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kyber-queen · 4 years

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Like Real People Do (Rex x Reader) Pt. 5

Summary: Jedi!reader and Rex fall in love but are separated by the war. They meet again two years later, weeks before the Siege of Mandalore. This chapter takes place three weeks after the last one. Lotsa fluff, Rex n reader are in LOVE, more Rex cuddles bc its what we deserve, enjoy the seratonin bc its gonna get real sad real fast next chapter.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Mentions of family planning??, some heated smooches in the supply closet

Author’s Note: You guys,,, this is the last happy chapter im going to sob TWO MORE CHAPTERS LEFT

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For the last three weeks since that whiskey-fueled evening in your quarters, you spent the night in Rex’s arms. With gentle touches and whispered words, you slowly but surely built back the bridge between you that time had razed. The swan song of the Clone War could be heard from a distance—more and more, your thoughts centered around your future. Rex’s future.

Your eyes fluttered open, only to be met with Rex’s honeyed gaze.

“Good morning, cyar’ika,”.

You hummed a lazy greeting, stretching out your bare limbs. Rex was warm, and your original plan for getting out of bed was discarded. Meetings and paperwork could wait—you savored these early morning moments more than Rex could possibly know.

“Good morning, my love,”.

You pulled him into a slow, saccharine-sweet kiss. He smiled into your lips, and you giggled as he pulled back to press a quick peck to the tip of your nose.

“You going soft, Captain?” you questioned with mock disdain.

“Only for you,”.

You rolled your eyes at his sappy answer and collapsed back onto his chest. The air around you stilled—Rex’s heartbeat was steady against your cheek as you allowed yourself just a few more minutes of respite.

Rex’s voice rumbled through his chest, still rough from sleep.

“I’ve been thinking, cyare,”.

“Hmm?”

“About Naboo,”.

Realization crossed your features, and you propped yourself up on Rex’s chest to meet his gaze.

“What about it?”

“Well, it seems like every day, we get closer and closer to ending this war. I want to be with you when it’s all over,”.

“Me too, Rex,”.

Rex’s features relaxed, his thumb tracing a steady circle around the small of your back as he mulled over his words.

“The house on Naboo—I want a window with a view. So I can see out into the fields, keep an eye on the kids when they play outdoors. Oh, and a table, too. A big one, so when my brothers visit, there’s always room,”.

You smiled at this, sliding your hand up Rex’s chest to rest against his cheek.

“We’ll have all that and more, I promise. You deserve it,”.

Rex had earned his happy ending. After two years of war, maker knows you did, too. A flash of guilt crossed your mind—you had yet to tell Master Windu or Master Secura of your plans to leave the order. The prospect of leaving behind everything you’d ever known should have frightened you more than it did. Aside from the subtle nagging of your conscience, you were strangely calm. As much as you loved the Jedi order, you loved Rex more.

He kissed you gently. As the two of you prepared for the day ahead, your future rose before you, bright and shining.

***

Your morning was one of the busiest you’d had in a while. Rex was quickly whisked off by his fellow troopers—Commander Tano had returned, on urgent business, and the 501st was playing the role of welcoming committee. You smiled to yourself. Tano’s name had come up frequently when Rex talked about his past two years with the 501st. The two clearly had a strong bond, and Rex had explained to you how painful it was for the entire battalion when she left the Jedi order.

While Rex prepared his men, you had already spent two hours filing equipment damage reports for the council. Your fingers ached from typing on your datapad, and your vision swam. Filing damage reports was about the dullest job you could have chosen to complete, but Skywalker was infamous for pawning off filing duty on a low-ranking officer or shiny. At least if you completed them, they’d be done right. Your consciousness was just beginning to slip when your commlink lit up.

“Commander, we need you in the hangar, immediately,” General Skywalker’s voice reverberated through the small room. Sensing a break from the tedium, you made your way to the hangar double-time, barely remembering to close the filing room doors.

The hangar was filled with armored men, painted with Tano’s markings. You smiled—Rex had clearly made it his mission to give the former Jedi a warm welcome. Kenobi’s voice rumbed to your left. Skywalker, Tano, and Kenobi had clustered in the center of the hangar, clearly discussing something important.

You cleared your throat.

“You wanted to see me, General?”

Skywalker turned, relief flooding his features.

“Yes, actually. Rex and Ahsoka will be leading an emergency mission on Mandalore. I’ve promoted Rex to Commander, so he’ll take the lead, and Ahsoka will be acting as a civilian advisor. I’m sending them with as many members of the 501st as I can spare. As a member of the council, you technically do not need council approval to accompany them to Mandalore. While on Mandalore, you would not be acting as a representative of the council, and your rank would be demoted to Lieutenant Commander. It’s your choice—if you don’t accept, you’ll accompany me and General Kenobi to Coruscant—we leave immediately, Dooku is attacking the capitol.

You remembered your promise to Rex—the war was coming to its close, and you swore that you would be with him when it finally did.

“I’ll go to Mandalore,”.

Skywalker nodded to Kenobi, and turned back to you.

“Alright, then, it’s settled. May the force be with you,”.

“May the force be with you,”.

You turned to board the Venator. You made your way to the bridge, where you knew Rex would already be seated, probably checking over ammunitions inventory. He stood when he saw you, his lips twitching into a slight smile.

“Commander Rex, may I have a word?” The phony formality dripped from your tone, and Rex quickly dropped his datapad to accompany you into a less crowded hallway.

You yanked him into the first supply closet you saw, boxing him in against the closed door. Rex sucked in a breath at the sudden movement, and you giggled in response. Pressing up onto your tiptoes, you leaned in closer to Rex’s ear. Your breath was warm against his neck, and he shivered involuntarily.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Commander,”.

Rex’s hands attached to your waist like a magnet. He hoisted you off the ground with ease, settling you on top of a supply crate to your left. As soon as your ass hit the unforgiving metal, his lips were on yours.

You held on to his plastoid chest-plate for dear life, pulling him closer to you as he pressed his lips hard against yours. You gasped, and he pulled away for just a moment, chuckling to himself before attacking your neck with kisses.

“Rex,” you whispered. He ran his tongue over a dark mark he had sucked just above your pulse point.

“Need something, cyare?”

Before you could answer, Rex’s commlink buzzed. Ahsoka.

Fuck.

“Rex, where are you? We land in an hour, and I’d like to go over our strategies,”.

Rex pressed a finger to his lips, motioning for you to be quiet.

“Sorry, Commander. I’m on my way to the bridge, now,”.

“Are you alright? You sound like you’re breathing pretty heavily—are you sparring right now?”.

You grinned, holding in your giggle. Rex shot you a warning look before responding.

“I’m alright, just tired,”.

“Alright, then. Pick up some caf pills from the medbay on your way. Oh, and before I forget, if you see the Lieutenant Commander, tell them to meet us on the bridge,”.

“Yes, sir,”.

The commlink disconnected, and you let out a snort. Rex chuckled to himself, and helped you off the crate. He cleared his throat

“To be continued?”

You nodded. He pulled you close, and pressed a final kiss to your forehead before you both walked out the door.

********************************

Like Real People Do Taglist: @pinkiemme @callme-eds @porgnugget @obi-robi-kenobi

#captain rex #captain rex x y/n #captain rex x you #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #rex x you #ct 7567 #the clones #the 501st #my fic

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Clark Gable and His WW2 Death Wish

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Clark Gable did not intend to see action when World War II came to America. Which is not to say he ignored the war. Gable was there that day in 1940 when President Franklin Roosevelt gave his famous “Arsenal of Democracy” speech from the Oval Office. And, indeed, the first thing the movie star did when he heard about the Pearl Harbor attack was cable FDR to offer his full support—and, tellingly, the besieged president promptly answered right back.

But then in the 1930s and early ‘40s, Gable was “the King of Hollywood;” the reigning movie star who could sell more tickets than anybody this side of Shirley Temple, and he didn’t have to sing or dance to do it either. He was a mustachioed and muscular alpha who appealed to everybody, even presidents, and was one of the few leading men who would tell Louis B. Mayer no (at least until casting for Gone with the Wind came along). The government saw the value in that kind of celebrity when the dark storm clouds of war gathered over Europe and the South Pacific, and so did Gable. Still, he was practically 41 when the bombs fell in Hawaii and more than happy to support the war from afar.

As he told fellow MGM stablemate Jimmy Stewart at the latter’s going away party in 1940—Stewart had just happily joined the Army—“You know you’re throwing away your career, don’t you?” When Stewart answered yes, Gable added, “You won’t catch me doing that, but I wish you godspeed.”

Gable had success, Gable had power, and for the first time in his four decades on this earth, Gable had something approaching peace thanks to his marriage to Carole Lombard, the firecracker screwball star. Yet in less than a year, all of those things turned to ash following Lombard’s violent death. When her plane went down in a fiery blaze, it was treated as a national tragedy around the country, and for her husband it was the beginning of the end.

The King became broken, despondent, and finally disillusioned enough to enlist in the U.S. Army Air Corps. To this day, some say he went to Europe with a death wish, and on at least one bombing raid, Capt. Gable almost had it granted as a Luftwaffe shell passed right between his feet.

Clark Gable and Carole Lombard posing for photographers shortly after their marriage in 1939.

The King and Queen of Hollywood

Women were always easy for Clark Gable, and for a time so were wives. The first Mrs. Gable was Josephine Dillon, 17 years his senior, and she was introduced to him as an acting coach by another woman who was his then-fiancée. As a handsome, if unrefined son of an Ohioan farmer, the 23-year-old Gable was perfect clay for Dillon. She turned him into her greatest student, teaching him how to lower his voice and hold your attention. As his patron and wife, Dillon also introduced Gable to all her Broadway connections and the adjacent stock companies. It was even as the star of one of those companies that he met Maria Langham, a wealthy widow and oil heiress who was also 17 years his senior.

As the second Mrs. Gable, Ria introduced Gable to Manhattan’s high society and exquisite living, teaching him social etiquette and the value of a finely tailored tuxedo. One wife taught him how to play at being an actor, and the other taught him how to play at being a gentleman. They served their purposes and they were both brushed off.

But Lombard? He couldn’t brush her off ever.

The first time Clark met Carole, it was a surprisingly chaste affair. The two were cast as the leads of 1932’s No Man of Her Own. Unlike many of his leading ladies in the 1930s, Gable made no passes at Lombard, who was married to movie star William Powell at the time and intended to remain that way. Nevertheless, they hit it off, as the breathlessly quick-witted Lombard did with almost everyone.

Gable wasn’t yet “the King of Hollywood” then, but he was well on his way. Two years later, he’d star in the film that popularized screwball comedies, It Happened One Night (1934), which won him an Oscar for Best Actor, and two years after that he would lead the granddaddy of all disaster movies, San Francisco (1936). By ’38, he was already Tinseltown royalty when then-gossip columnist Ed Sullivan overheard Gable’s drinking buddy and sometime-rival, Spencer Tracy, affectionately refer to him as “King.” Sullivan immediately lit upon the idea of holding a national poll for the “King and Queen of Hollywood.”

More than 20 million people voted and, by a huge majority, Gable was crowned “King” for the rest of his career. Meanwhile, Myrna Loy was elected “Queen of Hollywood.” The fact they were then filming MGM’s Test Pilot (with Tracy) certainly suggests the results might’ve been tampered with. It also likely struck Loy as ironic since her first encounter with Gable ended with her pushing him into a hedge bush after he drunkenly bit the back of her neck while his second wife, Ria, was sitting in a nearby car. Gable refused for years to talk to Loy socially after that rejection, including between takes on film sets.

So yes, the King was a womanizer—complete with a secret baby born out of wedlock to co-star Loretta Young—in a sham marriage at the beginning of his reign. But things began changing when he finally ran into Lombard again, and at last he found his matching monarch.

It was at the White Ball in 1936 that the pair’s paths crossed a second time. By now, Clark was fully estranged from Ria, and the two lived in separate houses. Lombard, meanwhile, had risen to her own stardom by bringing her transgressive life-of-the-party persona to recent screwball comedies directed by Howard Hawks and Ernst Lubitsch. Vivacious, whip smart, and an eventual inspiration for Marion Ravenwood in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Lombard was a hard-drinking and giddy star with her own orbit.

According to Clark Gable: A Biography by Warren G. Harris, when Gable saw Lombard on the dance floor, he went up and said, “I go for you, Ma.” After a moment’s confusion, Lombard realized he was quoting their characters’ nicknames for each other in No Man of Her Own from four years earlier. She responded, “I go for you too, Pa.”

For the rest of their lives, they’d always refer to each other as “Ma” and “Pa.”

Clark Gable and Carole Lombard play with horses at the Encino ranch in 1939.

The Love of His Life

That first night on the dance floor actually ended in the pair’s first of many fights. But in a trick that would come to define the pattern of their relationship, Gable woke up the next morning in his hotel room with two doves sitting on his chest. They’d been secreted there with a note on one’s leg: “How about it? Carole.”

Unlike Gable’s other romantic entanglements, Lombard always controlled the tone and tempo of their courtship while Gable offered Lombard an escape from the glamour goddess, society girl image she’d molded herself to in Hollywood. She was an athlete growing up and, alongside Pa, she picked up outdoor-living again.

Clark taught Carole rifling, skeet-shooting, and camping. In ’38, she joined what had up to that point been Gable’s all-male hunting club with fellow actors and Hollywood talent. When the other men complained about a woman being present and sharing their bathroom, she brought along her own trailer with a private bathroom—taunting Clark and the others by then keeping him out. She crawled in the mud next to the dudes, and would soon be on all of the Gables’ hunting trips.

The pair eloped in ’39 after three years of courtship. This occurred in large part because Photoplay magazine revealed the two were living in sin (Gable was still married and too chintzy to get a divorce). Shortly after the embarrassment, however, Gable paid off his second wife and Lombard became the third Mrs. Gable.

“I just think of that husband of mine all the time,” Lombard once said with her usual candor. “I’m really stuck on the bastard. And it isn’t all that great lover crap, because if you want to know the truth, I’ve had better. No, I’m nuts about him and not just about his nuts.”

When the two moved into their Encino ranch, Gable made his gun collection the centerpiece when you walked in the front door, and Lombard began raising chickens and cattle. It was about as far from Beverly Hills as you could get, or as Lombard enthused, “The best little shit house in the San Fernando Valley.”

It was here that Lombard planned to soon retire, beginning with a one-year sabbatical in an effort to have children. Yet after a year of trying, they only had two miscarriages to show for it. They agreed to keep trying, but they’d soon run out of chances.

Clark Gable and wife Carole Lombard circa 1940.

The Loss of His Life

When the bombs fell in Pearl Harbor, it was Carole who urged Clark to telegraph Roosevelt as soon as possible. She was also in the White House for the president’s fireside chat in 1940. And unlike Gable, she was furious when the president responded, “You are needed where you are.”

With the war finally here, Lombard urged Gable to join the Army in December 1941 while she hoped to join the Red Cross. For Christmas, instead of her usual lavish presents she sent all her friends engravings announcing she’d made a donation to the Red Cross in their name. And when she got wind of MGM publicity chief Howard Strickling trying to position Gable for a safe desk job in Washington D.C. for the course of the war, she told both men, “The last thing I want for Pappy is one of those phony commissions!”

Gable preferred helping the war where FDR told him he should—from the comfort of Hollywood. On Dec. 22, 1941, he presided over the first meeting of the Screen Actors Division of the Hollywood Victory Committee as its newly appointed chairman. The committee functioned as a way for Hollywood stars and leaders to organize all activities in support of the war effort. His wife was the first at the meeting to pledge her cooperation in donations, bond rallies, and touring the troops.

When a request came from the Treasury Department for the Victory Committee to launch Indiana’s participation in the national campaign of selling war bonds on Jan. 15, 1942, Gable recognized his Indiana-born wife as the perfect talent to send along. Carole was thrilled to go, although apprehensive about leaving Clark behind.

Gable couldn’t join his wife on her journey by train because he was about to start work on Somewhere I’ll Find You: his second film with Lana Turner. Up until then, Carole had been very open-minded about Gable’s continued infidelities and little affairs, even after they were married. She turned a blind eye to more than one rumor of him sleeping with a co-star here, or a starstruck journalist there, because she assumed you had to let Clark Gable be Clark Gable. But she drew the line over rumors about Clark and Lana, the latter of whom was infamously dubbed the “Sweater Girl” when she was discovered at a soda fountain at age 16. Blonde and buxom, Turner was 20-years-old when she first worked with the 40-year-old Gable. These stories did get to Lombard.

The evening before she left for Indiana, the couple had a huge blowout during which Clark failed to convince his wife he never slept with Lana Turner. The last night Gable and Lombard were under the same roof, they slept in different beds. The next morning, he did not see his wife off to the train station.

As with many of their fights, things cooled almost immediately. Before she left, Lombard still delivered a pack of handwritten love letters to her live-in secretary Jean Garceau to deliver to Clark, one at a time, everyday she was away. She also had the prank she planned before their fight still be delivered, so when Gable returned home from work that night he found a naked blonde dummy in his bed with a note. “So you won’t be lonely.” Gable reportedly laughed until he had tears in his eyes.

According to Garceau when the two talked by phone the next night, they sounded like “lovebirds” again. And according to the You Must Remember This podcast, Gable had Carole’s hotel room in Indianapolis be covered in red roses when she got in. But before even then, Lombard’s train stopped in Salt Lake City where she saw the troops marching and immediately telegraphed her husband, “HEY PAPPY, YOU’D BETTER GET INTO THIS MAN’S ARMY.”

