#and even saying humphrey is a bit of a stretch

[natjennie]

the best part of bbc ghosts is that it's not just silly crazy zany ghosts and StraightFaced People having to put up with them like. the ghosts all sometimes hate each other too and alison and mike are just as bonkers as them sometimes. you must understand that in a muppet version of bbc ghosts like. humphrey's head would be the real person if anything. none of them are free from tomfoolery.

#even the so called Stick In the Mud ghosts cap and fanny #they're both equally insane and goofy #cap's hand binoculars and speaking German to Lucy and 'pom pom' #and fanny's obsession with randy books and her fascination with murder she wrote #none of them are normal in the least bit #bbc ghosts #and even saying humphrey is a bit of a stretch #I mean 'Mr cheese speaking' #and 'intruders.. guests? intruders. intruders!' #he's silly goofy too

[disreputes]

𓏲  *   ( courtney  eaton,  cis  woman,  she & her,  saoirse  ronan  cc  )   ⸺   pictures  of  KENDALL  'KEN’  SUMMERS,  the  twenty-seven  year  old  actor,  have  been  showing  up  all  over  my  feed,  and  considering  the  last  time  they  were  #trending,  it  was  due  to  her  latest  film  (massively)  underperforming  at  the  box  office  -  i’m  not  likely  to  unfollow  anytime  soon.  with  their  vintage  suede  bomber  jacket,  a  bright  green  crochet knit  striped sweater,  a  clashing  pair  of  distressed  patchwork  jeans,  and  thom  browne  bag,  they’ve  managed  to  garner  a  reputation  for  being  more  independent  than  headstrong.  their  critics  say  they’re  more  insecure  than  ambitious  when  they  aren’t  too  busy  focusing  on  curating  an  ever-changing  wardrobe  ;  jet-lagged,  sleepless  nights  flying  from  one  set  to  the  next  ;  hiding  away  a  constantly  buzzing  phone  filled  with  everybody  she’s  ignored  and  ghosted.  reputation.com  has  taken  to  calling  them  BLOCKBUSTER  in  order  to  avoid  a  lawsuit  (  again  ).

basic information

FULL NAME: kendall summers NICKNAME: ken, kenny AGE & DATE OF BIRTH: twenty-seven & april 12th (aries) GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis-woman & she/her BIRTHPLACE: perth, australia OCCUPATION: actress FACECLAIM: courtney eaton CHARACTER PARALLELS: helly (severance), eleanor shellstrop (the good place), roman roy (succession), charlotte hale (westworld), dan humphrey (gossip girl)

biography

PART ONE.

some people were never meant to be famous. kendall summers certainly didn’t plan on it. growing up watching movies on a television set that didn’t have cable on most days didn’t inspire her life as an actor. she was prepared for the eventuality of living and dying in her humble suburb just outside of perth

it started out as a bit role in romeo and juliet—an understudy to the lovestruck capulet herself. the school production was nothing more than something to keep kendall busy when class was over. when the lead got sick, ken found herself thrust into the spotlight for the first time in her life and, with it, a newfound passion for acting

after small-time commercial spots and bit parts in other local productions, her lucky break had almost come when she was up for a spot in a daytime soap opera. competing against a close friend who had come up alongside her, kendall narrowly lost the role—faking smiles and pleasantries as if it didn’t crush her. the rejection made kendall all the more determined to make it big, vowing to herself that she wouldn’t lose out to any other actors who didn’t come close to the talent she had in her pinky finger

PART TWO.

the casting call for atonement seemed like a far shot. hundreds of people, hoping for the same break, waited for the call that kendall was lucky enough to receive. her first production in a hollywood film was a step on a very tall ladder she was eager to climb. the performance landed her a few notable nominations and, more importantly, was the breakthrough role she’d worked so hard for. while her friends back in perth were busy attending summer camp, kendall was walking red carpets with the likes of meryl streep

and, sure, “friends” were a stretch. what little she did have could be counted on one hand. she had given up her childhood to pursue a career as an actor, spending more time with producers than kids her own age. did it matter? with her star on the rise, kendall landed more roles in action flicks, dramas, and even voice acting spots here and there. she might have had little in a life outside of acting, but a thousand other girls were waiting in the wings to take her place should she choose otherwise. giving up to go back to her shoebox bedroom with her tail tucked between her legs was not an option

twilight, hunger games, divergent—young adult franchises had the world in a chokehold. despite her agent’s protests, kendall pushed for the lead in what was once thought to be the new hit series, the host. the only thing standing in her way was a familiar face she’d come up against once before—the very girl she’d lost the role to all those years back. while kendall was a natural shoo-in for the part, she wasn’t going to let things up to chance

tmz, perez, and just about every gossip outlet had caught wind of the news leaked about the rival actress… all thanks to kendall herself. in an instant, the other girl’s reputation had taken a nosedive and, with it, any hope of landing the lead in the upcoming movie. kendall summers was on top of the world

that was, until the host tanked. hard. critics and fans alike were quick to point fingers at kendall’s performance and many wondered if she had the acting chops to follow through into more mature roles. as bad as it was, it did little to deter her. rotten tomatoes could eat shit, for all she cared

PART THREE.

