Nashville, Tennessee, to pursue a career in music. She traveled with her mother at age eleven to visit Nashville record labels and submitted demo tapes of Dolly Parton and The Chick's karaoke covers. She was rejected, however, because "everyone in that town wanted to do what I wanted to do. So, I kept thinking to myself, I need to figure out a way to be different."

When Swift was around 12 years old, computer repairman and local musician Ronnie Cremer taught her to play guitar. He helped with her first efforts as a songwriter, leading her to write "Lucky You". In 2003, Swift and her parents started working with New York-based talent manager Dan Dymtrow. With his help, Swift modeled for Abercrombie & Fitch as part of their "Rising Stars" campaign, had an original song included on a Maybelline compilation CD and attended meetings with major record labels. After performing original songs at an RCA Records showcase, Swift, then 13 years old, was given an artist development deal and began making frequent trips to Nashville with her mother. To help Swift enter the country music scene, her father transferred to Merrill Lynch's Nashville office when she was 14 years old, and the family relocated to Hendersonville, Tennessee. Swift initially attended Hendersonville High School[32] before transferring to the Aaron Academy after two years, which better suited her touring schedule through homeschooling. She graduated one year early.

2004–2008: Career beginnings and first album

In Nashville, Swift worked with experienced Music Row songwriters such as Troy Verges, Brett Beavers, Brett James, Mac McAnally, and the Warren Brothers and formed a lasting working relationship with Liz Rose. They began meeting for two-hour writing sessions every Tuesday afternoon after school. Rose thought the sessions were "some of the easiest I've ever done. Basically, I was just her editor. She'd write about what happened in school that day. She had such a clear vision of what she was trying to say. And she'd come in with the most incredible hooks." Swift became the youngest artist signed by the Sony/ATV Tree publishing house, but left the Sony-owned RCA Records at the age of 14 due to the label's lack of care and them "cut[ting] other people's stuff". She was also concerned that development deals may shelve artists, and recalled: "I genuinely felt that I was running out of time. I wanted to capture these years of my life on an album while they still represented what I was going through."

1989–2003: Early life and education

 the Reading Hospital in West Reading, Pennsylvania. Swift's father, Scott Kingsley Swift, is a former stockbroker for Merrill Lynch, and her mother, Andrea Gardner Swift (née Finlay), is a former homemaker who previously worked as a mutual fund marketing executive. Her younger brother, Austin, is an actor. She was named after singer-songwriter James Taylor,and has Scottish and German heritage. Her maternal grandmother, Marjorie Finlay, was an opera singer. Swift spent her early years on a Christmas tree farm that her father had purchased from one of his clients. Swift identifies as a Christian. She attended preschool and kindergarten at the Alvernia Montessori School, run by the Bernadine Franciscan sisters, before transferring to The Wyndcroft School. The family moved to a rented house in the suburban town of Wyomissing, Pennsylvania, where she attended Wyomissing Area Junior/Senior High School. During her childhood, Swift spent summers at the beach in Stone Harbor, NJ, and performed in a local coffee shop.

At age nine, Swift became interested in musical theater and performed in four Berks Youth Theatre Academy productions. She also traveled regularly to New York City for vocal and acting lessons. Swift later shifted her focus toward country music, inspired by Shania Twain's songs, which made her "want to just run around the block four times and daydream about everything." She spent weekends performing at local festivals and events. After watching a documentary about Faith Hill, Swift felt sure she needed to move to Nashville, Tennessee, to pursue a career in music. She traveled with her mother at age eleven to visit Nashville record labels and submitted demo tapes of Dolly Parton and The Chick's karaoke covers. She was rejected, however, because "everyone in that town wanted to do what I wanted to do. So, I kept thinking to myself, I need to figure out a way to be different."

#taylor swift

[myteavsricochet]

Hello my dear, I'll get straight to the point: I never followed Taylor Swift and until now I only knew a few songs and the most popular ones, I searched her discography on spotify and I almost had a heart attack because WHY the girl has so many albums ? And why are there identical albums but "Taylor's version"? What changes? What should I listen to? Thank you.

lol ok long story short: Taylor lost the recording rights to her albums in the past, when her record company was bought by Kanye West's manager (with whom she had serious disputes) and he took possession of the videos and masters entirely without her knowledge and for years she had been trying to regain the rights to her songs without succeeding.