On Jan. 15, Lombard intended to raise $500,000 in war bonds. Instead, she raised over $2 million. Afterward, she was so eager to get home to Gable following their fight that she decided she’d fly back to California instead of returning by train. This was expressly forbidden by the Treasury Department. Commercial travel was still relatively dicey, and they feared she’d be a target for Nazi saboteurs. Additionally, she was traveling with her mother Elizabeth Peters, a superstitious woman who’d never flown and was deathly afraid to start now. She was also there with Otto Winkler, Gable’s publicist and buddy who was best man at their wedding.

The morning their flight was to leave Indianapolis, Otto got Carole to at least agree to a coin toss. Heads they fly, tails they take the train. Carole won. From Indianapolis, they would make multiple stops, including Wichita, Albuquerque, and Las Vegas. TWA Flight Number 3 never reached Burbank.

That night Gable arranged a surprise party to welcome the three heroes back—as well as a surprise male dummy with an erection waiting for Carole upstairs. He was reportedly giddy waiting for the phone call from limo driver Larry Barbier, who was supposed to report when they landed. Instead, Clark got a call from MGM fixer Eddie Mannix.

“Can I get back to you?” Gable asked. “I’m expecting word on Ma’s arrival any minute.”

Mannix cut him off. “King, that’s why I’m calling. Larry Barbier just phoned from the airport. Carole’s plane went down just a few minutes after it left Las Vegas.” She was gone.

Clark Gable stands next to co-pilot Lt. Col. Robert W Burns beneath B-17 “The Duchess” after bombing raid in September 1943.

Clark Gable Goes to War

The fallout from the literal wreckage of Lombard’s flight was national news. A bewildered Gable joined Mannix and other MGM brass for their own chartered flight to Vegas. He could see the burning debris that Lombard’s flight smeared across Table Rock Mountain from the air. Locals in the city described it as “apocalyptic” and like an “inferno.”

Mannix refused to let Gable go on the rescue party climbing the mountain—convincing him Carole, Otto, and Bettie might have survived and were now walking to the city. So the star stayed behind and drank. The next morning, he received a cable from Mannix. “NO SURVIVORS. ALL KILLED INSTANTLY.”

In truth, the bodies of Lombard and everyone else on board had been more or less cremated by the fire after impact. And while Mannix couldn’t be certain, he believed he found what was left of Carole: a decapitated, charred body with a few blonde strands of hair and the remnants of a ruby and diamond pin Gable had given his wife the year before. He never told Clark about what he saw, but brought back the hairs and piece of ruby.

The next day, FDR sent Gable private condolences and publicly awarded Lombard a medal as “the first woman to be killed in action in the defense of her country in its war against the Axis powers.”

The official and (likely) reason for that flight’s crash is it was overloaded with servicemen and movie star luggage, and the pilot failed to see the mountain in front of him, on which all lights had been turned off to preserve wartime power. Although, according to Orson Welles (as per You Must Remember This), Hollywood and government insiders all knew Nazi saboteurs did in fact bring down the plane, and Roosevelt covered it up to prevent a nationwide panic.

In the months that followed, Gable grew quiet and despondent, losing 20 pounds despite drinking untold amounts of Scotch every day. He dined alone for all meals and began wearing a locket with Carole’s hair and ruby remnants within. According to household staff, he rarely slept and stayed up all hours of the night watching 16mm prints of Lombard’s old movies he had sent over (she’d given him the projector as a Christmas present). Now he had time for no woman except the one he lost.

When he discovered MGM was still trying to keep him from being drafted—with the age range now being raised to 45—Gable grew furious. A scriptwriter pal put him in touch with Col. Luke Smith of the Army Air Corps, who told Gable he should consider applying for training as an aerial gunner since it’s one of those jobs no one seems interested in.

“Everybody wants to be a pilot,” Smith told Gable. “Your becoming a gunner would help to glorify the plane crews and the grease monkeys.” Gable made up his mind to enlist in spite of the wrath of MGM head Louis B. Mayer. He also defied the constraints of his age of 41 by passing the physical—save for the need of getting triplicates of his new dentures (Gable had false teeth his whole career).

On Aug. 12, 1942, Gable enlisted into the Army air force. Right beforehand he told Jill Winkler, Otto’s widow, “I’m going in, and I don’t expect to come back, and I don’t really give a hoot whether I do or not.”

Capt. Gable posing for the press with a gunner’s weapon in June 1943.

The Aerial Gunner with a Death Wish

There is still much speculation over whether Gable actually wanted to die in World War II. His superiors eventually reached that conclusion based on his cavalier attitude, and he at least seemed ambivalent about the whole affair. However, it is interesting he joined the air force considering that, after Lombard’s death, he developed a fear of flying for the rest of his life. Following the war, he would always prefer to make his transatlantic crossings by ocean liners instead of planes.

But during the war? Frankly, he didn’t seem to give a damn one way or the other.

Gable’s biggest fear during the whole conflict was his struggle to pass officer’s training in a 90-day course stateside. A high school dropout, Gable was challenged by the academic course work, which he ultimately got around by treating each textbook like a script he needed to memorize.

Once he was an officer (and allowed to grow back his trademark mustache), he seemed in relatively good spirits for the first time in months. Before going overseas, he told Garceau, “I have everything in the world anyone could want, but for one thing. All I really need and want is Ma.”

In April 1943, Gable was shipped off to join the 351st Heavy Bombardment Group in Peterborough, England, about 80 miles north of London. Gable also received an automatic promotion to the rank of captain, although this had as much to do with the heavy losses of Allied officers as it did with Gable’s leadership.

In truth, Gable likely enjoyed playing the part of officer more than he entirely became it. The military loved letting him pose for the press as a gunner with a bombardier’s bullets wrapped around his neck, but that wasn’t his actual job. While Gable did on at least two occasions take on the role of aerial gunner in combat, his official role was as an observational gunner—he was there to pick up the weapons in the side or rear of a B-17 if the gunner operating it was injured or killed (which did happen).

Otherwise, Gable was there because the Army wanted him to film footage they could use as propaganda, glorifying the role of gunners. While in officer’s school, the Army reunited Gable with cinematographer Andy McIntyre, who would become his sidekick and cameraman in the air. And after his graduation, Gable arranged the transfer of his scriptwriting buddy John Lee Mahin, then a lieutenant serving as an instructor in Combat Intelligence, to join them. In all, Gable and McIntyre built a film crew of six men to film the other fliers on B-17 missions. They were called “the Little Hollywood Group.”

More than twice the age of many of the pilots and gunners he flew with, Gable found himself facing heavy skepticism in his early training.

“None of the kids believed he was going to do anything at all,” Mahin recalled in Warren’s Clark Gable biography. “They never thought he was going to expose himself to any kind of danger. They said it was all a lot of bullshit. It really killed Clark that the kids shunned him.”

The brass, however, loved Gable at first. Many of his superiors invited him nearly every night to dinner, an annoyance he’d soon relegate to one evening a week. And while he welcomed the press to photograph him at the planes, he also refused the special treatment of having private quarters set up, which earned him more respect from the young fliers.

He’d also soon prove himself as a member of Col. William Hatcher’s Chickens (a nickname for his bombing group) when he went up in the air on May 4, 1943. Hatcher was onboard the same B-17 that day as group commander and co-pilot; the 351st were tasked with taking out several factories in Nazi-occupied Antwerp, Belgium.

During Gable’s first combat mission, flak from ground defenses took out one of the plane’s four engines and its stabilizer. More unnervingly, after delivering the plane’s payload, a German’s 20mm shell pierced the center of the plane, with the corner of the shell passing through the heel of Gable’s boot—lifting it clean off—and then exiting the aircraft inches above Gable’s head.

On another mission, Gable took over for gunners who were wounded or killed (there was at least one of each that day). Fifteen holes were found in the fuselage. For Gable, such horrors were also a vindication, as he fully won the respect of the kids around him.

“They adored him,” Mahin recalled. “They couldn’t stay away from him. And he was proud that they accepted him.”

Portrait of Capt. Gable after arriving in England in 1943 as part of the the 351st Bombardment Group.

Hitler’s Prize

At Peterborough, Gable grew increasingly chummy with the other fliers serving. He bought a used motorcycle and would make small talk on trips around the base. And on more than a few weekends, he would head to London to screen at MGM offices some of the footage he shot in the air. He also would meet with his pre-war Hollywood chum, David Niven, who was serving as an instructor for British Commandos and had recently married and had a son.

“From then on our cottage became Clark’s refuge from military life,” Niven recalled. “With Carole’s death, he had been dealt the cruelest of blows, but on the surface at least, he was making the best of it. In his own deep misery, he found it possible to rejoice over the great happiness that had come my way, and he became devoted to my little family.”

Niven added, “Clark’s personal wounds seemed to be healing, but Carole was never far from him, and the very happiness of our little group would sometimes overwhelm him. [My wife] found him one evening on an upturned wheelbarrow in the garden, his head in his hands, weeping uncontrollably.”

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Still, Gable seemed to be settling into a new happy rhythm of camaraderie on the base, frequent trips to London, and even playing the field. He renewed an affair with a pre-Lombard paramour in London, the English (and now married with children) Elizabeth Allan. Nonetheless, he may have been enjoying himself too much for his superiors’ liking.

Robert Matzen, author of Mission: Jimmy Stewart and the Fight for Europe and Fireball: Carole Lombard and the Mystery of Flight 3, told me he believed Gable had a death wish.

“Carole Lombard, his wife, wanted him to go fight and she’s killed,” Matzen said. “So he then decides, ‘Alright, I’ll go fight and hopefully I’ll be killed too.’ That’s why he wanted to be in the Eighth Air Force, because he wanted to die in a plane crash.” Also, unlike Stewart, Matzen stressed, Gable never fully adapted to military culture.

Said Matzen, “Gable was much more interested in being Clark Gable in England than Jim Stewart was interested in being Jimmy Stewart in England.” This weighed on the mind of Col. Hatcher, as did the growing understanding that every B-17 Gable was on became a prize for Nazi Germany.

The day the 351st arrived in England, Nazi radio propagandist William Joyce, aka “Lord Haw Haw,” broadcast from Berlin the following: “Welcome to England, Hatcher’s Chickens. Among whom is famous American cinema star, Clark Gable. We’ll be seeing you soon in Germany, Clark. You will be welcome there too.”

Adolf Hitler apparently adored Clark Gable, considering him his favorite American actor. A movie nut with a love for British and Hollywood cinema, Hitler even allegedly smuggled a film print of Gone with the Wind before it opened in the UK. Hitler therefore marked Gable as one of the most prized “war criminals” in the Allied Forces, offering a handsome reward to any German soldiers who can bring Gable to him alive.

The actor was terrified of being paraded through Berlin like King Kong and was only half-joking when he told a friend, “If Hitler catches me, the sonofabitch will put me in a cage like a gorilla and send me on a tour of Germany. If a plane that I’m in ever gets hit, I’m not bailing out.”

While his superiors might’ve appreciated the sentiment, they feared the humiliating spectacle of one of their gunners becoming a Nazi political tool—or the actor putting a bigger target on their bombing group. Additionally, Gable didn’t follow protocol as intended, at one point threatening a military doctor after the physician apparently said nonchalantly that Gable’s pal had hours to live while the young man was awake and listening. And, again, the opinion became that he wanted to be shot down.

So it was in October 1943, after only five combat missions, Capt. Gable was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal for “exceptionally meritorious achievement while participating in five separate bomber combat missions.” Hatcher apparently pulled the strings to get Gable out.

Clark Gable in 1960 on the set of his last film, The Misfits, with Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift.

The End

Even though Gable’s time in combat ended in October of ’43, he still wound up with 50,000 feet of film at his disposal. He was apparently shocked when he learned the air force really didn’t care what he did with the footage since gunner recruitment was up. So he returned to Los Angeles, having been reassigned to the city’s photographic division. Allowed to cut the film at MGM, Gable put together five short films that could be used for instruction on operating B-17s. But by the time it made its way through the Pentagon’s chain of command… the war was over. The footage mostly still lies unused in government archives.

After finishing the films, Gable had expected to be assigned to a new bombing division in the Pacific Theater. As he waited months for the orders to come in, he found out on the news about the D-Day landing in Europe on June 6, 1944. Feeling forgotten and discarded by the Air Corps, he requested to be discharged on June 12, which was his right as a volunteer over the age of 42. A captain named Ronald Reagan granted Gable his discharge after 670 days of service.

Clark eventually re-acclimated to Hollywood and restarted his career, but by 1945 his days as “the King” were waning, and he saw more flops accompany his diminishing hits. He also had many more affairs with leading ladies, extras, and socialites. But for years he refused to marry, telling friends, “It wouldn’t be fair. I have nothing left to give.”

For the rest of his life, Clark mourned Carole, including on Jan. 15, 1944 when he was on hand for the launch of the SS Carole Lombard. Gable was supposed to speak at the event. Instead, he mostly cried.

Eventually he did remarry, twice, and finally had one child who wasn’t disowned in secret. But after the star died of a heart attack at age 59 in 1960, his fifth wife, Kay Williams, honored his final wishes: Gable was interred at Glendale’s Forest Lawn Memorial Park. Next to Ma.

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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The same damn hunger (to be touched, to be loved, to be anything at all) (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: Vanessa is the CEO of a hotel chain, in town for the night. When she goes back to her bartender roots, an intriguing guest just happens to catch her eye.

Title from Strangers by Halsey & Lauren Jauregui. For Holtz, who is also a champ who beta-ed and consistently challenges me to be better <3

Before she’d bought the first hotel, before she’d expanded it into a chain, before she’d even thought about getting into the hospitality industry at all, Vanessa had been a bartender. It was how she’d gotten her start, in a way; twenty years old but lying on her resume, mixing drinks and batting her lashes for the patrons of that first little inn, the budget place trying to be bigger than itself with a cash bar stocked pretty much exclusively with vodka, rum, and gin, plus whatever soda was in the lobby’s dispenser that day.

It was funny what you could do with vodka, rum, and a charming smile. What a shitty boss could motivate you to do. So when Vanessa had saved up her tips, took out a loan, saved the slowly-failing inn and turned it around with help from a few friends she’d made with deeper pockets than she’d ever had, it was no surprise that she’d caught the bug. She’d gotten more and more ideas, more and more cash to keep pushing them forward.

Fast forward eight years and business at Mateo Hotels is booming, rocketing Vanessa towards a very comfortable place within orbit of the Top 30 Under 30.

Still, every once in a while, it’s nice to shed the businesswoman persona, reconnect with that twenty-year-old googling how to make a white Russian with milk she’d stolen from the breakfast bar. The twenty-year-old that had brought in a lot of business by herself, because when all you have is vodka, rum, gin, and your own boredom, of course you’re going to start mixing your own cocktails.

Which is exactly how she winds up behind the bar in one of her Nashville chains, taking a break from her most recent inspection-slash-business-meeting to test her skills, make sure she’s still got it. The executives don’t mind–after all, what are they gonna say, no, miss CEO, you can’t make us some extra money with some of the drinks you coined the recipes for? And anyway, it’s not like any of the other staff would know who she is–she’s never been one of those old white ‘from-the-ground-up’ phonies who puts up pictures of herself shaking hands with a mayor in her lobby. So she lets her hair down, shakes it out a little, slides out of her business suit and into a black top like all the other bartenders wear, and starts working her magic.

When she’s mixing drinks, she’s in the zone–nothing can knock her off her focus, take her eyes away from the glasses she’s working on, stop her hands from moving. She’s a professional, after all, and what’s more than that, an artist, hell bent on not just creating a good final product but also putting on a wonderful show.

Usually, at least. Tonight, it’s a little different–because when Vanessa looks up from the drink she’s sliding to a patron, she catches eyes with someone just behind him, a blonde woman who meets her gaze with a challenging smirk and a brief, but all-too-noticeable wink.

Vanessa can’t help but look up and try to make sure the blonde is watching almost every five seconds after that, hoping for an approving look or another wink or just another flash of that gorgeous, red-framed smile. She gets it every time, and within five minutes, she can’t focus anymore–her fingers wind up in a drink by accident, and she makes up her mind then and there that she’s in no condition to keep playing bartender right now.

No, the only thing she wants to do is slide out from behind the bar, lick the flavoured tonic from her fingers, and walk right up to the blonde, who’s still watching with a satisfied smirk.

“Took you long enough.” The blonde muses when Vanessa finally comes up to her, takes the other woman’s cue to sit down next to her. “I was starting to think you’d never get the hint.”

“Oh, I got the hint.” Vanessa licks her lips, suddenly breathless, because the woman is even better up close–Vanessa can tell her skin is soft and smooth just from looking at it, and her face is cool, confident, painted with the smug knowledge of her own irresistibility. Her fingers tap on the table in a mesmerizing, somehow graceful rhythm, and when Vanessa watches them, she can’t help but notice that even though the nails are painted a deep purple, they’re cut short and filed smooth.

This woman didn’t come to play, and Vanessa?

She’s completely taken by it.

“Name’s Brooke.” The blonde’s voice drops to a silky whisper, those perfect hands sliding towards Vanessa’s own, fingertips brushing against hers. “What’s yours, sweetheart?“

There’s a beat, a moment where Vanessa seizes, because a sudden thought flashes through her mind with a sudden risk presenting itself. If she says her name, the woman might put two and two together. While that might be fine, it may also make Vanessa vulnerable - or worse, make the woman feel like she’s got to fuck Vanessa, because otherwise she’s brushing someone important off. At the same time, what’s she going to do, come up with a fake name? It’s a viable option, sure, but if the woman wants to fuck again after, or if someone recognizes her and calls out her name, then it’s all over.