kendall put her blockbuster dreams on the back burner—for the moment. she instead turned her attention towards independent films and prestige projects. standout performances in the grand budapest hotel and lady bird had even gotten her an in with well-known directors. slowly but surely, she got back into the good graces of the general audience as their beloved indie darling

she made a name for herself in historical dramas and, as much as she loved the praise, getting type-cast was a career nightmare. while her contemporaries were getting cast in exciting sci-fi films and fun romcoms, she was stuck in a pattern she was desperate to break out of

most people would have killed to have something like little women on their resume. even kendall was shocked that something like that could happen to a girl like her. but, as the dust settled, she knew that her social capital was on the rise

behind her agent’s back, she signed on to do a marvel movie—revitalizing the fantastic four franchise as sue storm. she was convinced that the film would finally make her the bonafide a-lister that she had always wanted to be

despite the staggering budget and endless press, the movie bombed yet again. not only did fans call out its sorry attempt at an adaptation, but the production had been chaos from the start. a rotating cast of directors, a script that had been constantly rewritten, and a never-ending list of complaints that she was somehow “difficult” to work with. safe to say that it was not the breakout role she was hoping for. what did the universe have against her? was it karma? retribution? 

whatever the case, kendall finds herself at a standstill. does she go back to the period pieces that had slowly sucked the life out of her or sell her soul to whatever comic book franchise they’re going to reboot for the hundredth time? she has since taken a break from doing any more projects, despite her agency and collaborators calling her constantly to pick up a script

sooner or later, kendall summers has to answer the phone. here’s hoping it’s not the cw this time

extras

fun facts

moved to los angeles at a fairly young age so her australian accent is barely noticeable. moved to new york once she got older, but goes back and forth for work

loves thrifting and second-hand clothing. she can afford the nicer things now that she has the money for it, but still likes vintage clothes more than designer… unless they’re paying her

has finstas and fake fan accounts to see what people (fans) are saying about her. has been known to drop an inside joke during interviews and posts here and there

notoriously awkward to interview even though she has all the media training in the world

lost an award to another famous actress. proceeded to call the cops (anonymously, of course) on said actress’s after-party out of spite

traits

+ bold, ambitious, observant, grounded, thoughtful

– impulsive, self-sabotaging, spiteful, vindictive, egotistical

#kendall summers — threads. #kendall summers — musings. #kendall summers — photo. #wealth.intro

[somethingvinyl]

Roxy & Elsewhere is the first live album by this iteration of the Mothers, but of course the distinction between live albums and studio ones is considerably more porous when it comes to Zappa. This is another of my absolute favorite FZ records. Each side starts with Frank talking for a bit, then launches into some of the most amazing, batshit crazy music he ever recorded. The lyrics are more absurdist fun—monster movies in Cheepnis, a disgusting bus in Pygmy Twylyte (often the song I reach for to show an uninitiated listener what Zappa is like), nostalgia in Village of the Sun, and the obvious in Penguin in Bondage. But it’s the instrumentals that are the star of the show on this one. We’ve got the vital core group: George Duke, Ruth Underwood, Tom Fowler on bass, the double attack of Chester Thompson and Ralph Humphrey on drums. (As if that isn’t enough, on some later-released tracks from these shows, Zappa goes and plays percussion in the back for a stretch, meaning four percussionists playing at a time—he was best when writing for percussion!) For extra flavor, you’ve got more Fowler brothers on horns, and the incredible Napoleon Murphy Brock on lead vocals and woodwinds. Truly the best of Zappa’s lineups.

The “Roxy” portion of the album is from the band’s December 1973 residency at the Roxy between releasing Over-Nite Sensation and Apostrophe. The “Elsewhere” portion is from early 1974–FZ had prepped a bunch of songs from the original Mothers of Invention to play a concert in honor of the first anniversary of that band forming, and he liked a couple of the renditions so much he added them to the regular set—that’s the back half of side 3.

In the very first monologue of the album, FZ says something about getting this concert on television. Of course my ears perked up hearing this for the first time 15 years ago—this was FILMED! I went searching immediately, but was disappointed: something had gone wrong with the footage and it was unusable. Zappa tried again about a year later, resulting in the television special now known as A Token of His Extreme (also worth watching). Then just a few years ago, incredible news: after years of work, they’d managed to sync the disastrously variably-speeded Roxy video with the audio, and it was released as Roxy the Movie. It’s an incredible show, but also one that left me lightly scandalized by how much studio overdubbing Zappa had done on the original album. Bruce Fowler (trumpet) WASN’T EVEN AT THE CONCERT—the only horn on the stage was Walt on trombone! But now there’s a wealth of Roxy material out there: if you like the original album, you’ve got to hear Roxy by Proxy, which collects a lot of the most essential Roxy material that wasn’t on R&E. And if you’re an obsessive like me, you can now stream the complete Roxy shows—all the nights, early set and late set, and some rehearsals. An absolute embarrassment of riches. That plus The Helsinki Concert that I mentioned in the Apostrophe post, which is from a slightly stripped down version of this ensemble and might be FZ’s single greatest recorded set…

If you’re thinking the live album is going to be the weak link in this band’s output, you haven’t heard this album. I think the stretch from Over-Nite Sensation to One Size Fits All is probably the best four-album stretch in his career, and Roxy & Elsewhere more than pulls its weight!

#frank zappa #vinyl

[rubyroth]

a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist

Summary: It's a new year. Cupid and Briar talk during True Hearts Day preparations, and Briar learns an unexpected truth.

Notes: This is a bit of an unfocused Cupid/Briar oneshot inspired by this post (and its comments) by @rappled. Don't worry too much about canon. But do brush up on the story of Eros and Psyche, otherwise the things Cupid says will make no sense.