However, as she still had the copyright, over the years she re-recorded the albums she no longer owned to take 100% rights to all her music. That's why you see these albums with "Taylor's version".

She has recorded 4 albums so far and there are two more to come. Basically now if you happen to listen to her music you should only listen to the "Taylor's versions" of those albums because they are the only ones on which she has all the rights 😊

[taylorswiftinfluence]

Re-Recording (Taylor's Version)

Taylor Swifts dispute with her old record label started when Big Machine sold to private-equity group Ithaca Holdings, an entity owned by music manager Scooter Braun. He then sold her masters to another company, Shamrock Holdings, for a reported $300 million in 2019. Swift’s master recordings reap profits whenever the songs are streamed or bought. However, Swift claims Braun, who manages stars like Kanye West and Justin Bieber, has repeatedly bullied her, and so she slammed the sale publicly and promised to rerecord those original six albums, this time with the masters under her own control. Anyone who still plays an old version of Swift’s early songs right now will essentially be paying Scooter Braun.

“Artists should own their own work for so many reasons. But the most screamingly obvious one is that the artist is the only one who really knows that body of work.” 

#taylors version

[edmturnmeon]

1989 Taylor's Version Vinyl 2LP Review

Mesmerizing Crystal Skies Blue vinyls, includes collectible sleeves that house the lyrics and never-before-seen photos IvanYolo 1989 Taylor's Version represents the fourth installment in Taylor Swift's ambitious project to re-record her early albums. It was officially released on October 27, 2023, through Republic Records. This album serves as a reimagining of her original fifth studio album, "1989," which was initially released in 2014. Notably, it follows the earlier release of Speak Now (Taylor's Version) in 2023. Swift made the formal announcement of 1989 Taylor's Version on August 9, 2023, during her final performance of the Eras Tour in Los Angeles. The re-recording project is a key part of Swift's response to the disputes over the ownership of her master recordings that began in 2019. Taylor Swift's highly-anticipated 1989 Taylor's Version was finally released on October 27, 2023, to the immense joy and excitement of fans worldwide. Now, avid collectors and music lovers alike can get their hands on this incredible album, which showcases an updated and reworked version of Swift's original 1989 album. And if you're one of those fans who can't wait to get your hands on this amazing piece of musical history, you'll be thrilled to know that it's currently available through a variety of online vinyl stores! You can secure your copy today and have this stunning vinyl album delivered right to your doorstep.

Where To Buy 1989 Taylor's Version Vinyl in Malaysia?

          Buy on Shopee Buy on Amazon US The 1989 Taylor's Version vinyl album boasts an impressive collection of 21 tracks, a noteworthy highlight being the inclusion of 5 previously unreleased songs from The Vault. The album jacket is not just a protective cover but also a collectible, featuring unique artwork on both the front and back covers. I bought the vinyl album via Vinyl Thirty3, one of the online vinyl stores in Malaysia. The vinyl discs come in a mesmerizing Crystal Skies Blue, adding an extra layer of aesthetic charm to this special edition. Moreover, the album includes collectible sleeves that house the lyrics and never-before-seen photos, providing fans with a deeper connection to the music and its creative process. I love the captivating light blue vinyl; it's a delightful addition to starting my vinyl record collection. Among my vinyl records, this one stands out for its aesthetics. It's a great value for the price, and if you're considering getting the 1989 Taylor's Version vinyl, I highly recommend not hesitating and making the purchase. https://youtu.be/T4ZT0SEOa9A