“Vanessa.” She finally decides, her name coming out on the heels of one gasping breath, because fuck it, she’ll take the chance–there’s enough Vanessas in the world, after all, and if the blonde hasn’t recognized her by now, then there’s a low chance a first name will make anything click.

“Your friends gonna notice if you’re gone, Vanessa?” Brooke smiles, leans back a little, because she knows, already knows what Vanessa’s answer is going to be, what’s inevitably going to happen next.

“Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart, I’m just here for the night.” Vanessa licks her lips, and for a moment, she’s almost sure that she can see Brooke blush. But if she did, then she regains her composure awfully fast, because that predatory look comes back in her eyes, gleams with approval and excitement at the thought of her prize.

“Then what d’you say we get out of here, make use of that one night you got?” Brooke purrs, and her hand is back on Vanessa’s, this time gripping it tightly.

“Sounds like it’s about time, baby.” Vanessa smiles. “Let’s go.”

Brooke chuckles a little to herself, gestures for Vanessa to get up from her chair.

“After you.”

–

Vanessa’s overcome with a rare shyness when she swipes the key in her door, lets Brooke into her room. It’s a pretty standard suite–Mateo Hotels may not be a bargain chain, but it certainly isn’t the Ritz, either. Still, there’s something vulnerable about letting Brooke into the space, this space that’s hers but not really. One she hasn’t even unpacked in yet, only dropped her suitcase, because she doesn’t plan on staying for more than the night before traveling back to HQ in LA.

Come to think of it, if it were anyone else, Vanessa probably wouldn’t think twice about the whole arrangement, about what they could gather from the way her room looks like it has no occupants at all. But Brooke is taking her time getting in behind her, scanning the room with eyes that pick it apart, flitting from surface to surface, all around the floor.

“You weren’t shitting me when you said just for the night.” Brooke whistles. “I wish I was this clean.”

Fuck. Vanessa probably looks strange now, uptight or square or something–definitely not the kind of girl someone as confident, as sure of herself as Brooke seems would want.

All is not lost, though; if there’s one thing the industry has taught her, it’s how to problem-solve, be flexible. In the crudest of terms–how to sell a room and make sure someone wants to spend the night in it.

“Y’know, I got in and didn’t have no time to rest.” Vanessa puts on a sigh, closes the distance between herself and Brooke by grabbing the blonde’s waist, stroking her sides. “Ain’t even had time to test the bed.”

“Yeah?” Brooke snorts, but smiles despite herself.

“Yeah.” Vanessa gets up on her toes, presses a light kiss to Brooke’s cheek. “‘S’okay, though. You’re gonna help with that, ain’t you?”

“Not if you keep going with cheesy lines.” Brooke deadpans, but it’s a lost cause–because she’s already gripping Vanessa back, pushing her closer as the smaller woman kisses along her jawline, down to her neck, teasing pecks that make Brooke’s breath hitch already.

Perfect.

“Why don’t you go sit on the bed, pretty girl?” Vanessa pulls back suddenly, a flash of satisfaction running through her when Brooke fails to stifle a quiet whine at the loss of contact. “Mami’s gotta get ready, so sit tight.”

A wink, a little wave, and Vanessa’s off to the bathroom, acutely aware of and perfectly content with how Brooke is watching her as she goes.

Truth be told, Vanessa doesn’t actually have to get ready, not really–she takes off her jacket and pants, untucks her shirt so that it can fall just below her ass. Takes a second to play around with her hair. Mostly, she wants to build the suspense–get Brooke thinking about what’s going to happen, maybe even scheming in her own right. Vanessa can’t wait to see what Brooke is coming up with, almost as much as she can’t wait to see how she can turn those expectations on their head. And when she finally re-emerges from the bathroom, she’s not disappointed.

“My, my.” Vanessa tsks as she walks towards Brooke, who’s stripped down to her underwear and is waiting with a smirk on her face.

“You aren’t the only one who had to get ready, Mami.” Brooke purrs. “But I have to say, I’m disappointed,” she looks Vanessa up and down, her eyes stopping at the hem of the younger woman’s shirt, “seems I’m underdressed.”

“For now.” Vanessa winks, and Brooke laughs, scooting over to make room for Vanessa on the bed.

“Can I kiss you?” Vanessa drops her voice to a whisper, leaning in as she brings a hand to rest on Brooke’s thigh, thumb stroking at the pale, smooth skin.

Brooke doesn’t answer; only brings her hands up to Vanessa’s cheeks, pulls her in to close the distance between them completely. Brooke tastes like lipstick and cigarettes, and the minute Vanessa’s lips touch hers, she can’t get enough. They keep making out even as Brooke’s hands snake to Vanessa’s front, hurrying to undo the buttons of her shirt. Vanessa, for her part, lets her hands travel over Brooke’s sides, nails leaving light scratches that make the blonde shiver. Finally, Vanessa’s shirt is open, and Brooke’s hands are on her tits, and–

Vanessa pulls herself away, and then there’s that whine again, that pitiful, frustrated noise Brooke lets out and that Vanessa wants to hear again and again. Because riling Brooke up, making her desperate–it’s absolutely intoxicating.

“Lie down on the bed, baby girl.” Vanessa orders, but Brooke frowns.

“You’re not–but you–Are you saying you want to top?” Brooke looks down at Vanessa’s hands, at the long, perfectly-manicured acrylics that frame her nails, and it’s cute, really, that Brooke thinks Vanessa wouldn’t have thought this far ahead. So she licks her lips, looks directly at Brooke, and takes each press-on nail off one by one, grin getting wider with every finger.

“Any more problems?”

“No.” Brooke squeaks, looking from Vanessa’s hands to her eyes before the blonde’s face melts into an excited smile. “No problems at all.”

“Good.” Vanessa laughs, leaning down to plant a soft, slow kiss on Brooke’s lips, “That’s what I like to hear.”

Brooke gasps into Vanessa’s lips as the kiss deepens, little sighs and whimpers sounding in Vanessa’s ears as she eases the taller woman back onto the bed, brings her hands to her face and strokes her cheeks with her thumbs. It’s adorable, absolutely addicting, and only spurs Vanessa on further as arousal lights between her legs, her panties already starting to become slick and damp as she continues to play with Brooke, find out what makes her tick.

“Remember how you said you were underdressed?” Vanessa moves her kisses away from Brooke’s mouth, trailing them instead down her neck, licking and sucking over the sharp line of her collarbone.

“Yeah?” Brooke’s voice is breathless, and Vanessa can’t help but giggle against Brooke’s skin because it’s cute, how worked up she already is, absolutely adorable.

“I think it’s quite the opposite.”

Brooke barely has time to react before Vanessa is pulling her up, grabbing her bra and undoing it to replace the cups with her hands, kneading and grabbing and rolling Brooke’s already-hardening nipples between her fingers.

“That feel good, sweetheart?” Vanessa grins when Brooke sighs in relief, leans into her touch. She nods, and Vanessa can’t help but feel a surge of happiness in her chest, because she’s proud of herself, she really is, that she can make Brooke feel so good, make her come undone so fast. And Brooke, for her part, seems to be enjoying it just as much.

“More, please, I need your mouth, fuck .” Brooke grabs Vanessa by the waist, holds her down with a firm grip that makes Vanessa’s skin burn with need.

And Vanessa can’t resist–she leans down, sucks a nipple into her mouth, swirls her tongue around it and grazes it with her teeth, reveling in each tiny gasp or moan the movements elicit from Brooke. And then Brooke’s hands are knotted in Vanessa’s hair, tugging just a little, spurring Vanessa on, and she’s completely gone, unable to hold back anymore.

“Lie back down.” Vanessa kisses her way across Brooke’s chest, darts her tongue over the blonde’s other nipple. “I wanna take care of you.”

“ Please. ”

Vanessa travels down the rest of Brooke’s body with an uncontrolled hunger, kissing and licking and nipping skin without knowing what it is, where her mouth is falling, because she doesn’t care. It’s not important, because no matter where her lips land, they’re on Brooke, and that’s all Vanessa needs.

“So wet.” Vanessa chuckles when she finally reaches Brooke’s hips, slides a hand between her legs to stroke along her slit. “Are you already that horny, baby? Already such a mess for me? Awww, that’s so cute.” Vanessa emphasizes the statement with a flick towards Brooke’s clit, grins when the blonde’s hips twitch in response.

“Please, Vanessa, please, just take them off–”

“Aw, but I’m having so much fun.” Vanessa pouts, resuming stroking over Brooke’s pussy through her panties, adding more pressure little by little. “Besides, I think you could be more desperate, don’t you?” Vanessa brings her fingers to Brooke’s clit, presses down and circles it lightly, and Brooke moans, shakes her head.

“Please, holy fuck, please…”

Well, the teasing was fun while it lasted.

Vanessa takes Brooke’s panties off slowly, one last bit of torture that makes her squirm and whine with impatience before Vanessa finally plants a kiss at the top of her slit, licks along it and around her folds.

“ Fuck ,” Vanessa moans up against Brooke’s cunt, making her shiver, “You taste so fucking good.”

Vanessa kitten-licks around her clit, finally sliding home with just the slightest flick of her tongue and smirking when it elicits a moan from Brooke, her hips bucking and hand once again snaking into Vanessa’s hair. It’s enough to make a flash of heat run through Vanessa’s whole body as she sucks a kiss on Brooke’s cunt, take her breath away as she licks a slow circle around it.

“God, you’re good at that.” Brooke lets out a breathless laugh as Vanessa continues to lap at her pussy, tease her clit.

“Hmm.” Vanessa hums, picking up her pace a little and feeling a surge of pride when Brooke goes rigid, whimpers and moans and presses Vanessa’s face closer.

“You want me to do even better, sweetheart?”

The idea comes to Vanessa’s mind in a split second, but it sticks there, seeming better and better with every heartbeat that pounds against her chest. She slides a hand away from its resting place on Brooke’s leg, trails it down her inner thigh, brings it to her entrance, and she knows in an instant she made the right choice, because Brooke is coming to life, her movements against Vanessa’s face suddenly frenetic and the grip in her hair getting that much tighter.

“Please, want your fingers, please…”

“How many?” Vanessa asks, although she’s already teasing at Brooke’s cunt with two fingers, waiting to push them inside.

“I can take three.”

God, this is gonna be fun .

Vanessa pushes inside with two fingers first, slow and shallow pumps to warm Brooke up and feel her out, find out what makes her tick. As it turns out, it’s easy to find Brooke’s spot–it’s nice and shallow, and the minute Vanessa hits it, Brooke moans, her legs trembling as Vanessa continues to suck at her clit, hooking her fingers over her spot to tease at it all the while. A few more kisses, a few more licks, and she pulls out just a little, adds a third finger amidst babbling pleas to hurry up, more, more, God, please, I need more.

Vanessa’s always been relentless when topping, but Brooke is by far the most responsive girl she’s ever fucked, and it’s amazing, it really is, how loud she’s getting, how much she’s shaking, how hard she’s begging for Vanessa to make her come. And when she finally gets her wish, finally gets pushed over the edge with a final thrust, a final kiss over her clit, her moans are probably the most satisfying sounds Vanessa’s ever had the privilege of hearing. She licks and fucks Brooke through her orgasm, gradually decreasing her pace before pulling out, and when she finally comes back up, licks her fingers clean and pulls Brooke in for a kiss, Brooke is still shaking, still panting, still whispering.

“That was amazing, baby.” Brooke sighs, sated, as she settles back down on the bed, opening her arms for Vanessa to move in closer, nestle into her embrace. “You’re always so fucking good, you know that?”

“Why else would you marry me?” Vanessa winks, and Brooke laughs, plants a kiss on top of her head.

“I liked the stranger game though, it was fun.” Brooke smiles, her eyes twinkling, and fuck, Vanessa could stare at those eyes forever, she really could. Especially now that she’s revisited such an exciting time in her past, a time where she was seeing them for the first time.

“Play it again next week?” Vanessa suggests, and Brooke nods, smiling.

“It’s a date.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #lesbian au #smut #writworm42 #tw mommy kink

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bazzybelle · 4 years

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Carry On Countdown - Day Eleven

Notes: So… I wrote this story (the first half) during one of my spirals. Go find my WLW fic if you’re that curious, I don’t want to word-vomit about my mental health again. I had originally wanted to just keep the first half, but @fight-surrender helped me to find a little hope (some that I was missing, to be honest).

Lyrics/title are from the song “Let It Be” by The Beatles. This is my favourite song and never fails to help me cry out my emotions and help me calm down when I’m too in my own head. It’s what’s playing in the background, as I try to make sense of the jumbled words/emotions bouncing around up there.

Also, a disclaimer, I am aware that everyone’s experience with depression is different. I am coming at this fic based on my own personal experiences and spirals.

All my love go to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for talking me through this fic and encouraging me to post it despite its grim tone; to @fight-surrender for listening to me during my thought spirals and for being a beacon during my dark moments (also, for giving me the idea to add some hope/reflection into the story); and to my husband who makes me tea when I’m sad and doesn’t push me to talk about my sadness and has been nothing but supportive though my journey of returning to writing.

I’m also gonna give love to @giishu and @f-ing-ruthless-baz because my newfound friendship with them has given me life. Thank you.

I’m working at being ok. Love to you all. Be kind to yourselves and to each other.

If you’re going through a hard time, I send you love and support. My inbox is always open to talk/cry/laugh about stupidities.

TW: Depression, thoughts of worthlessness. Suicidal thoughts.

Day 11 Prompt: Angst Day

Title: Let It Be

________________________________________________________________

When the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow, let it be.

SIMON

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa.

That way, I can’t muck up anything more than what I’ve already mucked up.

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa.

That way, I don’t have to see the looks of pity and sadness on Baz’s and Penny’s faces. That way, Baz won’t have to look at me and realize that I’m not worth his time. I’m not worth anyone’s time.

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa.

That way, the constant light and hum of the television can help numb me of whatever I’m feeling inside.

Useless, wasted, worthless…

A fraud, a phony, a fake.

The colours outside my window turn from orange to yellow, to white. Then back to yellow, and orange, and finally to the deep blue of night. The cycle repeats day after day after day. I run the risk of losing track of time completely, if Penny and Baz weren’t here all the damn time.

And they are always here.

Always hovering, always asking me questions, always trying to get me to talk.

I don’t want to bloody talk! I want to sleep. I want to be alone. I want to disappear and no longer burden anyone.

Maybe it would have been better if the Humdrum had finished me off completely. Maybe it would have been better if I wasn’t around. Penny would be in America, with Micah and Baz would be moving on with someone more worthwhile. They would have moved on and found their place in this world. A world that I no longer belong to. A world that I never really belonged to.

It was all really a lie, wasn’t it? A beautifully crafted, perfectly executed lie. I was never meant to exist in the World of Mages. I am and have always been, just a Normal. Everything that I felt during the last 8 years of my life have been a part of that elaborate lie. The happiness, the power, the sense that I was a part of something amazing. All of it was a lie.

The friendship I felt with Penny, the love I felt with Baz; also lies. Those are the lies that hurt me the most, because they are persistent. They didn’t go away like the other lies. They didn’t go away with my magic. They didn’t go away when The Mage and the Humdrum were defeated. They didn’t go away when I failed to save Ebb’s life.

Instead, they stick around because they pity me. They stick around because they both made promises to me, and they don’t wish to break them. They stick around because maybe I make them feel better about themselves. If Penny or Baz have an off-day, well, at least they aren’t like me. At least they have their magic and at least they belong somewhere. No matter how much the world hurts them, they will never be as fucked up as me.

I can hear them now, in the kitchen, making some food. They’re always making me food, trying to get me to eat something. Just the thought of eating something makes me sick to my stomach. The smell is nauseating. I haven’t been able to keep anything down for very long. I mostly just eat the crisps I buy from the corner store and wash it down with some cider. Penny has nagged endlessly at me that I cannot sustain myself on a diet of crisps and cider. It was annoying at first, but now I’ve learned to drown her out.

A small voice inside is telling me that they’re doing it because they’re concerned for me and that they just want to help. I shut that voice up and insist that they see me as so pitiful that I can’t even cook for myself.

They’re probably right. I’d probably just end up setting the flat on fire. Let’s hope Baz isn’t nearby if I ever do attempt to cook for myself.

I know what will happen next. They’ll finish cooking whatever it is they’re cooking. One of them will sit at the table and do schoolwork while eating. The other will sit down on the sofa’s armrest and try to get me to eat something. Then they’ll switch places. That goes on for about a couple of hours, until the food’s gone cold. They’ll then wrap the food up and finally leave me in peace. They’ll study together for a few more hours until Baz decides he’s had enough and leaves for the night. Penny will usually go to bed once he leaves.

It’s at this time, where I finally get off the couch. I will walk to the balcony of the flat and just stare outside at the other buildings, the sky, the people, and the ground below. I will lean my body halfway over the edge and just stare at the ground below. I’ll stare and I’ll think and maybe I’ll push myself a little further over the edge. Maybe I’ll bring myself closer to the ground this time. Maybe I’ll finally have the courage to let go. Maybe I’ll finally have the courage to finally let Penny and Baz free from ever worrying about me again.

Or maybe I’ll be a coward and make my way back to the couch. More likely, it’ll be that outcome because I’ll think of their faces and how I just want to see them for one more day.

But, who’s to say really?

“Snow? Would you like some of this fettucini? Bunce has tried a new recipe and she’s convinced it’s good enough for Ramsey. I personally think she’s daft.”

So Baz has the first shift today. Very well then.

Here we go.