OSP has a decent video summary. If you want to dig into version from around the same time as when many other classic fairy tales were popularized (i.e. the early to mid 1800s), try the one in The Age of Fables by Thomas Bulfinch. (TL;DR: Eros and Psyche has the same folkloric classification as Beauty and the Beast)

---

Celebration of True Hearts Day is technically still forbidden at Ever After High, but Headmaster Milton Grimm's vigilance has waned now that the Storybook of Legends is no more, and his brother Giles has a soft spot for minor rebellion. It's all the excuse Briar and Cupid need to plan a party even bigger than the last.

They're working in Briar and Ashlynn's dorm, when conversation takes a turn to romantic gossip. Nothing serious, of course. Just harmless stuff: speculation on if Ginger's swooning over the White Knight has transferred over to Darling; debate how one of the cheerhexers and Humphrey started dating; cooing over how sweet Ashlynn and Hunter are together. Harmless, until it's not.

"What about you, Briar?"

A lance of cold dread spikes down Briar's spine. "What about me?"

Innocent, guileless Cupid smiles, unaware of the emotional bear trap she dances around. "Any romance in your life?"

"Nah, I haven't had the time to even think about it." Liar, liar, liar. Thoughts and nightmares of her destined prince circle around her head endlessly.

"Love can't be rushed," Cupid says with a nod. They go back to planning. And that should have been the end of that.

Except Cupid must of had some sense of Briar's lie because Cupid starts looking at her like a puzzle that needs to be solved. Not overtly. Not all the time. Only when the topic of love comes up, but it comes up all the time with True Hearts Day on the horizon.

And, worst of all, something strange and unfamiliar blooms in her chest whenever she feels the weight of Cupid's pretty sky-blue eyes on her.

---

Briar finds Cupid in her studio after her Mirror Cast, head on her desk and groaning. "That bad of a show?"

"Too many callers asking if I can just magic their love life together in time for True Hearts Day." Cupid sighs. "They should know by now I don't condone that sort of thing. Love happens, when it happens!"

Or when destiny demands it, but Briar isn't going to add her angst to the page here.

"Besides," She gets up and stretches. Her wings flex and Briar wonders if they would be soft to the touch. "I don't know if my arrows would have any unexpected side effects if mixed into a fairy tale."

"Like, you think I'd fall asleep instead of falling in love if I pricked a finger on one of your arrows?"

"Hmmm." Her blue gaze heavy on Briar's shoulders. "You're a Beauty both by name and appearance"--(Cupid thinks Briar is beautiful?)--"so you'd get written into my story, I think. Though my mom is way more mellow than Aunt Aphrodite, so I'm not sure--"

"Wait a spell! What do you mean, I'd 'get written into your story'? I thought your whole destiny was just making people fall in love. That's what Maddie saw during Thronecoming last year!"

"I guess the Storybook of Legends didn't want to attract the attention of the gods by recreating their likenesses. Or maybe it couldn't handle a Beauty and the Beast-like tale for someone who isn't Rosabella?" Cupid shrugs, as if she's not completely upending Briar's world on its axis.

Endless questions bubble in Briar's throat, only for the chime of a MirrorPhone to remind her why she had come to Cupid in the first place. "Oh hex, we have to get to the main hall to get our order before Headmaster Grimm has a chance to see it."

But the thoughts take root, and begin to grow.

It's unfair, she knows, but Briar didn't think highly of Cupid's love advice, before. How could Cupid advise the students of Ever After on how to pursue love despite destiny, when she couldn't possibly know the feeling of being in destiny's snare? Of knowing destiny's match-making ways?

Briar turns around the information she learned today over and over. But Cupid does know, and Briar doesn't know what to make of it.

---

Briar blurts it out while they're putting up decorations up at the Red Shoes club, like an idiot. "What is your story, anyway?"

Cupid laughs. "I'm surprised it took you this long to ask. It looked like you were going to burst all day!"

"Sorry! But I couldn't stop thinking about what you said and--it's not secret isn't it?"

"Nope! It's pretty simple. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, who was destined to love a monster neither the gods nor mortals could resist."

"Are you saying…you would be the monster?" Oh Godmother this makes her head hurt. "But you're like, super pretty! One of the most gorgeous girls in school!"

"Aw, I'm happy you think so Briar." Cupid leans in close. Briar's heart hammers in her chest. Then pretty, gorgeous, mischievous Cupid plants a kiss right on Briar's cheek. "Flattery will get you far."

#ever after high #roth writes

[slime-quest]

You brace yourself, holding Godrender pointed towards the wild void that just swiped at you. It staggers backwards from the beacon between you, a shuddering clicking sort of moan of pain issues from it as the cracks of blue white energy slowly fade from its flesh.

You stretch out a hand to it, focussing on the PULL spell. Your hand clasps into a fist and yanks backwards hard, and the wild void is drawn rapidly forward towards you and into the beam. (1d10 = 10) [spells 3/5

You hold your ground, your sword firmly grasped in your hand. You thrust the weapon out to meet them over the beacon and the Voidkin slams into the blade, sinking down to the hilt. It's dark blood pours onto the ground and almost completely coats Godrender.

The beacon hisses and crackles over Godrender's crystal body, and with a loud CRACK, the blade splits in two, turns inside out--

--and then slams closed over the wild void, swallowing them entirely.

You have ensnared the whole of a wild void.

Godrender's body begins to seal back into a solid piece. "Untethered wretch, find comfort in the quiet of oblivion." [1d10 = 5] Godrender's eye flushes red as dark fingers slip through the cracks of Godrender's new maw and begin to attempt to pry it open as their blood pours out in sheets. They are trapped, but not defeated.

The wild void Tricky attacked is on their feet again and attempts to swipe at the smaller slime. [1d10 = 1] It stumbles unsteadily towards Tricky, woozy from the heavy damage, and just misses swiping at them. Tricky sidesteps easily and thrusts their rapier towards them again.