The Sound Quality

Buy on Shopee Buy on Amazon US Per my usual routine, I tested it on my Yamaha Aventage RX-A860 and the Sony PS-LX310BT turntable, both of which aren't high-end. I also made a few minor upgrades to my turntable's accessories to enhance the sound quality. There are many myths surrounding these upgrades, whether they are real or not, but it's all up to our own music listening experience. After replacing my original turntable slipmat with a cork slipmat, I found there was a slight difference in the sound, with more bass than before. Regarding vinyl cleaning, I prefer not to go overboard. I simply use my brush to swipe away visible dust particles when necessary. I conducted a vocal track test on my sound system, which, as mentioned before, isn't high-end. Taylor Swift's vocals are truly remarkable, and I appreciate how they are presented on vinyl, adding a unique charm to her music. The warmth and authenticity of her voice shine through, making the listening experience all the more enjoyable. The vinyl format seems to bring out the depth and nuances of her vocals in a way that other formats might not fully capture. It's a testament to the enduring appeal of vinyl for music enthusiasts. 1989 Taylor's Version vinyl plays at 33 RPM, so remember to set the correct vinyl record speed. Considering myself a 'low-budget audiophile,' I occasionally ponder whether I should stick to the old-school traditions of testing vintage equipment. However, it's essential to recognize that modern music has its unique qualities and deserves its place in our audio world. The fusion of vintage and contemporary elements can create a rich and eclectic listening experience. It's about appreciating the best of both worlds, finding the sweet spot where old and new coexist harmoniously in our musical journeys.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Taylor Swift's "1989 Taylor's Version" represents a significant milestone in her re-recording project, allowing fans to rediscover her music on their terms. The vinyl edition of this album adds an extra layer of excitement for collectors and enthusiasts. With its exquisite packaging, including the Crystal Skies Blue vinyl discs and collectible album sleeves, it's not just a musical experience but also a visual and tactile one. The combination of modern sound systems, vintage turntables, and the timeless charm of vinyl provides an eclectic and enjoyable listening experience. Swift's vocals, when heard on vinyl, carry a warmth and authenticity that captivates the listener, underlining the enduring appeal of this format. As a "low-budget audiophile," it's a reminder that appreciating music doesn't require top-tier equipment or limiting oneself to old-school practices. Modern music and technology have their own unique merits and can harmoniously coexist with vintage elements, creating a rich and diverse audio world for all to enjoy. Whether you're a seasoned collector or just starting your vinyl journey, Taylor Swift's "1989 Taylor's Version" on vinyl is a remarkable addition to any music library.

IvanYolo Rating

Vinyl Quality ★★★★★ 5/5 Sound Quality ★★★★★ 5/5 Music ★★★★★ 5/5 Share This: You Might Also Like Related Posts Read the full article

#Audiophile #AudiophileMusic #TaylorSwift #VinylLPs

[radiomaxmusic]

Tuesday, October 3, 2023 4pm ET: Feature LP: Taylor Swift - Speak Now (Taylor's Version) 2023

Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) is the third re-recorded album by American singer-songwriter Taylor Swift, released on July 7, 2023, via Republic Records. It is a re-recording of Swift’s third studio album, Speak Now (2010), and follows her 2021 re-recorded albums Fearless (Taylor’s Version) and Red (Taylor’s Version). The re-recording is a part of Swift’s counteraction to her 2019 masters dispute.…

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#2023 #Feature LP #RadioMax #Taylor Swift #Wikipedia

[yessadirichards]

Taylor Swift returns to Nashville, reveals 'Speak Now' date

NASHVILLE, Tenn.

Taylor Swift is playing catch-up with her fans this year in a massive and impressive stadium show that embraces her artistic reinventions.

Nearly two months into the 52-show Eras Tour, Swift returned Friday to the origins of her musical career in Nashville, Tennessee, a city she outgrew as a country starlet destined for pop stardom.

In front of 70,000 fans, Swift dropped the news that she would be releasing a re-recording of her Nashville-era 2010 record, “Speak Now,” on July 7.

Swift started releasing new versions of her early albums in 2021, after a dispute over the ownership of the masters, which were sold to — and then by — music executive Scooter Braun. “Speak Now,” Swift's third album, will also be the third “Taylor's Version” recording — she released the re-recordings of 2008's “Fearless” and 2012's “Red” in 2021.

“Speak Now” was an album she wrote entirely by herself and she performed one of the singles, “Sparks Fly” after her announcement, followed by “Teardrops on My Guitar,” from her 2006 self-titled debut record.

The tour started chaotically with a breakdown of Ticketmaster’s ability to withstand the demand of fans, who were eager to see Swift after an extended hiatus from touring due to the coronavirus pandemic. Those who were lucky enough to get into the first of three shows in Nashville made sure to show out in their cosplay outfits inspired by Taylor’s songs, ranging from marching band geek to cardigans and cottagecore.

“I moved to Nashville nearly 20 years ago,” she told the crowd. “And this dream I had since I was so little I can’t even remember even first having it, this dream came true because of this town and the people in it.”