*****

I close the notebook and take a deep breath. The entry I’ve just read was from a very dark moment in my life. Or rather, it was a recollection of a very dark time in my life. I had written it at the suggestion of my therapist. He suggested that I start keeping a journal as a way to track my thoughts. That way, it would be easier for me to isolate the negative thoughts in my head. The belief was that, by isolating my thoughts, it would become easier to challenge them. By writing them down, they become tactile. By becoming tactile, they become easier to fight and replace with more positive thoughts.

I thought it was all bollocks at first and was not very good at tracking my thoughts. That is, until one of my intrusive thoughts settled into my brain and would not leave. It sat there and festered and festered, until it completely took over. That day, I nearly returned to the sofa and threw away everything that I had worked so hard to achieve. That day, I looked at Baz, and thought about the ways he would be better off without me and that maybe I should end it right now.

Instead of giving into my dark thoughts, I asked him if he had an empty notebook and a pen I could borrow. And because he is an absolute intellectual wanker, of course he had a spare notebook in his bag, as well as a burgundy pen (Baz likes to use non-conventional writing tools. He’s currently very excited about using fountain pens). I could tell from his eyes that he wanted desperately to ask me what was wrong. I gave him a sad smile and sat down at the table and began to write.

I wrote and I cried, and I thought back to that dark, depressing part of my life. Baz had made me some tea and sat down next to me, rubbing my shoulders and grabbing my hand when I needed it. I continued to write as he brought me some food and reheated my tea when it got cold. I cried, as he held my hand and ran his thumb over my rough knuckles. When I was done, I closed the book and let him hold me. I let him hold me while I cried onto his expensive shirt.

I now look at the entry and think about how far I have come since not only the day I wrote the entry, but also the time where I felt no hope. It’s been almost seven years since my last year at Watford, and I can’t believe how different my life has been since then. It hasn’t been easy and I still slip up from time to time.

My notebook has grown into a collection, spanning throughout my experiences volunteering with displaced youth, throughout my work as a counselor, and throughout my decision to go to University, specializing in Psychology. I turn to the framed diploma on the wall (Baz had wanted to get the most distinguished looking frame; I veto-ed it right away considering it was just an undergraduate’s diploma), and to the acceptance letters in my hand. I had gotten accepted into a Master’s program at both University College of London as well as Cambridge fucking University.

Imagine… Me, Simon Snow attending a University as prestigious as fucking Cambridge.

Cambridge.

I haven’t yet told Baz about my acceptance letters, but I have been talking about and stressing over this application process for nearly all of last year. I had gotten the letters this morning and I was planning on waiting until he got home before telling him.

Baz.

I think about Baz and how far we have come as a couple. When I think back to how we went from enemies, to lovers who could not communicate, to now being a healthy stable relationship. I can’t believe it sometimes. We do slip up and we do fight occasionally (rarely… if ever at all), but we always come back to each other. We needed some help in learning how to bridge that gap in communication, but after a lot of work, I think we’re starting to get to a point where we’re just happy together. The doubts about us barely linger in my mind anymore. Now, I just want to focus on making sure that Baz feels happy and secure with us. I do that by letting him know that I love him and care about him and that I will always be there for him.

We had been living together for almost a year (Penny had moved in with Shepard, after convincing him to stay in London -- like he was EVER going to leave Penny, the man is mad about her) (Baz’s aunt moved in with a Normal woman she had been seeing for years, so she wasn’t upset by the loss of a flat-mate) and I would say the biggest challenge has been learning how balance giving space and receiving love and affection. I would say that we’re not doing too shabby.

As if my thoughts summon him, Baz steps through the threshold of the flat, groceries in his arms. “Hello Love. How was your day?” He asks me. I love it when he calls me that… Love. I’m his Love, and he is mine. I smile and blush. It makes me happy that even after all this time, Baz can still make me blush like this.

“Hey babe… I uhhh… I have umm... some news.” Baz raises an eyebrow at me. He places the bags on top of the kitchen counter and walks over to me. He places a kiss on my head, when he notices the letters on the table. His eyes widen and he grabs both letters from the table.

Baz is quiet. I start picking at my cuticles and my leg starts to bounce. Baz looks at me, and it can only be described as a look of complete adoration. Seven years ago, I would have hated that look and fought it. Now, I smile back at him and grab his hand as I nod at him.

“Simon…” he breathes out. He settles slowly into the chair next to me. He looks at me and back to the letters. He gives my hand a squeeze and lifts it up to his face. He gives it a small kiss and nuzzles it softly. “Love, I knew you would make it in… Bloody Cambridge. I am so proud of you, my darling.”

I blush and momentarily look away from him, before I remember that it’s alright to feel vulnerable and that I’ve earned this moment of bliss. I look back at him and I can feel a few tears in my eyes. Baz cups my face in his hands and draws me into a deep kiss. I grab onto his face and I take in everything about him. His scent (still the same combination of cedar and bergamot that he’s always had), the cold of his hands, the softness of his lips. The light hum of his voice as he takes me in as well. He breaks our kiss and places another one on my forehead.

“Bloody Cambridge…” I gasp out, shaking my head. I still cannot believe it.

“Love… You’ve earned it!” Baz is running his fingers through my hair. I tip my head towards him, enjoying this calming touch.

“Can I handle it?”

Baz barks out a laugh. “You’ve killed a dragon during first year. You defeated a chimera during our fifth. You graduated Uni with honours! You can handle anything and everything!”

“But it’s so pretentious…” I make a face and stick my tongue out in disgust. Honestly, the thought of being surrounded by people who were probably more pretentious than Baz (wait… that may not be possible, no one is more pretentious than my posh boyfriend).

“Simon…” Baz raises an eyebrow at me. “I think you can handle a few pretentious snobs. You won me over without even trying.”

“I’ll be so far away.” I move closer to him and wrap my arms around his waist. Baz pulls me onto his lap and I settle into the crook of his neck. I nuzzle him a little and think about how crazy I’ll be without him near me everyday.

“I’ll come visit. Crowely, maybe I’ll even move there with you until you’ve done your Master’s.” Baz is lightly scratching my back and I let out a tiny moan. I fucking love it when he does that. I pull away from him for a second and wrap my arms around his neck. I stare into his stormy-grey eyes.

“I’m fucking terrified.” I whisper.

Baz’s lips curl up into a gentle half-smile. He trails his fingers over my arms. “And that’s alright. We’ll figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Together.”

Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be. There will be an answer, let it be. Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

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zanesgirlfriend · 5 years

Text

Just a Bit | Natalie Mariduena

Description: Natalie gets jealous at a party

Requested?: Yes by anonymous : Can you do a Natalie x reader where they’re dating, and David makes Natalie jealous by making Dom or one of the guys flirt with reader if that makes any sense??

A/N: this came out a little bit more of nat being angry than jealous, but i tried! i hope you enjoy it regardless!

_____

Natalie's hand held on tight to y/n's as the two of them entered the party. This was typical, though. She was always very protective of y/n, and tried to keep her out of trouble, just like she tried to do with David. The pair whispered and giggled to eachother as they made their way through the house, looking for drinks.

"What do you want to drink, baby?" Y/n asked Natalie as they scanned the array of sodas and alcohols.

"Umm, I think I'm good for now." Natalie smiled at her. "I don't feel like drinking too much tonight, so I'll get something a little later." She kissed y/n's cheek as she finished, assuring her that she was fine.

"Okay, but will you please just take one shot with me to start? I don't wanna take a shot alone, that's dumb." Y/n was already feeling the buzz from the drinks she had at David's. Natalie had a weird intuition about tonight, and didn't wanna risk anything by being drunk.

"Can I take a shot of soda?" Natalie giggled as she refused the alcohol, causing y/n to giggle as well.

"Yeah, whatever you want princess." Y/n poured a shot of Fireball as Natalie poured a shot of soda. They cheer's-ed eachother before downing the shots. Just as they finished, David called for them. Y/n quickly grabbed a bottle of something before Natalie tugged her along. They made their way over to the group and attempted to figure out what was going on.

"Did you need something, David?" Natalie asked him as y/n started talking to Dom and Zane. David made up some random excuse for her to go make a phone call so y/n would be left alone. "I'll be right back, don't go too far from the group." Natalie whispered into her girlfriends ear before she left. David pointed his camera in the direction of y/n, ready to see if his dumb plan would work.

"Do you need any donations?" Dom gestured to his orgasam donor hoodie as he flirted with y/n. She laughed, swaying a little bit as the shot finally hit her.

"Yeah, but not from you!" She retorted, causing everyone but Dom to laugh. David's plan didn't seem to be working yet, so he sent in the next most attractive guy. Zane.

"What if I give you a donation? Natalie can't do all the things I can!" Zane's words started to slur, as he'd been drinking too, but he did what David said. It was just a bit for the vlog, right? Natalie had finished her fake phone call, and slowly worked her way back to the group, stopping just out of sight so she could see what David was really up to.

"Zane, when you're naked you look like a raw chicken. Why would I want a donation from you?" She took another sip of her drink as the boys laughed. Natalie felt a twinge of jealousy fill her chest as she watched the boys flirt with her girlfriend. David sent in the big guns, the final resort to get his plan to work.

"You really are cute. You ever think of bein' straight?" Jeff swooped in next to y/n sliding a hand around her waist to support her. Y/n felt uncomfortable, and she wondered what was going on.

"Where's Natalie?" She ignored Jeff's question and scanned the room through blurred vision.

"Don't worry about her, I got you." Jeff leaned into y/n, trying to get her to fall for the plan. Natalie was getting pissed at this point, and decided to go assert her dominance.

"What the fuck?" Natalie pushed her way between y/n and Jeff, putting her own arm around y/n.

"Nat!" Y/n hugged her, excited to be back in her arms. Jeff put his hands up as if to say he was innocent, and David jumped in.

"It was just a bit. They were joking. I wanted to see what would happen if guys flirted with y/n for once." David defended the guys, explaining the plan for his bit.

"Did you tell her it was for a bit?" Natalie pointed at y/n, who was now laying her head on Natalie's shoulder. David made a "my bad" face as he shook his head.

"No, they did not, which is rude and gross." Y/n added, even though her eyes were closed.

"It was just a bit, I'm sorry." David apologized to the couple, putting his camera down finally. The whole 'just a bit' thing infuriated Natalie to no end.

"That's the thing, David. It's not just a bit. It would be just a bit if you would have told me and my girlfriend about it beforehand. But sending me off on some phony business call? That's being disrespectful to me and my relationship." Natalie went off on David, leaving him stunned. She never yelled at anybody, let alone David, so he knew he fucked up.

"Shit, Natalie!" David called after her as she dragged y/n outside. She didn't turn around or reply to him once. "Natalie! It was a stupid bit anyway. I'm not going to do it again, and if I do, I'll tell you first." David finally caught up to her.

"No. You'll ask me first. You won't tell me. You'll also ask y/n, and get her permission before putting her in a situation like that again." Natalie corrected him, y/n just watched the two argue. "This is my girlfriend. I love her, and I'm not gonna let my dumbass best friend make all of his other dumbass friends flirt with her." Natalie glared at David.

"You love me?" Y/n looked up at her and smiled. Natalie realized what she said and felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

"Yeah, I love you." Natalie smiled at the buzzed girl in front of her.

"I love you too." Y/n said as pecked Natalie's lips.

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lovely-qualms · 5 years

Text

FMA Secret Santa 2018 Gift!!

Ahh, I’m cutting it so close, I’m so sorry I didn’t post it earlier! This is for @sassyfirealchemist (who coincidentally was also my Secret Santa!) for the Secret Santa exchange by @fmasecretsanta2018 !

I hope you like, and I’m sorry for the lateness again!

Title: Fortunes and Feelings

Rating: T+

Relationships: Roy Mustang/ Edward Elric

Tags: Historical (Victorian-ISH), Romance, Humor, Policeman!Roy, Psychic!Ed, circus

Find this fic on: FF.net and AO3

There were two things that Roy believed were working rather valiantly towards making his morning effectively terrible- well, three were he not used Hughes’ incessant early-morning ramblings. The first was the apologetic woman standing at the entrance of his favorite coffee spot who dared tell Roy the place had closed due to bankruptcy (immediately after this, a passing carriage horse had kicked a puddle directly at his boots, which did nothing to Roy’s sour mood). And, well, the young policeman and his chatty colleague currently stood in the midst of the second noisy, colorful, terrible thing.

The bloody circus.

“When I bring Elicia she’ll win every prize there is! Oh-Roy- she’s going to be so excited about that carousel! Don’t you think?” Hughes nearly squealed in delight at the thought of his daughter running around the amusements (wastes of money, in Roy’s opinion).

“Yes Hughes, I’m sure Elicia will have great fun here. Why a circus needs two policemen to keep guard in the ass crack of the morning I’m not sure.” Roy grumbled. It was currently rather cloudy and windy, and the few people actually here that weren’t staff or guard seemed to regret their forwardness of schedule.

Hughes shrugged, “You know pickpockets and drunkards love to ride the coattails of these kinds of places. Oh, look! There’re the acrobats!”

Just as Roy rolled his eyes at his friend’s behavior, a young blonde man swathed in thick brocade and fluttering silks approached them. Looking around, Roy pegged down a similarly silky tent that must belong to this man that lay to the right of them.

Roy and Hughes shook his hand (which Roy silently noted was automail) before he spoke, “Good morning, Officers. Chief Grand sent you, right? I’ll be giving you a little tour of the area, as our ringleader has a lot of last-minute preparations to take care of before the crowds really set in.”

“Do we get a name, o tour guide?” Roy asked, masking his displeasure with veiled sarcasm.

The blonde’ mouth quirked into an amused smile, “Ed. My brother and I are psychics.” Out of adherence to decorum, Roy refrained from rolling his eyes, but his skepticism must have shown through because Ed gave him an unamused look. “Let’s go see some hot spots of potential crime, shall we?“

….

They made their way slowly through the large field of gallantry and show, Ed pointing out various tents and shady areas that needed ‘special supervision’. The young man seemed incredibly familiar with the layout of the area, even though the circus hadn’t been set up for but a day or two. When asked, Ed simply explained that their layout was similar wherever they went, and he knew whose tents were whose and “all that shit”. His teasing personality got on Roy’s nerves, especially since his day hadn’t started out particularly well either.

“Those are where the drunkards like to drink and flirt with ladies and whatnot” Ed gestured to several gaps between tents sporting respectively, an ashcan and several empties liquor bottles.

“Attractive,” Roy muttered.

Ed cast a quick, annoyed glace at Roy, “Jeez, Who spat in your breakfast?”

Roy ignored this remark, turning to Hughes instead, “I’ll patrol northern half of the grounds, you get the Southern. We can switch at noon.”

Hughes gave the teasing affirmative, “Sir, yes sir,” going as far as to offer Roy a salute before turning away to his patrol before Roy could snap back. When Roy turned around to Ed, he realized the blonde had disappeared into his nearby tent, leaving Roy alone to work.

————————————

Roy didn’t see Ed until the next week, as the circus was incredibly busy in its opening days. Between shifts patrolling the northern or southern blocks of the fairgrounds, Roy and Hughes made it their personal goals to find the most ridiculous attraction there.

Roy, in a valiant attempt to top Hughes’ sighting of “world’s hairiest man”, decided to test his luck with the fortune tellers’ tent on his break that Thursday. Surely some ridiculous prognosis of his life would override some bloke who doesn’t shave enough.

Roy easily recognized the tent- it was the reddest, most decorated tent of the lot (outside of the central Big Top of course), huge lettered sign notwithstanding. Because of the time and cool morning breeze, not many people were out yet, so Roy took the opportunity to slip through the silks hanging in the doorway and into the small room.

Inside, the tent was considerably darker than outside. The thick canvas walls blocked out the sun, and only a few candles and a dim lantern lit the inside. Ed sat on the opposite end of a small table covered in yet more silks, cards, books, and glass knick-knacks.

When Ed recognized his new customer, he smirked. “Officer, don’t you have a patrol to keep up?”

Roy sat casually in the chair across from the blonde, “I’m on my break. Decided to come check out the validity of the local psychic.”

“Well, you don’t get to check me out for free.” Ed snipped, cringing a second later when he realized how his words came out.

Roy rolled his eyes and dropped two coins into the box by the door, “Now may I check you out?”

Ed glared, “Just sit and show me your hand.”

Roy did as he was told. Ed grabbed his hand, explaining as he picked opened a large book with his free hand, “Today I’m giving palm readings. I want to switch it up every week or so, but this is a pretty simple method. Good for the start of the week.”

“You don’t really think my hand will tell me my future.” Roy stated, already not on board with Ed’s ‘methods’.

Ed looked up at Roy blandly, “Your hand’s not telling you. I’m telling you, based on how your palm lines read.”

“Well then, what do my palm lines say?”

Ed looked intently at Roy’s hand for a second, tracing down one or two larger lines, “Well this one represents your inclination towards your friends over your family, and this one here means you’ll have good luck in love….” Ed explained.

Roy snorted, “Now I know you’re phony.”

“Hey, I’m just reading what it tells me.” Ed huffed, still concentrated on the hand in his grasp. He drew a finger down Roy’s hand lightly, “Let’s see now… despite your thrilling occupation, your occupational future looks fairly calm- see, that’s this line here.” Roy refrained from rolling his eyes yet again. Ed already knew his occupation; of course, he could deduce that he lived a relatively more “thrilling” life than others.