[2d10 = 7, 7] The blade sinks into the wild void. They shriek in agony, but this time they grasp the hilt with both of their hands, holding Tricky close.

The wild void stares at Tricky with that enormous angry eye, lifting them up in the air. Tricky struggles to escape as their eye begins glowing brighter and brighter, until suddenly a blinding explosion blasts from their face, pushing the two of them away from one another.

The wild void falls to the earth, while Tricky is knocked back several feet, landing with a muffled thud in the grass. Their flesh is steaming and bubbling from the heat as they stumble to their feet again. Their rapier is still lodged in the wild void's chest.

You are a slime named Mirrow. You're trying very hard not to think about the last time you were in a fight with the void. You wanted to be brave after all these years, but this is freaking you out a little bit. [1d10 = 9] You're good. This is totally different! These are just guys, no biggy. You've even got a big sword this time. You didn't have one before. It's even bigger than the one that killed you.

You look up at the core. The tendrils wrapped around it are thin, the small caps growing out of it aren't large enough to be of much use. But maybe you can pull on a little magic to help out.

You climb on top of Nemo's shelves and leap onto the core. Humphrey watches you. They look tense. "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry about it, I wanna just see if I can help us out." You clamber up onto the core and examine the space. The void sword embedded inside is humming at a similar frequency to Godrender. You can faintly hear the mutterings of thought from the mushrooms.

You reach out, carefully wrapping your fingers around the hilt of the sword. Your mind focuses on the Sigil of Sight as you grasp it. [1d10 = 7] It fills your mind once again, those voices, whispering, murmuring, soft, sweet, gentle, hushes of comfort and care. You can't make out anything they're saying, but you feel reassured by their tone.

You cry out in pain as your core pulses powerfully through your body, burning up a significant amount of your tail. For just a moment it feels as tho time has frozen, and in that instant you can see faint connections linking the wild void to you and Tricky, and further, tho faint, you can see something leading into the depths of the lake. It feels familiar, like what you experience while fighting Mirrow in the caves. Faint whispering fills your mind, hurried secrets of the thoughts of your assailants.

[SIGIL OF SIGHT is an expensive power granted you by the mushrooms slowly growing inside you. While active it allows you to predict what your foes are going to do moments before it happens. Attacks made against you have disadvantage for a very short time.] [You've activated some mushroom powers. Things might get a little weird.]

#slimequest #intermission 1

[robthegoodfellow]

August 16, 2018

It was Robin who’d gotten them the tickets, a gift for their tenth anniversary—and it was so typically Robin to force them to listen to something she liked, in the guise of a present, no less, rather than, say, pick an artist either of them liked.

To be clear, it wasn’t that they didn’t like Brandi Carlile—it was that they’d never even heard of Brandi Carlile, and typically Billy preferred having some level of familiarity with a musician before sitting through a live show. He’d meant to look up her stuff, but things had been busy at the house training a hapless probie, and busy at the bungalow with the new addition, and so he’d forgotten until Harrington had tapped the tickets clipped to the fridge, asked whether he’d double-checked he was off—SDFD had them rotate days every couple months, and he’d long given up trying to master when his husband was on call.

Harrington didn’t need to check his schedule, the bastard, because he’d had summers free for ages, ever since getting that spiffy degree in Elementary Ed. Not that Billy could really complain—the 3/4 life suited him just fine.

Buck had sworn it’d be a pretty kid-friendly crowd—why else would she have bought them four and not two?—and so they’d decided to make a day of it. The last month ahead of school starting up was half over already, and this would be their last chance for a big family hang before it all got hectic again.

After a late breakfast, they’d packed up the van and headed to La Jolla Shores for a few hours—Lils had hoped to see some leopard sharks, like they had last year, but no dice—then trundled on down to Shelter Island for dinner before the show. Nothing fancy, just Fathom Bistro for burgers and hot dogs; Teddy had gorged himself on edamame. They’d even had time to wander over to the playground for a bit, though the kids had honestly been more entertained by the Tunaman’s Memorial—three guys with comically long rods sprouting from their crotches, hauling in a massive floundering fish from the ground.

By quarter of, they'd made it to their seats at Humphrey's by the Bay—toward the front of Section B, the last four in the row, because Robin was the kind of genius to factor in frequent bathroom trips for small bladders. Scanning the crowd, he saw a few other families with kids, a smattering of straight couples, a fair number of gay dudes, some people who were operating outside of the limited identity boxes he’d grown up with… but mostly it was just—lesbians, young and old. Lesbians everywhere.

Thanks to extreme exposure therapy, Billy’s youthful fear of WLWs was a thing of the distant past, but this was the highest concentration he’d witnessed since they’d visited Buck at Bryn Mawr in the late 80s… thirty fucking years ago—how was that even possible.

He snorted, shaking his head, and met Harrington’s gaze over the pipsqueaks swinging their feet between them.

“Pennsylvania?” Harrington guessed, and Billy nodded. “Don’t worry, honey.” A patronizing pat, his arm stretched along the back of the seats. “I’ll protect you from any mean lesbians.”

“Lesbians aren’t mean!” protested Lils, way too loud, and Billy choked on a laugh as Harrington flushed, ducking his head to glance around, and a lock of brown shot through with grey fell across his face.

God, that face. They sure had changed since that ridiculous trip out east—more lines, more moles from all that California sun damage, the subtle, ruddy moreness of breadth and angles that distinguished young adulthood from middle age—but that face still caught him the way it had when they were teens. Likewise with the legendary hair; Billy frankly adored the salt and pepper look, especially since Harrington had let it grow shoulder-length in thick, shaggy waves. And when he tied it back, fuck…

The eyes were the same—same deep dark that shone with light—the only difference the crow’s feet that sparked from the corners.