She started off the nearly 3.5-hour show with a line from “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” as a gentle spring rain sprinkled on the crowd: “It’s been a long time coming, but it’s you and me, that’s my whole world.”

The Eras tour theme is a natural fit for an artist whose music is often so self-referential, winking and smiling at the previous Taylors and their moments. The show is broken up into acts, not moving chronologically through her discography, but instead presenting like a house with many rooms. The color schemes, choreographed dancers and outfits support the overall feeling of musical theater, with a stage that incorporates rising platforms and hidden trap doors she can disappear through.

With over 40 songs on the setlist from her 10 albums, Swift hits a lot of the highlights of her singles, ranging from “You Belong With Me,” “Shake It Off,” “Bad Blood,” “Anti-Hero” and “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.” But she also made time for special songs, like her 10-minute fan favorite “All Too Well,” and brought back opening act Phoebe Bridgers to perform their duet “Nothing New,” a vault track released on “Red (Taylor’s Version).”

It was a five-year wait to see all the glittering chapters of Swift’s career on stage together, but the pop star’s marathon performance carried fans through to the last notes.

#yessadirichards

[fat-ugly-bus-driver]

Taylor Alison Swift (born December 13, 1989) is an American singer-songwriter. Her discography spans multiple genres, and her vivid songwriting—often inspired by her personal life—has received critical praise and wide media coverage. Born in West Reading, Pennsylvania, Swift moved to Nashville at age 14 to become a country artist. She signed a songwriting deal with Sony/ATV Music Publishing in 2004 and a recording contract with Big Machine Records in 2005. Her 2006 self-titled debut album made her the first female country singer to write or co-write a U.S. platinum-certified album entirely.

Swift's next albums, Fearless (2008) and Speak Now (2010), explored country pop. The former's "Love Story" and "You Belong with Me" were the first country songs to top the U.S. pop and all-genre airplay charts, respectively. She experimented with rock and electronic styles on Red (2012), which featured her first Billboard Hot 100 number-one song, "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together", and eschewed her country image in her synth-pop album, 1989 (2014), supported by chart-topping songs "Shake It Off", "Blank Space", and "Bad Blood". Media scrutiny inspired the urban-flavored Reputation (2017) and its number-one single "Look What You Made Me Do".

Exiting Big Machine, Swift signed with Republic Records in 2018 and released her seventh studio album, Lover (2019), followed by the autobiographical documentary Miss Americana (2020). She ventured into indie folk and alternative rock in her 2020 albums Folklore and Evermore, whose singles "Cardigan" and "Willow" topped the Hot 100. Swift began re-recording her first six albums after a dispute over their masters, re-releasing two in 2021—Fearless (Taylor's Version) and Red (Taylor's Version). The latter's "All Too Well (10 Minute Version)" became the longest song to top the Hot 100. Her tenth album Midnights (2022) and its lead single "Anti-Hero" broke numerous streaming records. Swift has self-directed music videos and films, such as All Too Well: The Short Film (2021), and had supportive acting roles in others.

Having sold over 200 million records globally, Swift is one of the best-selling musicians of all time. She is the only act to have five albums open with over one million copies sold in the US. Among her accolades are 11 Grammy Awards, including three Album of the Year wins; an Emmy Award; 40 American Music Awards; 29 Billboard Music Awards; and 84 Guinness World Records. Swift has been featured in rankings such as Rolling Stone's 100 Greatest Songwriters of All Time, Billboard's Greatest of All Time Artists, the Time 100 and Forbes Celebrity 100. Honored with titles such as Artist of the Decade and Woman of the Decade, Swift is an advocate for artists' rights and women's empowerment. Her music is credited with influencing a generation of singer-songwriters.

ohDO I L/ 9OOO L KR I CA RE .

#wom an

[haylorology]

Lol, it's fun sending stuff u may like ;)

Hmm, she didn't feature on many songs, but I've enjoyed the ones she did- "Two is Better than One" is a fave too. I was watching the mv "Highway Don't Care" she did w/ Tim McGraw & Keith Urban- interesting that in video that their reflections on broken mirror are featured- reminded me how she used it in Style mv later. I like listening to The Town by Niall Horan with it (Highway theme, lol).