Silence reigned for a while as Ed analyzed the finer trails of Roy’s palm, going so far as to open a reference book somewhere around the base of his thumb. The silence lasted long enough for Roy’s palm to become lightly clammy under the pressure and heat of the other’s hands before Ed broke his gaze, looking up at Roy’s face almost apologetically, “Everything else’s too vague, especially since all I’ve got is this candlelight. It sets the mood, but really messes up my vision.”

Roy, taking this admission as proof of Ed’s position as more of entertainment than of divine reading, stood, “Well, Edward, your services have been most interesting.

Ed wrinkled his nose, “My services- You make it sound like I’m a prostitute or something.”

Roy laughed, “Hey it’s you who said it.”

Ed looked exasperatedly at the policeman, “Don’t you have some drunkards to kick around or something?”

Roy, still amused, left the tent ever more intent to return.

-------------

He returned to Hughes after their shifts were over, finding the other man fawning over a large selection of goodies that, quote, his “darling Elicia would win for sure”.

“Well, you’re still winning. The psychic’s more sarcastic than he is ridiculous, not that I believe a word of that superstitious crap.” Roy sighed, leaning against the wall of a large pink booth.

“Where’s the ‘but’?” Hughes asked, knowing his colleague all too well.

“I have to make sure, so I’m going to check out his tent again next week.

Hughes’ smirk was enough to make Roy wish there hadn’t been a ‘but’, “Sure that’s why.”

----------------------

Ed intrigued the policeman, and he was a far shot easier to talk to than the stuffy women who waited outside of attractions while their children wreaked havoc inside. So, with two coins and a healthy dose of skepticism, Roy returned the next week. Instead of palm books and cards, atop the tablecloth sat a box of stones, metal nubs, and string.

Ed, who had been fiddling with a string tied around a purple stone, looked up with interest, “Officer, I didn’t think you’d turn up. Crime’s been pretty high recently.”

“I can take a small break, can’t I?” Roy responded.

“You wouldn’t be shirking your duties, would you? An upstanding police officer such as yourself?” came the rebuttal.

Roy tossed his coins into the nearby coinbox, “Well, tell me my future and maybe I can dutifully return to my post.”

Ed barked out a laugh, “You’re kind of stuck up, you know that?”

Roy smirked, “So I’ve been told.” He glanced at the stones and string atop the table at which he now sat, “What’re all of these for?”

Ed’s grin grew as he drew into his element, “Pendulum reading, it’s a personal favorite of mine.”

“How does it work?”

Ed picked up a thin chain, “I’ll show you. What’s your birth month?”

“February. Why?” Roy asked.

Ed sifted through his collection on stones which all had little metal loops at their bases. He pulled out a skinny little amethyst from the depths of the box, explaining, “Your birthstone- It makes the reading clearer.” Roy hummed in acknowledgment, but let Ed focus on his work. He’d taken out various maps and calendars, and he had fixed the amethyst to a small chain. Once he was set up, Ed asked, What do you want to know? Location usually works best.”

The reading was fun enough. Roy asked a lot of trivial questions, watching the crystal swing around until it stilled over a location on the map (he was fairly certain Ed was manipulation the rock, but he didn’t comment). He liked chatting to Ed about the questions and their answers more than he did the actual reading, however.

Eventually, Roy stood up, noting his need to actually work before excusing himself from the tent.

------------------

Over the weeks, Roy saw Ed frequently through the circus grounds. They usually chatted briefly and went their separate ways. Every week, Roy also made a point to visit Ed’s tent for a reading of some sort. He had given up on trying to tell himself it was merely intrigue that brought him to Ed’s tent. He was fully aware that he wanted to be in the spirited blonde’s company.

Despite their daily meetings in the grounds, it wasn’t until two months after the circus’ arrival that Roy saw Ed outside of the grounds, in plain, civilian clothing. It was a Sunday, the one day the circus was closed, and coincidentally Roy’s day off.

He had been strolling down the city’s main line of stores, gazing into windows for a birthday present for Elicia, when he had seen the telltale flash of golden hair through a window reflection.

After the first incident, Roy began to see Ed in the marketplace rather frequently. He never bought anything, only talked to store owners and looked into the window of the now-vacant coffee spot. Roy always saw him at side-glances and in passing, so he never actually got around to talking to Ed outside of their occasional on-duty meetings until the next Sunday.

Exiting the local grocer’s, Roy nearly collided head-on with the small man he’d seen around town. Ed let out a colorful array of expletives, cursing Roy for making him drop his food without even looking up to see who he’d collided with.

Roy couldn’t help his amused smile, “For a fortune-teller, you’re not so perceptive on the streets.”

Ed, finally recognizing the recipient of his verbal attacks, snapped his gaze up at Roy, “Officer guy! You should’ve looked where you’re going.”

“I prefer ‘Roy’ off-duty, thank you.” He clipped back, moving from the doorway of the grocer’s to let passers-by through. Ed definitely looked different in plain clothing (just a button-down and some brown slacks), though Roy did notice how the button-down’s rolled-up sleeves did well to Ed’s general appearance. It showed off his masterful automail wonderfully, as well. If anything, he looked more mature than he did in his circus getup.

“Want a hand?” He added as the blonde was struggling to fit his wares into the crumpled paper grocery bags.

Ed shrugged, and Roy took it as an invitation to help. He fit the remaining containers into place and, before Ed could protest, took one of the bags in his arms with the excuse, “I’ve got nothing better to do.” In reality, Ed had become something of a fancy to Roy, and he intended to spend his valuable time seeing that fancy through. After all, the circus wouldn’t stay in Central forever.

Ed looked away, either embarrassed or frustrated, muttering, “Wouldn’t wanna damage your ego too badly by denying you, seems like you wouldn’t be too used to the concept.”

“Oh yeah, I’m never told no. The criminals simply run into the police car. In fact, they have to fight over who gets a ride; it’s simply infuriating!” Roy replied, shifting the bag a bit as they crossed a stopped road two blocks from the circus grounds.

Ed rolled his eyes but didn’t look particularly offended. He changed the subject, “That old coffee shop downtown: Why did it close?”

Roy shrugged, “The owner’s daughter said bankruptcy. It’s weird, because the location is great, and I never saw the place empty.”

Ed nodded but had fallen in a contemplative state that Roy felt uninclined to break him from. They reached the circus grounds at this point, and Ed snapped out of it to take Roy’s grocery sack and bid him adieu.

----------

The circus was packed up two days later. Roy tried to hide his indignation, but he could tell that Hughes sensed his mad mood.

“Come on, Roy, we can go back to catching the big guys now.” Hughes stated as they watched the pack of acrobats walk into the big tent with their equipment tied into large bundles.

“Yeah.” Roy stated mildly, pushing off the wall, “I’ll make a round.”

Hughes’ sigh didn’t escape Roy as he ambled through the falling tents and scattered flyers. he found himself outside of Ed’s tent before he knew where he’d walked. The fortune teller’s blonde head poked out from behind the curtain-door, “Roy, hey! You haven’t come around in the past few days.”

“Yeah, there’s been a lot of ruffians trying to get their final few crimes in before you all go off.” He shrugged, “Need any help packing?”

Ed gave Roy a rare smile, “Yeah, come on in.”

He was tasked with placing all of Ed’s fragile-looking crystals and glass relics into boxes full of hay, which was difficult when the objects were all awkward shapes and curves that didn’t fit nicely into a rectangular space. While working, Roy kept looking over at Ed, who seemed oddly peppy. He’d have thought moving around would be laborious and frustrating, but Ed smiled almost secretly to himself. When they were done with his packing, Roy turned to find Ed looking at him searchingly.

“I guess all that’s left is the tent, huh.” The policeman stated.

Ed looked around, “I guess so, but I can take that down myself. Thanks for the help.”

“It’s no problem,” Roy dismissed, not sure what to do, “Um, I guess have good luck in the next city…”

Ed rolled his eyes and stepped forwards, grabbing Roy’s arms and planting a light kiss on the other man’s lips. Roy froze, not quite comprehending what was happening. He hadn’t even considered his crush being a shared attraction. Through Roy’s stunned silence, Ed smirked, “I don’t like goodbyes. Get out of my tent, asshole, I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Roy couldn’t help his smile, “Yeah, see you around.” He left the tent with a small skip and didn’t explain to a confused Hughes how a patrol round of the grounds had so drastically changed his mood.

-----------

He didn’t see Ed around that day, unfortunately, as they were all gone the next day. Only a mess of paper and trash remained of the circus, and Roy felt all the more dejected for it. It was his day off, and he walked down the downtowns strip, trying to find some way to waste his time and, maybe, distract himself from the day before.

He left a clothing store empty-handed and looked over longingly at the closed doors of the closed coffee shop, really wanting some of their past wares at the moment. What he didn’t expect to see was the door open, and a young man with short, dirty blonde hair adjusting some tables outside. Curiously, he walked across the street to the man.

“Good Afternoon” he greeted, and the man looked up with a happy expression.

“Hello, you curious? We’ve had a lot of questions.” He replied.

Roy shrugged, “I guess I am. Not many shops here go back into business so quickly.”

The boy smiled, “My brother an I just bought the place yesterday. We were part of the circus that just left, and needed a change of pace.”

“Oh?” Roy’s interest had been effectively piqued, “What kind of store will it be?”

A voice from the doorway answered, “We’re selling oddities and psychic services.”

Roy whipped around, “Ed!”

The blonde laughed at Roy’s surprise, “I told you I’d see you around.”

“You didn’t have to be so cryptic,” Roy responded, but couldn’t hide his excitement. Ed had an equally happy quirk of a smile behind his trained natural look, “Where’s the fun in that? You don’t look like you’re working, wanna help set up instead of standing here pestering Al?”

Al protested his brother’s comment and Roy rolled his eyes, already crossing the threshold behind Ed, “I get it- you just like to use me.”

Ed feigned exasperation, “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

Roy helped Ed set up shop for the rest of the afternoon, but not without first pulling him out of Al’s sight and properly reciprocating Ed’s earlier kiss.

His day went much better than planned.

#fmasecretsanta #fmasecretsanta2018 #fma #royed #victorian #edward elric #Roy Mustang #circus

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kapsbrakclapsback · 6 years

Text

Dreammaker, You Heartbreaker

Ya Girl is fianlly back with the third chapter!! Read under the cut!

Chapter 3

When Eddie woke up the next morning, bleary eyed and tinged with the drag of sadness, it was to the sound of quick knocks and a hurried shuffle, followed by heavy footsteps. He groaned at the light streaming through the window, unnecessarily angry at the rays. He tried to close his eyes and fall back to sleep, but resistance was futile. He let his eyes pull themselves open, and pulled himself out of bed, one limb at a time.

Once his eyes were completely open, he looked to the door, the source of the sound that woke him up in the first place. He rubbed his eyes as he stepped lightly over the carpeted floor, until he saw the crème envelope and typewriter ribbon on the floor, shoved under the crack in the door. He smiled at the typewriter ribbon, realizing that Richie must’ve been behind the shuffling and the knocks and the break from his sleep. He bent over to get the envelope, wincing at the soreness in his spine, and took it to his bed.

He sat on top of his sheets, now rustled with a restless sleep, and opened up the envelope with a careful hand. He pulled out the letter itself, written on loose leaf and addressed to "Eds/Stan". His blooming smile faltered a bit at the name, but he continued reading nonetheless.

"Sorry about last night. Got you a typewriter ribbon, figured you'd put it to good use. Can I make this up to you with an invite to a party? Tonight at 8 till the police come. Be there or be square

-Hope everything can be cool again, Richie"

His smile had been cultivated into an unabashed grin, and he let the hope spread through him as he clutched the already-wrinkled looseleaf to his chest, his eyes falling closed in the new beginning.

There was a lot to work out, he knew. There were plans and explanations and a lot more hand sanitizer required to get anywhere with his charismatic neighbor, but this, Eddie thought, this was a start.

———

The party began a few hours later, and the distinct rumblings of polite conversation began to stir up at 7:30. There was always a group of people who optioned to show up early, and Eddie would’ve joined them if it weren’t for his sudden obsession over looking just right that caused him to actually show up at 8.

He was dressed in a dress shirt paired with a blue jacket that belonged to his late father. The blue had been worn and stressed into a color that was nearly pastel and there was a small tear on the inside of the coat's elbow, but it was the only jacket he owned that wasn’t directly bought by his mother, so he wore it with pride as he entered Richie's apartment.

The gathering was pretty tame, as far as Eddie could see. It was a smattering of couples and trios talking as they leaned on walls or lounged on couches, and it didn’t take long to find Richie in the kitchen, feeding something to Cat while he talked absentmindedly with someone in a turtleneck.

Eddie set the heavy bottle of wine he had bought for the party on a lopsided coffee table and gravitated towards the empty end of the couch. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, and looked around nervously. He was caught in a struggle between seeking out a conversation partner or letting one find him when he was saved from his nervous plight by a red headed woman.

"Mind if I join you? Jerome took the chair because he’s a rat bastard, and it’s here or the table," the woman spoke with a cadence so sure that Eddie was shocked still, in awe of her ethereal presence. He chose, finally, to nod, and the couch became certifiably crowded with the addition.

"Hi, I’m Eddie-" he blurted out, uncomfortably sticking his hand into the narrow sliver of space between them. The static sound of other partygoers had only increased in volume, and Eddie worried that his words had been swallowed up by the noise.

"Beverly Marsh. Everyone just says Bev, because syllables are too advanced for this crowd," she said, and she seemed to pull a glass out of nowhere, and took a sip from it. Eddie opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Richie has he barreled towards them, arms spread out wide.

"Bev! Stan the man!"

They both stood up, Bev going to take the first hug. When she separated from Richie, she had a few spare seconds to look at Eddie with a suspicious sort of wonder, but Eddie was too quickly pulled into a warm hug to think much on it.

He reveled instead on the feeling of Richie's arms around him, and that was enough, if only for a few seconds. When he surfaced back to the world, Richie's hands were still resting on his shoulders, but his head had turned to other side of the room. Eddie turned his head when he heard the breaking of glass, and the moment was effectively broken as Richie rushed to stop the ill-advised drinking game.

Once Richie was out of his sight, Eddie turned to Bev, who was staring at Eddie with a passionate glint in her eyes.

"So you’re Stan?" she asked, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

Oh, so that was what this was all about. Eddie sighed out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and began to explain.

"I’m Eddie, Richie just calls me that. Apparently I remind him of Stan, or something like that. It’s not even something I totally understand, it’s just a thing, I guess," he rambled, his hands wringing with a nervous intensity.

"Fuck, man. That’s…something. You know who Stan is, right?"

"His best friend from Maine, right?"

"Yeah. That’s right. What else do you know?" Beverly asked, still standing as she took a sip of her drink. Someone had bumped into Eddie, making them stand a bit closer. Eddie looked nervously around, and saw that their seat on the couch had been taken.

"He’s away, or something. But still alive, I think?"

"He’s in the military but-"

"But what?" Eddie asked, feeling the anxiety in his bones.

"I don’t know Stan, but I do know Richie and what he’s said about his… friend and…" rambled Bev, her manicured hand gesticulating with sharp, fearful movements.

"And?"

"Some people aren’t meant for war."

A tense silence passed between them, Bev refusing to make eye contact and instead choosing to wave to an acquaintance who had just entered. Eddie put his hand on her shoulder to bring her back to the conversation, and Bev flinched momentarily before letting her eyes fall back to Eddie.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"When Stan comes back, he won’t be the Stan who watched sunsets on the beach with Richie. It won’t be Stan the Man. Richie won’t be ready for that, and-"

"If Stan comes back," said Eddie, quietly but definitively.

"What? Stan is coming back. I don’t want to live in a world with a version of Richie in which Stan doesn’t come back. That would kill him, Ed-"

"I know! I know, Stan is his best friend, his moon, all of that, but what happens if he really isn’t built for war? We can’t rule out a possibility because we don’t like it."

"How long have you known Richie?"

"Shorter than you have known him, I know, but-"

"Richie operates on certain things he believes are true. Phony things. Things like Stan coming back or that his cat will never have a name or just that he can survive on sugar and not much else, but he really believes these things, Eddie. The things he tells himself when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep? Those are his base realities. You rip one away, it’ll break him. So shut up about if he’ll come back at all and enjoy this party, because Richie wants you to. I want you to. So just stop, okay?"

He has an out of body experience at this, where he realizes that he’s shouting over the relentless noise of the party to argue about something he has no real control over. He’s at the first truly adult party of his life, and he’s spending it being upset, so he shuts up.

He looked into Beverly's steely eyes and asked where he can find a drink. His own words sound muted and blurry, but Bev heard them somehow and pointed to the kitchen.

He walked and maneuvered around the new additions to the party and found an unopened wine cooler on the stained counter of Richie's kitchen, and found himself opening it, sipping it contemplatively while let his gaze fan out lazily over the gathering. He smiled when he properly spotted Richie, putting out fires with the elegant flick of his wrist and chatting with members of a jazz band.

Time passed, with Eddie leaning onto a counter and just letting himself observe. His focus dragged to Beverly, who kept her arm wrapped around a blonde, flirting obviously and lightheartedly. It was a stark change from the Beverly who's fear shone in her rich blue eyes, and a welcome one. He smiled lightly, taking another sip. He was lost in his reverie by a tap on the shoulder from Richie, who sidled up next to him.

Everything about Richie in this moment was loose, from his smiles to the way that his arms crossed on the counter with ease, one arm occupied in holding a glass to his lips.

"Do you see him over there? I want to marry him," said Richie without even offering a hello, flippant as he pointed at someone from across the room.