Content they hadn’t earned the ire of nearby sapphics, Harrington turned, clocked Billy staring like a besotted fool, and winked, the cheeky shit.

“Pop,” said Teddy, pointing to the thicket of masts moored in the harbor, off to the left of the empty stage. “Will the boats listen to the concert?”

“Maybe,” Billy answered. “They won’t be able to see anything, but anyone out there could probably listen in.”

“Boats can’t listen,” argued Lils. “They don’t have ears.”

“Birds don’t have ears,” Ted declared, with the flat certainty of a soon-to-be kindergartener one month into an intense avian phase. “And they can hear.”

Lils whirled to Harrington, silently demanding backup, and Billy smirked, left them to it. All in all, their girl had adjusted to having a sibling pretty well, when the second adoption had gone through, but she still struggled with little brother types refuting her sovereign authority.

Earless boats aside, the venue was downright gorgeous—an intimate array of seats all on an expanse of mown grass, with a modest performance space ringed by palm trees and blue sky. He could easily picture more low-key acts being right at home here: folksy bluesy stuff, maybe some more classic country, some confessional pop, introspective rock. Definitely not a space he would’ve stepped foot in thirty years back.

A little before seven, Teddy smushed his chin into Billy’s arm, mumbled that he had to pee, so they’d trekked to the bathrooms by the bar. At the kid’s worried frown, Billy’d patiently planted himself outside the stall—Ted had a weird phobia of someone bursting in on him when he was on the can, and it sometimes took a while for stream to hit porcelain.

Outside, he heard muffled raucous cheers met by a twangy, aw-shucks voice over the loudspeakers.

When Billy finally lifted Ted up to reach the sink, they made silly faces at each other in the mirror. “You win,” he conceded, after Ted sucked in his cheeks to make his lips pucker like a fish.

Carlile was mid-opener by the time they’d resettled in their seats—or rather Billy did; Ted instead clambered into his lap, his narrow back against Billy’s chest, legs dangling. Billy secured him there with his hands linked over the kid’s stomach, the way they often watched movies in the den, and soon enough small fingers were tracing the lines of his tattoos.

Under the set lights, Carlile and two identical bald men were crooning a tune to acoustic guitar, just the vibe Billy had predicted: sweetly sad, slow with a gradual build—alt country with all three layering their vocals, woven in a way he always found mesmerizing. It was a song about forgiveness, about gratitude after heartbreak.

If they’d kept on in this vein, Ted woulda been asleep in T minus ten—but they both sat up straighter when, a few songs in, the trio launched into a rollicking rock number that had Harrington laughing, its lyrics laced with irony—demanding liberation from individuality so as to blend into the masses. Owned and controlled, a twisted social victory.

That subversion of expectations was a pattern in the songs so far, he’d noticed, and something that would earn her major favors with Harrington, who had never landed on a favorite genre, per se, so much as a general preference for tracks that surprised him—for clever turns of phrase and just… narrative songwriting. The guy liked a story, or, failing that, a sense of humor. If you could do both, you were gold in his book.

It didn’t take long for Billy to understand Robin’s confidence that they’d both dig this chick: Carlile could do it all—had the kind of raspy, husky tone that Buck knew Billy had a soft spot for, a voice that meandered through the musing folksy stuff so well, but could turn on a dime and belt, or trill falsetto, or just rock the fuck out. She switched instruments constantly, sometimes mid-verse—acoustic to electric guitar, piano. She jammed so hard she snapped a strap, to the crowd’s delight.

Lils had been swaying or bouncing in her seat, in accordance with the pace of the band, and singing whatever bits of the chorus she’d mastered by the end of every number, nudging Harrington to join her—not that he needed much encouragement.

Carlile had been indulging in the usual brief banter between songs, joking around with the twins, the other musicians, eliciting chuckles or cheers from her very receptive audience. She was a charmer, but without a bit of ostentation—had dressed simply in black slacks and a dark cowboy button-up with a contrasting panel down the front and on each shoulder. Her brown hair fell loose and tousled just below her chin. It was a whole different variety of I woke up like this.

The sun was setting over the water when she paused to introduce her symmetrical guitarists, who’d been grooving beside her right along, providing backup vocals as needed. They were Phil and Tim—fan favorites, if the whistles and hollers were anything to go by.

“We’ve been in the band together comin’ up on seventeen, eighteen years,” Carlile shared, and waited for the cheers to die down. “Traveling together for such a long time. We met in Seattle, Washington, where we’re from—” A smattering of whoops, and she smiled, flashed the cute gap between her front teeth. “—and the thing that—brought us together in that city was… our love of three-part harmony and the fact that nobody else was really doing it in the late 90s. And uh, we’re gonna sing you guys a song in our native tongue. Feel free to sing along, huh? You’ve probably heard us do it a couple times before.” The crowd affirmed, and over the excited shouts—clearly most of them knew what was coming—she finished: “It’s called ‘The Eye.’”

It was the kind of stripped down where Billy knew from the first note that he was really in for it. The three stood, each at their own mic, empty-handed but for the twin gently plucking an acoustic, Carlile in the middle.

It was… delicate. At first.

Then they sang, and it was as she promised—a three-part harmony so generous and resonant that every word reverberated in the gut, the chest, the mind, wherever the soul resided. They coulda been singing nonsense, or some language he didn’t know, and it still would’ve hit him pretty hard. He couldn’t explain it, but ever since he… returned, all those years ago, something about humans coming together this way, intertwining themselves with sound, kinda… tore him apart and stitched him up at the same time.