Speaking of McGraw, TS was the 1st client for her Indie label- but big names joined afterward- Tim Mcgraw, Garth Brooks, Reba McEntire, Rascal Flatts, Lady A, etc. By '15 SB bought out an investor & owned 90%* - silent partner Toby Keith** in '05 had bought 10% share for $400k (one of the richest country singers- a self-made businessman). TK had also started a separate label- but it didn't do as well. According to Buzzfeed, early on ('05?), TS's father bought a 3% stake in the company for a reported $300k. (Not sure how shares were split by the time the company was sold).

Interesting '18 article excerpt:

"...Any deal Swift would accept will presumably include control of her new masters. And while Big Machine could sweeten the pot by offering the masters of her first five albums, I strongly doubt the label would take this step. A person with knowledge of the business told Variety that 80 percent of Big Machine’s revenue is derived from those albums today. In a streaming-dominant world, giving up those masters might be too big a loss to take, even if keeping them means forgoing the chance to profit on Swift’s future work.

Big Machine may also be betting that Swift has plateaued. Swift’s most recent album, “Reputation,” sold significantly fewer copies than its predecessor, “1989.” The label may feel that it will do better to hold on to the masters for the five albums it has than to give them up just to stay in the Taylor Swift business."^

*https://musicrow.com/2015/09/borchetta-holds-90-percent-of-big-machine-at-10-year-anniversary/

**https://www.celebritynetworth.com/articles/entertainment-articles/end-decade-country-star-toby-keith-will-billionaire/

^https://www.palisadeshudson.com/2018/09/taylor-swift-is-her-own-big-machine/

Regarding re-recordings- others tried like Def Leppard in '11 (dispute with UMG^^) & Prince (who had 17 records)- but I heard it just made the originals more valuable. So for some it was a mix opinion if TS should bother with the cost or effort.

^^https://www.theguardian.com/music/2012/oct/20/artists-rerecording-old-hits

Did you know TS had a Def Leppard connection & did a Country Crossover special '08 w/ them?

Other info on streaming: https://www.thedailybeast.com/taylor-swift-follows-prince-the-artist-who-tamed-the-corporate-giant

Don’t wink at me anon I get flustered 😳😂

But anyway I have many options of why Taylor did the best move of her career by re-recording. She now could have any song she wants and as many as she wants and she did spoil us with red tv ngl. Other celebrities couldn’t compare to Taylor even if they were as famous lol. And to answer your question I don’t think tay did a crossover with Def Lappard lol I don’t think Taylor will go back to country, her style of writing is so different now listening to midnight and watching miss Americana pretty much confirms it for me. But not saying she can’t write country music so maybe but idk lol

#I’m taking a money management course and I still know nothing about finances lmao #thank you for the ask u lovely anon #ask #anon

[overlooked-tracks]

Ashanti credits Taylor Swift with standing up for women in male-dominated music industry

The following article has been posted on June 25, 2022 at 04:31PM:

An Overlooked Tracks News Finding: Here’s an article you might have overlooked. Having a partnership with NewsAPI, we try to catch music entertainment news for you to view, read and possibly enjoy. We will continue to find what’s available in the world of music entertainment, concert information and music releases. But obviously you – the listener and reader are the biggest source for news in your area, so if you can share with us. For right now, look at what we found for you:

“From The Music News UK Website – Ashanti credits Taylor Swift with standing up for women in male-dominated music industry”

Ashanti has praised Taylor Swift for putting artists’ ownership of their music in the spotlight.  Back in 2019, Swift announced plans to re-record her own album masters, following a dispute with Scooter Braun and her old record label boss, Scott Borchetta, after Braun concluded a deal to buy Borchetta’s firm Big Machine.  Ashanti has taken a similar approach with her self-titled 2002 debut album and insisted it’s something she always wanted to do.

Ashanti credits Taylor Swift with standing up for women in male-dominated music industry

“What I will say is I’ve always had the idea to go back in and re-record and gain the masters,” she told Metro.co.uk. “I think Taylor is amazing for what she’s done and to be able to be a female in this very male-dominated industry, to accomplish that is amazing.”

She added that she can see it sparking a trend for artists who become major stars but lack ownership of their early records because they signed deals at the start of their careers.

“More of us have to continue that narrative of women empowerment, and just artists as a whole,” she said.

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and can be found on the Overlooked Tracks website: https://ift.tt/Y51uU6B. Check out more music news from Overlooked Tracks! Music Headline News, dispute, masters, re-record, women

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