Eddie was focused on the way that Richie's fingers gently cradled his champagne glass (that was filled with, oddly enough, red wine), but managed to tear his eyes away from that delicate torture to the man that Richie was apparently infatuated with. When his eyes caught him, it was unmistakeable: Eddie was beat.

"I guess, if handsome, rich looking men with beautiful eyes are your type, then I could see the appeal," said Eddie, nervously as he sized up the apparent competition.

"No, not him, the one to his right."

The guy to his right, who was apparently the object of Richie's affection, was a scrawny man with an uncertain haircut. Everything about his look screamed serial arsonist.

"Do you think it’s possible that you have terrible taste in men?" Eddie teased, trying to avoid any hint of sincerity in his voice.

"You have to understand, I don’t look for good men, I look for rich ones. It’s simple economic sense. Patrick there? He's one of the 50 richest men under 50 in the country. Why would I, an attractive man resigned to eating the same pasta dish day after day, pass up on that opportunity? We can’t all be paid to write essays," said Richie, taking another swig of his drink.

"Who’s the other guy? The one who's actually attractive?" Eddie asked, squinting at the mismatched pair.

"Him? That’s Bill Denbrough. He writes scary stories. You two might actually be able to strike up a conversation about writing. Why? Interested?" Richie asked, wiggling his eyebrows in the most exaggerated, cartoonish way possible and knocking his elbow against Eddie's. Eddie quickly withdrew from the touch, a move that Richie didn’t seem to notice.

"No, of course not! It’s just- I don’t know. Thought you might be... never mind."

"Loosen up, Eds! You thought a guy was cute, it’s fine. Do you need some more to drink? Turn this into a riot instead of a regular party?"

Eddie looked around at the party, which had ascended to total chaos. People were crying, laughing, and breaking things. It was completely and utterly Richie, but it only caused fits and starts in Eddie's chest. This simply wasn’t the life of an organized essayist with undiagnosed anxiety and an overbearing mother.

"I think I’ll turn down that drink. You should head over to Patrick, though," said Eddie, drawing further into himself and shooing off Richie. With a worried look and a calming smile, Richie slipped out of the kitchen and into the cacophony.

Eddie watched from afar, and time began to do its own work, ebbing and flowing around him. He watched as the party escalated even further, and Richie left the party with Patrick on his arm, presumably to go on a walk.

It was then that Eddie heard the faint sounds of something, the dull whine of police sirens. It sparked a panic response, and he stood at full attention, before darting into the crowd to devise an escape. He saw Bill, and grabbed his arm on impulse, pulling him out of the other side of the dance floor, next to the bathroom door. Bill, intoxicated and pleasantly confused, looked down at Eddie and laughed at some joke that Eddie hadn’t heard.

"Bill, the police are coming. What do I do?"

His laughter dropped off, and he looked around, utterly confused. It struck Eddie that, first and foremost, Bill wasn’t necessarily as smart as he looked. Bill also was, for all intents and purposes, an absolute stranger who hasn’t heard anything about Eddie.

"Let’s jump out the bathroom window. Fire escape. I think."

"I think so too," said Eddie, breathing a sigh of relief that Bill could come through. His anxiety clouded all of his decision making skills, and the blare of sirens in the background only worsened his comprehension of the situation.

"We need to run, bad press would be... bad," Bill rambled, not making a motion. Eddie did it instead, darting towards the closed bathroom door and throwing it open with reckless abandon. There was a kissing couple leaning against the wall, but that didn’t stop the quest forward.

Eddie stepped over the walls of the bath under the window, and was followed by Bill, who reached towards the latch of the window. He undid it with fumbling hands to the soundtrack of sirens and Eddie whispering "my mom's going to kill me" over and over. Finally, it came undone, and the escape stretched in front of them with a divine solidity.

"Hoist me up," said Eddie, acutely aware of his height. He cursed before stepping on Bill's laced hands to climb out. He landed on the metal escape, and narrowly avoided Bill falling on him amidst Bill's own escape.

They heard the sound of an opening door and a booming voice, exchanged a handshake, and scattered in different directions. Eddie scurried to his apartment, gasping in lungful of air as he jumped into his still-unlocked window.

He landed with a thud onto the pristine carpet, before resting his back to the wall and resting a hand to his beating heart.

He let his eyes come to a close, and smiled into the quiet air. The adrenaline rush calmed, and he let himself revel in the calm after a storm.

#it (2017)#it fanfiction #reddie

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eenefangirlanalysis · 7 years

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The next sequence cuts to Rolf wandering alone in the desert like location the Ed’s landed in.

To me Rolf’s subplot feels like filler. I usually skip over his scenes because AKA could have done better with Rolf’s character. He’s always present to help out the characters when in need of advice and he is the strong man. Rolf brings off a uniqueness to the series being from another country.

I think a lot of fans can agree because his story-line takes away from the Ed’s. If Rolf went with Kevin and Nazz we would have seen more of their group dynamic coming into play. It also would have been funny to see Rolf yelling at Kevin and Nazz to focus.

It doesn’t add much into the movie other then that Rolf is willing to go alone. He’s only trying to prove a point to himself and his family. I like Rolf’s motivation and courage to go on a journey where he doesn’t know the ending result.

Since Rolf has been in America far longer then any of his family members he must have different viewpoint about the world. It’s implied more later in the series that Rolf feels like the odd one out in his family. He understands more of America’s traditions and goes along with them.

There was talk that AKA thought about cutting his scenes but they were already animated. If his scenes were cut the movie would have been able to add in a very important scene that the world needed to see.

Rolf means business.

He has a pitch fork.

Is that the hat he wore in season 1 ‘Eds Aggerate’?

And there is a chicken foot peaking out from the crease of the hat...

Rolf’s true nature with animals makes me question his character. He’s always seen taking care of his farm animals. There is never a decreased amount of animals at any point. The movie made Rolf seem like a bad person with the way he acted with Wilfred.

He is better person in the series then who we seen in the movie.

And the camera pans down to give viewers a look at what he is carrying along.

The first thing that catches sight is the three head boards for Ed, Edd n Eddy.

Do you believe me now that the kids are out to kill the Ed’s after the scam that went wrong?

- A shovel

- A barrel full of green slime [Also something that may harm the Ed’s?]

- A duffel bag

- A shepherd’s hook [Maybe the same one in No Speak Da Ed

- A sheep - Corn - A piano - Sacks of food - An ax - A suitcase - A brick - A trunk - The device that prisons Rolf’s head for half of the movie, [If anyone knows what this object is called please tell me]

All aboard Wilfred who is sniffing out the way as if he were a hound dog.

Out of everyone Rolf is the most prepared for this journey turning into an overnight trip. He is prepared upon hearing stories about many adventures from his family members. And he’s also had one himself when he and his family were in the process of coming to America. He’s been through it all.

Okay, I just noticed the saddle attached to Wildred’s back. It’s the same saddle from Wish You Were Ed!

As they follow the foot prints Ed left behind Rolf notices something shining in the distance.

Jumping off from the huge stack Rolf menacingly whispers that they must keep low.

As if he were a snake, Rolf slowly crawls over to the crime scene.

Where he goes on a rampage slicing his pitchfork through the air believing the Ed’s are there.

“ED BOYS! NEVER DO THAT AGAIN!”

Realizing that the land is vacated Rolf realized that his actions were all for not.

Speaking of which, was Rolf going to maim the Ed’s if they were there? Or are the kids going to give them a taste of the undeserved pain the Ed’s have them?

It’s tough to say. Kevin did act as if he was going to beat up Eddy when they meet up at the end. The way the kids viciously attack Jonny makes me think that was going to be their outcome all along. Even though they befriend the Ed’s it’s still unsettling to see them beat up Jonny. I’ll rant off more about that issue once times comes.

Wilfred silently judges Rolf. I love Wilfred. He may have an expressionless face but he says so much through little emotion. He’s so loyal.

“The Ed boys think they have played Rolf as a phony baloney. But they have yet to feel the wrath from THIS SON OF A SHEPHERD!”

Rolf hates to be made a mockery of. The best example is Dueling Eds where Eddy throws one of his prized sea cucumbers at a fence. Rolf relies heavenly on his ancestors and family tradition. Notice how he tends to back off from family tradition more and more? He starts to be more of his own self understanding more of America’s tradition and even himself.

Coming from a big family is hard, especially when you grew up in another country. Rolf longs to go back to the old country. By himself. He wants to lead a more independent life feeling that his family bears weight over his shoulders with all their customs.

He loves his family dearly. It’s himself that he needs to start thinking about. By seeking the meaning of the big picture Rolf learns that he needs to take better control of himself.

#Ed Edd n Eddy #eene #ed edd n eddy big picture show #Rolf #Ed #Edd #Eddy #Kevin #Nazz #Dueling Eds #Eds Agerate #eene analysis #character analysis #The Eds #Jonny #Wilfred

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lazybarbarians · 7 years

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For the Emperor, by Sandy Mitchell

Kalinara: So, we had a bit of an unintentional hiatus as real life hit both of us pretty hard. But now we’re back. It was my turn to pick the book this time, so I thought I’d try something a bit different. I chose “For the Emperor”, the first of the Ciaphas Cain novels in the Warhammer 40K series

Okay, so, disclaimer. I don’t play Warhammer, any version. I only have the vaguest idea of how it works, or who the major players are, or what the hell is even going on. All of my knowledge of the setting comes from the tie-in novels. And I have to admit, as someone used to trudging through Forgotten Realms (I honestly suspect the popularity of the Drizzt books, despite the irritating nature of the main character, comes from the fact that they’re one of a handful of series that are reasonably coherent), the Warhammer 40K novels that I’ve bothered to read are actually, legitimately enjoyable.

Ragnell: I don’t play Warhammer either, but I appreciate being able to google what the aliens look like.

K::One of the most interesting aspects of these books, to me, is seeing how the writers tackle the innate ridiculousness of the setting. I mean, don’t get me started on the thousands of people sacrificed a day to keep the undead Emperor alive so that chaos doesn’t consume all of humanity thing. The setting uses the word “grimdark” unironically. Enough said.

R: This setting is like the world/universal version of Ash from the Evil Dead sequels. And now I think I’ll picture Ciaphas Cain as 90s Bruce Campbell forever.

K: And I can see why the setting works great for the game, but it’s got to be a challenge for any writer to dreg up human stories out of that mess. And it’s interesting to see how different writers handle that.

Dan Abnett’s Gaunt’s Ghosts series seems to downplay the most ridiculous aspects of the setting to focus on trench warfare in space. Sandy Mitchell, on the other hand, seems to be embracing the over-the-top aspects of the setting and matching them with an equally over-the-top protagonist: Ciaphas Cain.

According to history, Ciaphas Cain is a legendary hero, a paragon of heroic virtue whose courage and honor are unparalleled. However according to his secret memoirs (as compiled and annotated by Inquisitor Amberley Vail), Cain has a different point of view of the events. Ciaphas Cain, according to Ciaphas Cain, isn’t a hero at all, but a selfish coward who obtained his heroic reputation through a mixture of luck, good timing, and a really good facade.

The plot of the novel is pretty straightforward: it represents an extract from Cain’s memoirs about his first mission with the 597th Valhallan Regiment. But it’s the characters, not the plot, that make the story interesting.

The Valhallan 597th has an interesting backstory in its own right. It’s made up of what had been two separate companies that were devastated during a recent battle. One of the companies was an all-male front-line regiment, the other an all-female rear echelon group. This required a bit of an adjustment period, especially since the new senior officer was one of the latter.

One thing I liked about the conflict was that while sexism was a part of it, it wasn’t simply a matter of “ew, girls” so much as the fact that these were two very different companies with very different ways of doing things. And there really wasn’t any doubt that the women were as capable as the men in actual combat.

It was however a nice set up to ensure that we had about as many prominent female characters as male characters in the story.

R: Yeah, I appreciated that too. This is an extremely macho space fantasy, and it would have been easy to have one female character for the love interest for the whole thing but this writer went out of his way to give us a mix. That was really cool.

K: We also get to witness the first meeting of Cain and his annotator in person, which is a rather nice touch. Inquisitor Vail is a fun character in her own right, and she and Cain have a lot of chemistry. One thing that I stands out for me, on reread, is how much is said and not said about the relationship between the two characters. Neither of them ever use the word “love”, but Cain himself states that she made “half a lifetime of running, shooting, and bowel-clenching terror” worth it. From Cain, that’s saying something. Vail is less effusive, but in a footnote notes that she and Cain felt “more at ease in one another’s company” than either were used to. In a way, it’s possible to read the entire Cain series as a declaration of Vail’s feelings for Cain: she’s presenting us not with the legend, but with the man that she knew. Warts and all.

R: She seems to prefer him to the legend. I like that they have a kind of stock action hero-love interest thing on paper, where she’s a spy who surprises him and she relies on his combat prowess, but there is something really fresh about it. She never gets taken out specifically to prop him up, for example. They have their own strengths and weaknesses, and some social abilities in common. And they bond over the fact that she can see through him. In fact, this consummate liar seems pretty attracted to the fact that she perceives the true him and likes him.

K: It’s probably fair to note that his initial knee-jerk fear of being discovered is not as neurotic as it might seem. His personality foibles might well be an executable offense in this universe.

The fun of this particular series is in the unreliable narrator aspect. We actually get layers of unreliable narrator here. Since the stories are presented as parts of Cain’s memoirs, we’re getting Cain’s in character version of events, decades after the fact. Assuming, of course, that Cain is telling us the truth. And assuming, of course, that Cain’s recollections aren’t clouded with self-doubt, hindsight, or foggy memory.

Vail is another layer of unreliable narrator. She claims to be impartial, supplementing Cain’s account with outside sources when needed, and adding her own footnotes to provide contextual explanations (a good way to deal with the minutia of the Warhammer universe for those of us without the patience or attention span to read through the source books), but every so often her footnotes end up with a little more personal color than necessary.

We know that Cain’s heroic deeds happened. It’s documented clearly and reinforced. But the “how” and “why” is an interesting question. Is Cain the selfish coward that he thinks he is? Is he a hero suffering from imposter syndrome who doesn’t give himself enough credit? Or is he just a normal man dealing with a batshit insane society that has no comprehension or recognition of human weakness?

R: I have to say, whatever it is results in Cain having an extremely practical and grounded focus. The setting is so overblown, so masculine, so honestly scary in how the Imperium is set up and works and how brainwashed all these conscripts are that it’s helpful to have a guy like Cain as your narrator.

K: Other notable characters include Jurgen, Cain’s aide, and probably the person that Cain values most in the entire universe (though he wouldn’t/couldn’t admit it. But his reaction when he thought Jurgen might be dead was pretty telling), and Sulla, one of members of the 597th who annoys Cain the most.

I think I like Sulla because she’s a character who absolutely did not have to be female. Her major traits: a gung ho attitude that annoys the hell out of Cain, a tendency to purple prose, and a steller career in her own right, do not require Sulla to be female. She’s a comedic foil, not a romantic option, and is never discussed in terms of physical attractiveness. In most stories, she’d be a male character. And she could have been a male character here, as the Valhallan Regiment is co-ed. But instead, the future retired General Jenit Sulla is female. And I like that a lot.

R: Sulla’s great. I’m more a fan of Kasteen though, who did pretty much have to be female to balance out the co-ed thing, but has that practical side I like. Sulla’s more gung-ho “For the Emperor!” Kasteen and Broklaw are more down to earth like Cain, focusing on the immediate goal and how to obtain it without getting the regiment killed.

K: It’s probably worth talking about Cain’s role for a moment. He’s a Commissar, which, for people who aren’t familiar with the setting, operates something like an advisor, morale officer, and secret police. As near as I can tell, with my own limited exposure to the setting, their job primarily consists of shooting people for cowardice and heresy.

They’re generally not popular, for fairly understandable reasons. (It’s a warning sign as to how bad the situation was that Kasteen was actually glad to see him.) And represent one of the more mundane horrors of the setting, when you stop and think about it.

But that’s where Cain’s pragmatism and self-centeredness serves him well. Cain knows that Commissars are generally unpopular, and that the worst often meet with friendly fire accidents as often as they’re killed by the enemy, and he has no intention of allowing that to happen to him. Besides, he has a vested interest in keeping as many of his troops alive as possible so they can stand between him and the enemy.

R: Which is another great bit, a book where the intelligent survival choice is to actually build relationships with others and keep them alive. It stands out again, against the culture Cain’s immersed in.

K: Ultimately, what appeals to me the most about this book, and this series beyond it, is that it takes a premise that ought to be cynical: the legendary hero is nowhere near the paragon of virtue that he’s reputed to be, and makes it strangely optimistic. Even if we take Cain completely at his word that he’s the selfish, cowardly phony that he labels himself as, the end result is that he has had a legitimately positive influence on a lot of people. He’s saved worlds and he’s saved lives. And when you look at it like that, it’s hard to say that he doesn’t deserve to be called a “hero” after all, even if he’d never meant to be.

In the end, instead of a story in which a hero is exposed as a scoundrel, we have a story about how a scoundrel accidentally becomes a hero.

#For the Emperor #Sandy Mitchell #Ciaphas Cain #sorry to be sexist but only a man could have invented a chainsword and thought it would be a good idea #Warhammer 40K Starring Bruce Campbell #The Persistence of Optimism in Hyper-Macho Space Fantasy #Mutants. Always Mutants.#Bowel-Liquefying Love Interests

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auburnfamilynews · 5 years

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Joe Maiorana-USA TODAY Sports

What do we really know about non-Auburn football?

We’re already a third of the way through the regular season, and soon it’ll be slipping into November (and the weather will still be hot). Which among us will also be hot? Who knows!