You know when something’s just—so beautiful it hurts?

It really breaks my heart to see a dear old friend Go down to the worn-out place again

And fuck he sorta wished it were gibberish, because that was all it took, and what was swirling to the forefront wasn’t something he liked to process in public, no matter how old, no matter the peace he’d found.

He closed his eyes, breathed deep, braced himself.

That manic giggle, before everything went to shit, his dark mop hunched over the Warlock. Years down the line, sallow skin, dark eyes vacant—so far out of reach.

Do you know the sound Of a closing door Have you heard that sound before Do you wonder if she knows you anymore

Ma shutting him up in his bedroom so he couldn’t hear what Neil was doing to her. Later shutting herself up, claiming she needed a nap, really needing to sleep off one too many. That dawning horror when he knew he was trapped, would never go live with her, thought maybe, in his lowest moments, that she hadn’t… wanted him enough.

Music sure did have a way of making things fresh, blowing the dust off, bright and searing.

I wrapped your love around me like a chain But I never was afraid that it would die You can dance in a hurricane But only if you're standing in the eye

He swallowed a desperate, relieved chuckle, lungs working a bit easier as his thoughts shifted to better things—his best thing. Harrington, so young and free with his affection, leaning up against Billy outside of The Hideout on their first date, comparing him to that Scorpions song… bashfully pleased when Billy had called him the eye of the storm—the stable center.

A familiar grip cupped the nape of his neck, and he adjusted his hold on Ted to reach back, lay a hand over Harrington’s.

Where did you learn to walk Where did you learn to run Away from everything you loved

Billy tapped his ring on that skin, felt a responding tap, or an attempt—more a rub, stroking against the grain of the hair shorn so close to the scalp.

He couldn’t help but marvel, because here he was, just past fifty, ten years into a fucking marriage with the love of his life—ten out of thirty-four together, give or take those months where he was kinda dead, and he’d never run from it, despite having learned well how to, when to, why to…

And he hadn’t. Thank fucking God.

Did you think the bottle Would ever ease your pain Did you think that love's a foolish game Did you find someone else to take the blame

Obviously, it hadn’t been perfect all the time—or… ever, because perfection was for chumps—but he’d been selective in which set of his mother’s footsteps he’d followed, hyper vigilant in never touching a toe on the path Neil had laid out for him. Been too scared of fucking it up that he stopped drinking entirely, those first years with the kids, had barely gone back to drinking even socially—and left all discipline to Harrington, early on, which wasn’t fair, and they were still working on that. They were.

But he was doing good, he thought, letting go of Harrington to hug Ted to his chest with both arms—felt as much as he heard him sigh, utterly relaxed, and knew he was.

I wrapped your love around me like a chain But I never was afraid that it would die You can dance in a hurricane But only if you're standing in the eye

Harrington was still gripping his neck, a bit compulsively now, and he wondered whether he missed the curls. Billy had cut it short when the longer hair had only emphasized how badly he was thinning up top—might ultimately shave it completely. Seemed to work for Wonder Twins onstage, so why not him?

He was a bit heavier set, though—so maybe it’d be more of a Bruce Willis vibe. Years of busting his ass for the fire department had built him into a brick shithouse. And it worked for him—sure as fuck worked for Harrington—'cause he liked rolling through life with that thickness, an overall solidity that lent weight to his every motion and word.

Back before he clipped his mane, they’d seen a lion lumbering around at the San Diego Zoo, its limbs tawny trunks, shoulders shifting lazily as it moved, and Harrington had split his sides laughing—oh my God, it’s YOU—and Billy had bided his time until they reached the sea otters, then exacted his revenge: What was it that twink at the beach called you, babe?

Yeah—the day Harrington stopped manscaping had been the start of its own wonderful adventure. And he meant that sincerely—no snark.

You can dance in a hurricane But only if you're standing in the eye

Billy exhaled, immersed in simple, happy moments, and when Harrington squeezed, he glanced over finally, hoping to reassure, nod the okay—and his stomach dropped.

Harrington was barely keeping it together: shining eyes locked on the performers, unblinking so as not to send tears cascading, lips sucked in, clamped in his teeth. He was controlling his breathing so carefully, so slow through the nose, that he seemed not to breathe at all.

Fuck, Billy was the worst—so far up his ass, lost in his shit, that he’d never stopped to consider how Harrington might be having his own difficulties for entirely different reasons—that Harrington might not have been reaching to comfort him, but had been silently asking to be comforted.

I am a sturdy soul And there ain't no shame In lying down in the bed you made Can you fight the urge to run for another day You might make it further if you learn to stay

“Oh, babe,” he murmured. Holding Ted steady, Billy scooted them onto the empty neighboring seat, close enough to keep one arm around their kid and loop the other around Harrington’s shoulders, clutch at his head, tilt their foreheads together, a confused Lils squished between them. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Harrington gasped, shuddering, a wet sound, and nodded, kept stroking the prickly scalp like if he stopped, Billy would disappear.

…Because he had, that once, seemingly for keeps.

And supernatural bullshit aside, it was, after all, a minor miracle that they’d made it out of the 80s with their immune systems intact. That he made it out of Neil’s. That he’d always made it home from the firehouse.

The combined weight of those miracles was a real strain, when they stopped to think about it too much.

I wrapped your love around me like a chain But I never was afraid that it would die You can dance in a hurricane But only if you're standing in the eye

The kids watched, rapt, as the tears trailed down Harrington’s cheeks, even as he smiled at the kisses Billy pressed there.