***IF YOU’D LIKE TO ADD YOUR OWN PICKS, COMMENT BELOW WITH YOUR SCORE PREDICTIONS FOR EACH GAME AND RYAN STERRITT WILL TRACK THEM***

Notre Dame (-13) vs Virginia (O/U 48)

Notre Dame is going to take out some frustration on a good(?) Virginia team, but I’m not sure that necessarily means an offensive explosion. Virginia’s offense is baddddd though, so this may be more of a “smother you with a pillow” style win for the Irish. 27-7 Domers. - Ryan Sterritt

Virginia never deserves success in anything ever again, including against Notre Dame, who I think may have won a moral victory last weekend by possibly exposing a coach in Athens who might just have an issue or two with executing at a high level in big games. Notre Dame 27 Virginia 21 - Josh Black

Well Notre Dame, you ALMOST made me look like a genius last week. The Irish come home and face an undefeated Virginia team. The Cavaliers have narrow wins over the likes of Florida State and Old Dominion as they head to South Bend. I think the Irish will bounce back at home Saturday. Notre Dame 28 Virginia 20 - Will McLaughlin

Notre Dame now has something to prove to the world. I don’t think they’ll take the foot off the gas in this one, or any of their remaining games. They need to put themselves back in the conversation. Notre Dame 38, Virginia 14 - Josh Dub

If Notre Dame wins, maybe jack won’t make us pick any more of their stupid games im not going to watch. Our Lady of Embarrassing Irish Losses, pray for us. Hoos 21 Irish 20. - Son of Crow

Notre Dame played MUCH better than I was expecting and I think are a legitimate top 10 team. But how funny would it be if after that big time matchup where UGA had to begrudgingly admit that maybe ND wasn’t such a pushover if they then got beat by UVA? But UVA doesn’t deserve nice things due to their phony bball title. The Fighting Irish bounce back big. ND 35 UVA 17 - AU Nerd

The Golden Domers showed me something last week. They kept it close against Georgia...that is pretty much it. What I got on offense, I expected, but the defense really impressed me. Either that or Georgia had and off night. The Hoos on the other hand have beaten FSU...so they beat a JV squad. I am pretty sure ND will win but that’s a large cover against a good? team on the road. Virginia and the points and the under. ND 23-14 - Drew Mac

Notre Dame had a solid gameplan against Georgia’s offense, but they couldn’t get anything consistent on offense except for going to their TE. I think UVa got caught eating a LetDown Lookahead sandwich last week against Old Dominion. ND does enough to win at home, but I think UVA keeps it close. Irish 24, School for which Ty Jerome double dribbled 17 (ND wins, UVA covers, UNDER) - James Jones

I know there’s nothing connecting the two, but I really hope that Kyle Guy and his long gums/tiny teeth get to enjoy an epic whipping at the hands of Notre Dame. He apparently writes for the UVA SB Nation site, so write about this one, and tell your double dribble buddy Ty Jerome all about it. Irish 35, Cavaliers 10 - Jack Condon

Washington (-9.5) vs USC (O/U 59)

Washington is a lot better team than they’re going to get credit for after that dumb Cal loss, and despite beating Utah last week, I can’t get on board with the third string quarterback leading the Trojans to another win over a ranked team on the road. It’ll be up to the USC ground game to take advantage of a weaker-than-usual Washington defensive line, but I’m going to take the Huskies here. 30-20 UW. - Ryan Sterritt

Jacob Eason wanted a more refined version of a dog. One who wasn’t bred down to sitting on top of ice as “work”. No he realized he needed to associate himself with a breed that was tough, graceful, and reliable. Shoutout to Jacob Eason, for without him, Georgia may never have gotten their hopes up only to be ripped out against Tennessee in 2016. Without him transferring, maybe Justin Fields doesn’t come to Georgia. Without Justin Fields coming to Georgia, maybe Kirby decides to recruit another star quarterback before and during the 2018 season. And because of neglecting to do so, because you know, Justin Fields is a generational talent, Georgia now has no backup quarterback if Jake Fromm were to catch a horrible case of diarrhea. Also Washington is much better than USC and should win this game. Washington 38 USC 28 - Josh Black

Both of these teams played in Provo against BYU the last 2 weekends. The Huskies rolled while the Trojans lost in Overtime. I think Washington would be undefeated if it weren’t the bizarreness of Pac-12 WAYYYYY After Dark against Cal. I like the Huskies in this one. Washington 31 USC 23 - Will McLaughlin

The PAC-12 is a mystery. Chris Peterson is reliable, though. Well, more reliable than anyone else over there. Washington 42, USC 21 - Josh Dub

Guys I think USC might have it figured out, or at least well enough for the lousy pac 12. That said, Washington is looking better than the Trojans by a wide margin and the dream of Dwag transfers making the playoffs without the Dwags hinges on this game. Washington 35 SC 24 - Son of Crow

It would be a very on brand thing for the PAC-12 if USC were to win this game. They’ve performed better than anyone thought especially given injuries at QB position. But the Huskies first loss came under some wild circumstances so unless the Trojans can get some weather delays I think Eason and company get it done. Huskies 31 Trojans 23 - AU Nerd

Now this is an interesting matchup, and sadly it won’t be on Pac-12 After Dark. Both teams are 3-1 and coming off of nice road wins last week. USC is much better than people want to give them credit for while Washington always seems to have one or two ‘huh’ losses in them. They already got one out of the way a few weeks back to Cal and they play Stanford next week on Pac-12 After Dark. There’s your other loss so they win this one but won’t cover. USC and the points, take the under. Washington 27-21 - Drew Mac

Graham Harrell deserves a lot of credit for keeping the offensive game plan the same with Fink after Slovis went down. What I don’t like is a QB that made some really poor decisions in the second half making his first road start. Washington will be ready for this one. I think you almost have to throw the Cal game completely out for betting purposes. There were so many obstacles in that game that I’m not taking it into account. I think Eason is coming into his own. I may have to create a vested interest in this one. Washington 38, USC 17 (UW covers, UNDER) - James Jones

It’s fun when national powers turn back into pedestrian clubs. People would have killed to see USC end up as a struggling mid-level program a decade ago, and most never thought the Trojans would fall to that point. People now think that Bama won’t ever drop to mediocrity again. It’ll happen. USC, however, is on the way back up, and I don’t have anything to base this on except that I don’t really think Washington is all that tough. Trojans 33, Washington 30 - Jack Condon

Nebraska vs Ohio State (-17.5) (O/U 66.5)

Let’s see... Nebraska struggled with USA, lost to Colorado, and barely beat Illinois despite nearly doubling them up in yards. Meanwhile, Ohio State has been murdering bad teams by an average of 54-9. Nebraska will be the best team the Buckeyes will have faced, and it *might* be the first time the starters play the fourth quarter. Buckeyes 48-20. - Ryan Sterritt

Justin Fields just wanted to be at a program that’s won a national title in the past 38 years. Shoutout to Justin Fields. No shame in wanting to be involved with a winner who knows how to finish. You know what’s impressed me most about Ohio State? They’ve managed to find ways to use Justin Fields to their advantage beyond fake punts. I mean, that’s really hard to do. Finding a role for a guy who was considered neck and neck with Trevor Lawrence for the best HS QB in a decade by doing more than running out with the punt team is really a testament to the creativity of the Ohio State coaching staff. Ohio State 48 Nebraska 17 - Josh Black

All you need to know about how bleh this weekend of games is that College Gameday picked THIS game to go to this week. Buckeyes roll. Ohio State 48 Nebraska 14 - Will McLaughlin

Ohio State cruises towards a big October 26 matchup against Wisconsin. (related – the gameday slate of Ohio State/Wisconsin at 11 AM followed by Auburn/LSU at 2:30 may have some serious playoff implications). Ohio State 52, Nebraska 17 - Josh Dub

I don’t think Ohio state feels a speed bump during this game. The Buckeye offense is dynamic and Justin Fields is a generational talent who was called racial slurs by Georgia fans. While he was on their team. Because Georgia. During this game look for there to be more shots of Scott Frost looking completely lost than shots of Nebraska celebrating first downs. Bucks 48 N 20 - Son of Crow

You know who I think is the scariest team in the country right now? It’s not Dabo’s Tigers, it’s not Ed O’s Tigers, it’s not Saban’s high flying offense, it’s not UGA’s boring ass team & it’s not Hurts’ led Oklahoma. It’s the Buckeyes of Ohio State. Justin Fields was a legitimate challenger for the top spot in the same class as Trevor Lawrence. The fact he decided to go to UGA is still one of the more bizarre decisions I’ve seen but now he’s at a program that will make full use of his skillset. This team also has a ferocious defense lead by arguably the best pass rusher in the country. They are flying under the radar right now due to an unimpressive schedule and the jaw dropping offensive numbers Bama, LSU & OK are putting up right now. But for my pretend expert opinion, Buckeyes are the team to be feared the most right now. There may be some hiccups early but OSU rolls. OSU 45 NEB 20 - AU Nerd

One of my favorite, personal things is to watch Nebraska and wonder when the realization that the Scott Frost system isn’t going to work at Nebraska and then the second realization that they are just an average program in today’s college football will truly set in. It obviously hasn’t yet but I think Ohio State will do all they can to bash them over the head with it this week as they welcome the Huskers to the Shoe. Ohio State and the over. OSU 52-17 - Drew Mac

Ohio State has been in the old “Bama minus anything” zone so far this year. Which of course means that I’m finally looking at making an investment in them, and therefore they’ll struggle with the Huskers. Nebraska rolled up a ton of yards on Illinois last week, but they made too many mistakes. I’m wary of the yearly “Ohio State craps its pants on the road on national TV” game, but I don’t think it’s this week. Ohio State 45, Nebraska 21 (OSU covers, UNDER by the hook) - James Jones

Ever since Scott Frost shot that kid in Breaking Bad, he’s had it coming. Justin Fields is about to Jesse Pinkman this dude and roll up about 400 yards and 5 touchdowns. Buckeyes 40, Huskers 17 - Jack Condon

South Carolina (-2.5) vs Kentucky (O/U 50.5)

Do we have an Anxiety Bowl here? If the Gamecocks drop this one, they’ll fall to 1-4, and will be lucky to get to 3-9 after that. Muschamp is gone in that scenario. Meanwhile, if the underdog Wildcats lose, Mark Stoops will have lost all good will from last season as Kentucky will be sitting at 2-3. Luckily, Kentucky still has likely wins over Arkansas, Tennessee, Vandy, UT Martin, and Louisville on the schedule, but losing to South Carolina would not be a good sign that Kentucky could handle those other games without faltering either. I don’t know, I guess I’m picking Kentucky? No way they hit that over. 23-15 blue team. - Ryan Sterritt

Neither one of these programs have much in the way of success in football historically. Take South Carolina for example. The last major thing South Carolina did was produce a Heisman Trophy winner in 1980. NINETEEN EIGHTY! That was THIRTY-NINE years ago. Most of you reading this probably weren’t even alive back in those days! How could any program that had their last major national success happen during the waning days of the Carter administration ever take themselves seriously? Can’t relate, but man that must be tough. 1980. 39 years ago. And maybe, just maybe, the best a program residing in the SEC East may have just peaked in 1980. You hate to see it. Kentucky 21 South Carolina 20 - Josh Black

I’m not really sure what to think of this game. It looks like Sawyer Smith will play for Kentucky and the Gamecocks have GOT to win this game or things could get really ugly. I don’t trust picking South Carolina since they screwed me in the Survivor Pool Week 1 so give the Wildcats! Kentucky 24 South Carolina 21 - Will McLaughlin

Talk about two schools needing a win. Both of these programs are desperate for some kind of success right about now. South Carolina and Will Muschamp are sitting at 1-3 and folks, the future does not look bright. They need a win or two to help justify a crazy buyout situation for Muschamp. I’m looking at their schedule…welp, Will Muschamp is going to get retained after going 2-10 because they don’t want to fork out $22 Million. Meanwhile, Kentucky nearly beats Florida then gets destroyed by Mississippi State? I think Kentucky is the only one of these programs that can put together a winning gameplan. Kentucky 28, South Carolina 17 - Josh Dub

I need Kentucky to win and I’ll tell you why: we need SCAR to look so bad that no one could possibly think they could upset one of the better teams left on their schedule. That’s when muschamp strikes and keeps his crummy job. This game is going to stink. Kentucky 21 Scar 13 - Son of Crow

The desperation bowl. Both of these programs needs this win in the worst way. Both are dealing with injuries at the QB position. I honestly thought the Kats would put up a bigger fight on the road against State. SCAR was pretty sad themselves in Columbia, MO. Winner of this game might be able to get off the mat and have an ok season with the terribleness of the East. Loser is fighting for bowl eligibility. Think it’s an ugly one but with it being at home the Cocks’ freshman QB does enough. Muschamp 23 UK 16 - AU Nerd

Woof. I went out on a limb for you last week Kentucky and you give me nothing! Frustrating. Oh well. Now the TurfCats return home to take on a reeling Carolina team in the battle of the second string QBs. No true breakdown here as this will not be a pretty ballgame but since the Cats are at home, as I guess they will be the least loser. Kentucky on the ML and the under. Cats 24-20 - Drew Mac

Gross. If Kentucky was at home, they’d be a no-brainer. To be honest, having the line here means Vegas thinks it’s a toss-up on a neutral field. I don’t know that I agree with that. I think Helinski plays well enough to keep SC in it, but I’m going to lean towards UK getting it done. Holding my nose either way. Gambling wise this is a total stay-away. Kentucky 24, South Carolina 21 (Kentucky wins outright, UNDER) - James Jones

FEEL OLD YET? pic.twitter.com/KIenYSLTte

— Karen Howell (@karenehowell) September 27, 2019

Muschamp’s gonna have plenty of time to open up the budding singing career when he ends up getting canned after this season. Boom will be Summertime Lover when he gets to chill on his boat for a season. Then he’ll return to Auburn for round three running the defense once Kevin Steele finally retires. Kentucky 23, Gamecocks 21 - Jack Condon

from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2019/9/27/20886401/staff-picks-college-football-week-5

#IFTTT #Blogger #auburn #auburn fast #wareagle #AuburnFamilyNews #war eagle #sec #football news #aubu

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thesinglesjukebox · 5 years

Video

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FREYA RIDINGS - CASTLES

[5.30]

Our highest-scoring song with 'castle' in the title ever! (The other song, like one-fourth of all songs ever released, is by Ed Sheeran.)

Joshua Lu: A redhead Londoner singer/songwriter with a grandiose style and sweeping vocals -- the obvious comparison is to Florence Welch, and for the most part, it's a flattering one. Freya Ridings shares Florence's ability to transmute sadness into galloping jams, sacrificing no lyrical intimacy in the process. But on "Castles," she's held back by her occasionally mushy-mouthed delivery and an instrumental that's too dull to give this song the pathos it craves. [5]

Iain Mew: Freya Ridings's chart success was facilitated by "Lost Without You" being used on Love Island. The usual stock-in-trade for the show's emotional couplings, uncouplings and departures is piano covers of well-known songs (among last week's: "Love Will Tear Us Apart"), not in the super mopey cover mode but minimal enough to match recognisability to a bit of fresh starkness. "Lost Without You" wasn't a cover but sounded familiar and striking enough to fit the model perfectly. "Castles" is not minimal, but gets to the same combination by a different route. The Bastille-style rolling wave of the chorus signals emotion without letting it dominate, leaving the striking newness to the lyrics. She gives the verses plenty of hints of darkness beyond a breakup -- "Your love it seemed so harmless, I never noticed..." before the chorus promise to "build castles from the rubble of your love". Taking the ideas of strength in adversity and living well as the best revenge and combining them to something preposterous and towering, it's a brilliant and sharp enough image to lift the whole song. [7]

Will Adams: In which Freya Ridings storms the Bastille to deploy a metaphor about rebuilding after a breakup, which might sound impactful had it not been done better (and more succinctly) decades ago by one Marsha, who said: "Oh tell me why do we build castles in the sky?" [4]

Scott Mildenhall: If it were still the early '00s, Freya Ridings would have a million-selling album by now -- not quite as posh as Dido or Blunt, but close enough. Yet alas the David Grays have won, and you now have to be a gruff/rag and bone man to get even a fraction of the way there. But did Charlene Soraia go in vain? Not on this reckoning. Soaringly uneventful and satisfyingly unchallenging, it beds its way in with the radio-assisted persistence it aims for. [7]

Stephen Eisermann: There's something so satisfying about the tempo of this track and the way it plays with production throughout. Freya's lyrics are charming, if a tad generic, but her powerful voice, the backing vocals, and the born-again production take this song from simply nice to pretty dang good. [7]

Tim de Reuse: Thick, aggressively multi-tracked vocals that chant a triumphant chorus for over two minutes of a three-and-a-half minute tune over punchy drums and glamorous production -- it sounds wonderful, but it's one of those desserts you only need to take three bites of before you're full, you know? [6]

Alfred Soto: Kick drum often works as a chef's kiss, and in a live setting this percussion and Ridings' voice, which has Florence Welch's cottony thickness, would probably get me hopping. But the uplift gets phony fast. [4]

Kayla Beardslee: What would happen if you took one line from a Taylor Swift chorus, expanded it into an entire song, and layered Jess Glynne's voice (and face, kind of) over it? If "Castles" is anything to go by, the result would not be particularly remarkable. The verses show some promise, melody and strong beat mixing together well, but there's no nuance introduced to the sound when the chorus hits, just the same plodding drums and piano chords that get trotted out for most quasi-inspirational tunes like this. [3]