“Why is Daddy sad?” asked Teddy, peering from one parent to the other.

“Just big feelings,” said Billy, rubbing his son's side.

“A big wave?” Lils wondered, curious, deploying the shorthand they’d taught her. She’d never witnessed either of her dads swamped this way—how she sometimes got so overwhelmed with clamorous emotion that she cried.

“Yep,” confirmed Harrington, clearing his throat, treading toward composure. “Big wave.”

“How big?” Teddy again—skeptical.

“Dunno,” said Harrington, calmer, taking deep lungfuls. “Seven footer, at least.”

Billy huffed, tightened his fingers in the long hair streaked with grey.

You can dance in a hurricane But only if you're standing in the eye

It wasn’t just Harrington, he realized. Wasn’t just Harrington who was the eye. He—Billy—was Harrington’s eye, wasn’t he? Had grown in fits and starts into the role, maybe, even if he’d never thought of himself that way. Would probably be better if he made it a conscious designation.

He leaned in, kissed the lips he’d loved for so long, part apology, part promise.

They spent the rest of the concert like that—Ted cuddled on Billy’s lap, Lils cradled between them, their fathers’ arms keeping the whole corral as one.

Buck had to have known—right? She must’ve, though Billy couldn’t ever remember telling her about—everything. She knew bits and pieces. Apparently, just enough.

When the show wound to a close, Carlile had a couple new life-long fans, and Billy a new insight on his husbandly duties.

Lils took pride in staying awake as late as the adults. She was a big kid, you know. But Teddy had passed out during this lullaby ode, mother to daughter, which had been a reckoning in and of itself, so he carried him back to the van when it was all over, managed to buckle him into the booster seat without disturbing him. Lils insisted on grappling with the seatbelt on her own, and they let her.

He held Harrington’s hand the whole way home.

#please indulge me #while i test this #*enhanced* formatting #of a sappy kid fic #song fic #never woulda guessed #that i'd finally start writing again #and it's all fucking #SONG FICS #wtf #harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #P.S. #there's a reason he still calls him harrington #i have a headcanon for it #i swear

[myragewillend]

I read this Omori theory about the three great creatures representing the three main friends and I thought it was interesting to think about. You have the oldest, the wisest and the favorite. It seems obvious that Hero would be the oldest, and Kel would be the favorite, making Aubrey the wisest. This also matches them gender-wise.

"The last and favorite, the BIG YELLOW CAT, was chosen to watch over the DREAMER's most precious room. He remains the DREAMER's favorite even to this day... watching diligently... waiting for something to happen."

You can make the strongest case for Kel, who is the one waiting in the real world for Sunny to come out of his shell. He is the only one to keep trying to reach out to Sunny, and in headspace, the one who makes sure to be caught immediately in the game of hide and seek, so Omori doesn't have to be alone and he can watch over him. He is also the only one you ever spend time with without others in the party, both in the real world and in headspace, and Kel is the only one who can give Omori the happy state during battle without the use of a skill or item (by passing the ball to him). And of course, in headspace, the big yellow cat is in a room called... the neighbor's room. Lastly, I've heard it said that the room in black space that has the cat in it also has cactuses; Kel's plant, according to Basil.

"The wisest, against her reason, committed an act that opposed the DREAMER's will. It is an act that is not even known to me. As a result, she was stripped of her wisdom and banished to isolation... a special prison somewhere deep, deep down."

I haven't completed the hikikomori route, so I haven't run into the wisest creature yet. But I would argue that the act the wisest committed is the act of reminding Sunny of the truth. Real life Aubrey is the only one to keep visiting Mari's grave, to keep the photo album (and undo Sunny's destruction to it) and to basically want to keep the memory alive. She dyes her hair pink, something she intended to do together with Mari. Where Hero leaves, Basil retreats and Kel pretends all is fine in order to move on, Aubrey is the one pushing the truth into their faces. As a result, feeling neglected by the others, she ends up alone and isolated. While I'm not sure if I'd call Aubrey the wisest, you could say she's the most emotionally savvy one, understanding people's feelings quite well and in headspace always caring deeply for other characters' hurt. As for the creature, a bit of trivia on the wiki states that "Abbi has an unused skill titled COUNTER TENTACLE SETUP, which would work similar to that of Aubrey's COUNTER skill."

"The oldest is alive, but not the same as he once was. Age has removed his conscience and he has evolved into a parasite within himself. He lives here, just beyond this cavern."

Linking Hero to Humphrey is a bit of a stretch beyond him being the oldest, but perhaps his depression after losing Mari could be considered the parasite that infested and changed him, and why this creature lives in a deep, dark cavern. Plus, despite Humphrey being parasitic (or filled with parasites, either way), he presents himself with that eternal smile, an extreme version of what Hero is doing. Someone else pointed out that Humphrey being filled with science themes, particularly medicine, is a connection to him as well, given that Hero is studying to be a doctor. And Hero is the one feeding the group, and Humphrey... well... though that might be too much of a reach.

Lastly, the first letters of each of the three creatures' names correlates with the first letters of the friends' names (if you're a little flexible about it): Humphrey - Hero, Abbi - Aubrey, Cat - Kel.

Coincidence? This could all be a reach, but there's just a lot of connections to be found.

#omori #spoilers #games

[thetriggeredhappy]

hi!! i've read most of your fics at this point and you've gotten me obsessed with sniperscout, especially the way you write them! i just wanted to ask, do you know of (or would you ever consider writing) a fic where sniper is kinda self-conscious about his looks and scout reassures him?

sometimes ya boy’s gotta be the one doing the comforting

(no warnings)

-

He dragged a hand down across his jaw, grimacing lightly to himself, then more firmly at the lines that it drew across his face.