Iris Xie: Aside from the "whoa-oh"s at 2:02, this pretty much sounds like a Jess Glynne song except with rockier instrumentals cutting the edges of Ridings' vocals, like thumbs shredded on blunt cheese graters. It's a lament packaged as serrations, shoved down to the bottom of a mediocre clearance bin and covered in flimsy plastic wrap. Even the imagery of "building castles from the rubble of your love" is just agreeably nice, suitable for when you sit alone at the airport bar, nursing an overpriced cocktail, secretly begging for your flight to leave on time. "Castles" lacks true bite and ugliness that makes a triumphant sentiment worth the agony of transformation. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: More than a little Florence, in vocal heft and non-enunciation. (By repetition number six, which is reached quickly, the hook starts to sound like "castles! fruddaribbadadalove!" On the bright side, music teachers now have a tongue-twister besides "Many Mumbling Mice.") Also more than a little ABBA, specifically in the stately chorus ushered in by mopey verses; Google the lyrics without hearing the song, and you might mentally set them to drippy piano. And definitely more than a little -- so infinitely much more than a little -- fervent desire to please, from the piano breakdown, to the kick drum nagging like Navi, to the "Be My Baby" percussion interpolated twice, once way earlier than you'd expect or than would be most effective, as if the writers just couldn't wait to drop it in. It's all swelling and no pain. [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Freya Ridings #pop #music #music review #writing

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johncroc-blog · 6 years

Text

Banjos and Bows: Harmony and Survival in Deliverance

Ed Gentry, the main character and narrator in James Dickey’s novel Deliverance, states, “I liked hearing the sound of my voice in the mountain speech, especially in the dark; it sounded like somebody who knew where he was and knew what he was doing. I thought of Drew and the albino boy picking and singing in the filling station” (152-153). This statement comes at a critical moment in the novel, in which Ed is attempting to take control of the tragic situation and create a plan of action. Ed finds himself as the last-man-standing after Drew has been killed, Bobby has been sexually assaulted, and Lewis (the usual hyper-masculine leader of the club) has suffered a broken leg. As Anna Creadick says in her article “Banjo Boy: Masculinity, Disability, and Difference in Deliverance,” this is the “moment of Ed’s transformation” (72), the moment he attempts to internalize those characteristics that he admires so much in Lewis, natural masculine instinct and preparedness. As Lewis tells Ed, “survival was not in the rivets and the metal, and not in the double-sealed doors and not in the marbles of Chinese checkers. It was in me. It came down to the man, and what he could do. The body is the one thing you can’t fake; it’s just got to be there” (42). According to Lewis, then, it is the human body, specifically the male human body, that allows for survival and not things, which are simply tools to carry out the will of the human actor. The body can not be faked, according to Lewis, and must be there and ready for anything. Creadick also points to this privileging of the male body in the novel, stating, “Dickey aims to prove that it is not the capacity for love but the capacity for violence that makes men survive, that makes men men” (71).

Up until the passage that Creadick sees as Ed’s transformation, Ed has not been that instinctive, prepared, idealized man, but has instead been someone that prefers harmony. When discussing his career as a graphic designer, Ed states, “I liked harmoniousness and a situation where the elements didn’t fight with each other or overwhelm each other” (19). In the previously mentioned passage, Ed achieves this harmony with the surrounding wilderness, if only for a brief moment. Ed’s use of “the mountain speech” is what connects Ed to his environment, while at the same time giving him a sense of preparedness, “somebody who knew where he was and knew what he was doing.” It is also important to point out that Ed associates this brief moment of harmony with the brief harmonizing of Drew and Lonnie, the banjo boy. Ed, narrating, the musical collaboration, states,

Drew started in on “Wildwood Flower,” picking it out at medium tempo and not putting in many runs. Lonnie dragged on the rubber bands and slipped the capo up. Drew started to come on with the volume; the Martin boomed out and over the dusty filling station. I had never heard him play so well, and I really began to listen deeply, moved as an unmusical person is moved when he sees that the music is meant. After a little while it sounded as though Drew were adding another kind of sound to every note he played, a higher tinny echo of the melody, and then it broke in on me that this was the banjo, played so softly and rightly that it sounded like Drew’s own fingering [...] He eased out of the melody and played rhythm, and Lonnie took it. He emphasized nothing, but through everything he played there was a lovely unimpeded flowing that seemed endless. His hand, full of long scratches, took time; the fingers moved only slightly, about like those of a good typist; the music was just there. Drew cam)e back in the new key and they finished, riding together. For the last couple of minutes of the song, Drew slid down and went over and stood beside Lonnie. They put the instruments together and leaned close to each other in the pose you see vocal groups and phony folk singers take on TV programs, and something rare and unrepeatable took hold of the way I saw them, the demented country kid and the big-faced decent city man, the minor civic leader and hedge clipper.

There is a desire, a pull, to read this scene romantically, to see music/art as that which brings the native and non-native together in a moment of harmony. This desire is there because, according to Ed’s description and interpretation of Drew and Lonnie’s version the Carter family standard, there is a moment of harmony, a sound moment in which Ed cannot distinguish between Drew’s guitar and Lonnie’s banjo. However, if we read this scene in the context of the novel as a whole, Drew’s death, either by drowning or at the hands of a local, and Creadick’s idea that violence, not love, is necessary for survival, we see Drew’s music/art as a weakness, rather than a strength or method of survival. Also, it is important to take Ed’s desire and need for harmony, particularly during the banjo scene at the filling station, which is at the beginning of their down-river journey. Ed, like Drew, is an artist. The instruments that they use are meant to bring elements together in a harmonious relationship. Ed states, “If there was one thing I felt a reasonable certainty about, it was my ability to get the elements of a layout into some kind of harmonious relationship” (18).

One can read the journey down river as an attempt to achieve a harmonious relationship with nature, the wild, that which exists outside of society and the urban landscape in which the men live and work. While mapping out the journey, Lewis states, “all this in here will be blue. The dam at Aintry has already been started, and when it’s finished next spring the river will back up fast. This whole valley will be under water. But right now it’s wild. And I mean wild; it looks like something up in Alaska. We really ought to go up there before the real estate people get hold of it and make it over into one of their heavens” (3-4). However, there is also a desire to beat or dominate the natural landscape by conquering the wild river. Ed, when discussing Lewis’s drive and obsessions, states,

Lewis wanted to be immortal. He had everything that life could give, and he couldn’t make it work. And he couldn’t bear to give it up or see age take it away from him, either, because in the meantime he might be able to find what it was he wanted, the thing that must be there, and that must be subject to the will. He was the kind of man who tries by any means - weight lifting, diet, exercise, self-help manuals from taxidermy to modern art - to hold on to his body and mind and improve them, to rise above time. (9)

Unlike the guitar and banjo, the bow is Ed’s instrument of choice to survive and dominate the landscape. In a passage that can also be read as a transformative moment for Ed, he lies in the crevice of a stone as though he “were in a sideways grave” (169). As he wonders where he can start, Ed tells himself, “You can start with the bow, and work slowly into the situation, working back and working up. I held the bow as tightly as I could, coming by degrees into the realization that I was going to have to risk it again, before much longer. But not now. Let the river run” (170). The key to Ed’s survival, then, is his bow and not the human body, as Lewis suggests.

However, there is a relationship between Ed’s body and his bow. While we can read the relationship between Ed and his bow as one in which Ed acts and the bow reacts, in a later passage, in which Ed kills a local he believes to be the man hunting them, the arrow attached to the bow pierces his side. Ed states, “it was in me. In me. The flesh around the metal moved pitifully, like a mouth, when I moved the shaft [...] The shaft would come; I moved it through me a little more, and the wound changed. The bloody shaft was in my hands, and my side was oozing and pouring down the rock. I went down after it, the arrow still in my hands, and stood up. There had never been a freedom like it. The pain itself was freedom, and the blood” (195). This passage allows us to not only see the language of rape and homoeroticism that permeates the text, but also within this language there is a masochistic element that seems to give Ed a sense of freedom.

The freedom to control instead of mere hope. As Ed says, quoting Lewis, “we’ve got to do more than hope. Control, baby. It can be controlled. So give me back the story” (228).

#southernlitexamlist #Southern Literature #American literature #james dickey #deliverance

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trendingnewsb · 6 years

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The Problem Isnt Just Trump. Its Our Ignorant Electorate.

For many of us, mornings have taken on a certain nauseating sameness. We roll out from beneath the blankets and, before the scent of coffee has reached our nostrils, we are checking the news feeds for the latest semi-literate tweet coughed up by the ranting, traitorous squatter occupying the Oval Office.

The rest of the day is spent in a kind of horrified suspension, holding our breath, waiting for whatever outrage will inevitably belch forth from the White Houseonce a bastion of seriousness and decorum, now ground zero for the demise of western democracy. How many lies will Trump spew today? Which dictators will he suck up to? Will he smear a Gold Star family? Attack a woman who dares to call out his smarmy predations? Unveil a puerile, racist nickname for a Senator or member of his own cabinet?

As much as we loathe it, however sickening it might have become, every day seems all about him, a former game show host and real estate failure, a hawker of rot-gut vodka and bullshit degrees from a fraudulent University who once styled himself as the Donald. The cable news shows lead with his most recent flatulence, the op-ed pages brim with intimations of doom, late night comedians are having a field day.

He is the president and, thus, bears watching. But we would be mistaken to think that he is truly the center of our universe, a man with a plan, commanding the heights, directing the action.

Virulent as he may be, Donald J. Trump is a symptom not the disease. Without us, he would amount to nothing more than what he had always been before the bizzaro presidential election of 2016: a foppish narcissist desperate for any measure of affirmation; a joke; a nothing. He did not create his voters. They have been there all along, seething with sometimes justifiable anger and suffering their various insecurities. They created and enabled Trump. And make no mistake, in all their vulnerable humanity, they are us: Gullible, compliant, distracted, marinating in irony.

At root, we the people are the problem.

We are understandably reluctant to impugn the intelligence and integrity of our fellow citizens. It is arrogant, uncivil, bad form. Who are we, any of us, to hold ourselves superior? When Hillary Clinton referred to some Trump supporters as deplorables, she was roundly castigated on all sides. How dare she? Yet it is an uncomfortable reality that anywhere from a fifth to a third of our electorate can be fairly (if gently) described as low-information voters. If the results of numerous polls and questionnaires are to be trusted, they know very little about the world they inhabit and what they do know is often woefully incorrect.

Surveys conducted every two years by the National Science Foundation consistently demonstrate that slightly more than half of Americans reject the settled science concerning human evolution. They are not unaware that virtually all credible scientists accept the overwhelming evidence that we evolved from earlier species. They simply choose not to accept that consensus because it doesnt comport with their deeply held beliefs. Many also embrace the absurd notion that the earth is only six thousand years old. Astonishingly, in the early 21st century, around a quarter of our citizenry seems unaware that said earth revolves around the sun.

It is a mistake to regard concern about such ignorance as effete snobbery or elitist condescension. While misapprehensions about basic astronomy, earth science and biology may have little impact on these folks daily lives, does anyone actually believe that similarly uninformed views arent likely to affect their grasp of policies regarding, say, climate change? Income inequality? Gun violence? Immigration?

Profound knowledge gaps like the aforementioned reveal an inability to think critically and leave a person vulnerable to all manner of chicanery. We are all ignorant about many things. Dont get me started on my dismal grasp of mathematics! But the hallmark of a sound education is not glorying in what you think you know, but, instead, appreciating the vastness of what you dont know.

If ignorance is the key that opens the door for charlatans like Trump, improved education, whether in school or in the public square, would seem to provide an obvious solution. But here we confront the perverse Dunning-Kruger Effect identified by psychologistsessentially, the less we know, the more certain we become of our superior knowledge. We have also discovered that exposure to facts and evidence does not always have the expected impact. Many people, when confronted by irrefutable proof that some core belief is incorrect, dont change their minds but dig in their heels. What feels right to them must be right and no amount logic and reasoning will dissuade them. Emotion trumps evidence.

Not too long ago, I fell into conversation with a woman aboard an airplane. Our chat somehow turned to health care. She offered the opinion that people who couldnt afford health insurance didnt deserve medical services. Why should she pay for someones care when they were obviously too lazy to earn their own money?

Because Im my own kind of fool, I rose to the bait. Did that mean they should be allowed to die in the street? I wondered. Well, no, she said. That would be inhumane. They could always go to an emergency room. So she was willing to pay for their care, I observed, but only in the least efficient, most expensive manner. This gave her momentary pause, but she quickly regrouped, simply repeating her prior assertion: Why should she pay? I didnt ask who she planned to vote for in the then-upcoming presidential election, but given that she had also voiced the opinion that women were, by virtue of their gender, unqualified to be news anchors, Im guessing it wasnt Hillary Clinton or Jill Stein.

She is hardly the worst example of an unthinking voter. Bill Maher once invited onto his show former GM Executive Bob Lutz. One supposes that such a fellow has benefited from an adequate education and that hes open to reason. Yet, when the subject of climate change arose, Lutz denied it was happening. A bunch of nonsense as far as he was concerned.

As it happened, Maher had also invited Neil deGrasse Tyson, an astrophysicist, educator and Director of the Hayden Planetarium. Tyson patiently explained why Lutz was misinformed. The planet was warming. Humans were largely to blame. This is how we know.

You might expect an educated person to respond by at least engaging on the topic. Tyson was, after all, vastly more knowledgeable on the subject at hand. Had their roles been reversed, with the topic being cars, I have no doubt he would have deferred to the automaker, asking questions, trying to improve the state of his own knowledge. Not Lutz. You could see him shutting down before Tyson had even warmed to the topic (no pun intended). As Upton Sinclair famously put it, Its hard to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on him not understanding it.

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Anyone who has watched the focus groups of Trump voters has seen this sorry dynamic played out again and again. Everything, no matter how tawdry or malicious, is excused or minimized. You get the feeling these folks would accept the sexual molestation of teenage girls as a trade-off for Neil Gorsuch. In fact, many did in supporting Roy Moore.

Welcome to the Post-Truth Era.

Much has been written about the impact social media and the internet in general have had on how people receive and absorb information. By now, we are all familiar with bots, trolls, phony scandals and the tendency of folks to hunker down in their own info-silos. The old adage that a lie is halfway round the world before the truth gets its socks on has never been more salient.

Consider the recent attacks on one of the young Parkland shooting survivors. A teenager who had just witnessed classmates being gunned down at his own school quickly discovered that speaking up for common-sense gun regulation resulted in vicious trolling and the viral lie that he was a paid crisis actor. This was similar to what befell the grieving families of the small children murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012. Imagine waking one morning in a state of searing grief over the violent death of your baby to discover that some odious prankster like Alex Jones is telling his gullible audience that the whole tragic incident was staged, that your child was actually a paid performer doused in artificial gore and posed in a gruesome tableaux of death.

That Jones and his ilk have not been thoroughly shamed and driven from the public sphere says a lot about our growing tolerance for vile nonsense.

Trump did not invent Fake News. The Big Lie has been the stock in trade of con men and tyrants since time immemorial. But he understands its value. Alternative facts as his lickspittle factotum, Kellyanne Conway infamously put it, has long been his metier. Hes a bullshitter, a phony and now hes our president.

This shouldnt have happened. But we let it happen, though Trump did have plenty of help

Unsurprisingly, the Fox propaganda machine and any number of right-wing radio ranters enthusiastically clambered aboard the Trump Train. They were abetted by many in the mainstream media who, mindful that Trump lured eyeballs to advertisers and too timid to call him out as the carnival barker he so obviously was, went along for the ride. A number of Republicans in Congress dismissed him at first. But when it became clear he had a shot at winning and that his devotees comprised at least half of their party, they scurried to adopt him as their useful idiot.

Its true that we are not all equally culpable. Roughly three million more people voted for Trumps chief opponent. But the right-minded among us didnt do enough to forestall the plainly looming disaster. The proof of that is the Trump presidency itself.

So, if we in our various incarnations are the problem, then what is the solution? Is there any way out? Wed better hope so. Whats certain is that its on us. We made a wreck of our government and its up to us to fix it.

There are positive signs:

A once compliant media has begun to take the gloves off. Genuine conservatives, outraged that their movement has been hijacked by philistines, are sounding the alarm. People are rising up and calling BS. For every Sean Hannity there is a Rachel Maddow, Jake Tapper or even Shepard Smith (at Fox News, no less!). For every Paul Ryan, there is a David Frum or Max Boot. Frothing crowds at CPAC are countered by the #MeToo movement and impressively eloquent teenagers fed up with politicians of any stripe who cower before the gun industry. On a good day, a John McCain or Jeff Flake will stand up to the cringing accommodationists in their own party. And, of course, Donald Trump himself, along with his corrupt lackeys, face a formidable foe in the person of Robert Mueller.

NSA Director Admiral Mike Rogers recent testimony before the Senate Intelligence Committee should mark a turning point, though he merely confirmed what has been apparent for some time: that even as our nation is under attack from a Russia determined to subvert our democracy, the president has not directed any relevant agencies to defend the country. This is a violation of the oath Trump swore on inauguration day and smacks of treason. We have entered uncharted waters.

Whats clear is that we need to use all non-violent resources at our disposal to rid ourselves and our country of the dangerous infection spreading from the White House into our body politic. These are not normal times and our usual reflexes will no longer suffice.

Trump is a problem of our own creation. We must become the solution.

Ron Reagan is an author and political commentator who lives in Seattle and Arezzo, Tuscany.

Read more: https://www.thedailybeast.com/the-problem-isnt-just-trump-its-our-ignorant-electorate

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