Some days, he wished he didn’t have a mirror. That instead he just... could go back to the way he operated back when he did hunting and tracking. With months at a time on his own, he didn’t particularly need to keep up appearances, and would only go to the trouble of tracking down a pocket mirror when he needed to give himself a haircut or something of the like. Nowadays, though, he was committed to at least looking presentable, which meant pinning a mirror in place above the sink, mostly used for when he shaved.

And... well, now he was checking more often, admittedly. Usually he didn’t bother with worrying about the details of his face and clothes, since nobody tended to look too closely at him anyways. The hat and the shooting glasses and the high collar on his vest tended to do pretty well for him, and it wasn’t like anyone would care.

Except now, someone did.

He dragged a hand up through his hair, frowning at the way it seemed to just do whatever the hell it wanted, here before he had it gelled back. He was due for a haircut, honestly, but every time he cut his hair, by the end of it he felt like the clean cut just drew more attention to how scruffy the rest of him looked.

He drew a thumb against the lines around his eyes as if he could smooth them out somehow. Bared his teeth enough for glare at the slight crookedness and oddness to them, his strangely sharp canines in particular. Tilted his head to either side to ogle the numerous little scars dotting his skin.

And god, that’s just what he could see in the little mirror.

He hated going into the workout room on the base more than anything in the world, because right there by the door, impossible to miss, were the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and he was forced to confront his... his gangly limbs, his shoulders wideset but not thick with muscle, arms long but weak, bony all along his legs and thin in the chest but soft in the middle and scraggly all over.

He winced at himself.

It wasn’t like standing next to the person he was meant to get ready to go see would help at all. Scout didn’t have to deal with having weird elbows. 
God, Scout was gorgeous. Not in some boring sort of standard way, no, he just looked downright lovely. Built like the embodiment of speed, moved like he knew where he was going, like efficiency. Soft angles in the face that made him seem so friendly, so personable, and his hair always looked right no matter how many times he pulled his hat off to drag a hand through it, and he smiled with his eyes, with his whole body, and he seemed to stretch and bend just right to always make it so obvious what was going on in his head. He was built like artwork.

And then Sniper was just...

He considered cancelling and saying he was sick—hell, he considered shooting himself in the foot with his rifle to get a trip to the infirmary—but he knew Scout was looking forward to this, and he shouldn’t let his ridiculousness ruin Scout’s night.

It was cold enough as it got later at night to justify the scarf pulled up snug to nearly cover the bottom part of his face, and he didn’t ever go anywhere without his hat and glasses even if he didn’t usually pull the hat down so far, and that combined with a baggy coat were enough to hide him sufficiently. He could at least go out like this, he was sure. And he felt guilty, momentarily, that once again all the nicer civilian-type clothes that Scout had gone to the trouble of going out and helping him pick would go unworn, but maybe on one of his less... nervous days, he would have the courage.

And he was hoping and praying the entire walk over to base that it would be left at that, absolutely sure that any attention would be bad attention. But as he tended to do—hell, as he always did—Scout found a way to surprise him.

“Jesus, you alive under there?” Scout laughed, looking up from where he was leaned against the wall by the garage. “Were we supposed to be goin’ undercover or somethin’? Because if we are, I better change.”

Loud, would be one word to describe Scout’s shirt. The patterns were bright and eccentric, eye-catching and vibrant, especially against the otherwise normal jeans and worn-to-hell sneakers he had on. And his hair had clearly been smoothed back a bit, but that cowlick at the front still hung down over his forehead and bounced with the way his shoulders shook under continued laughter. 
Comfort and nervousness all in one. Ease and uncertainty. He settled for a vague shrug. “Might get chilly,” he mumbled.

“Jesus, again with the saying it’s cold,” Scout laughed, rolling his eyes. “You wouldn’t last a week in Boston, babe, seriously.”

He was in the middle of deciding whether he more wanted to address the fact that he could handle cold just fine, thank you very much, or the fact that Scout had just called him babe, when Scout had suddenly moved forward into his space, performing three gestures one after another—first flicking up the front of his hat, then snagging off his glasses, then tugging down the scarf that was over the bottom part of his face—and before he could do much of anything about it, Scout had tipped up onto his toes to kiss him once, soundly, at the corner of his mouth.

When he pulled back, his grin was lopsided and pleased. “There he is,” he said, “there’s my handsome guy.”

His sputter of laughter was as incredulous as it was involuntary. “Handsome?” he repeated, doubtful.

“Damn right,” Scout agreed, and kissed him on the other side of the mouth for symmetry, and he had to smooth out the way it pulled his face into a smile, cringing internally at how it surely made all the lines on his face that much more obvious. “Wicked handsome.”

“Right, mate,” he scoffed, glancing off to one side, face feeling hot.

“C’mon, seriously,” Scout said, as if Sniper was the one who was being ridiculous. “Have you seen you? You’re, like, rugged Rock Hudson. Like, uh—fuck, who’s that one guy? From Casablanca?”

“Er... that bloke, Henreid, is it?”

“Nah, nah, uh...” He snapped his fingers a few times. “Uh, somethin’ with a ‘B’... Bogart, Humphrey Bogart! Plays the main guy, ‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid’, that guy. You’re taller, though. And I like your hair way better.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sniper muttered, tugging on his hat, but Scout just ticked it right back up again, looped an arm up over his shoulders to pull him down into a short kiss, then a long one. He felt half-dizzy by the time Scout pulled back away, flashing that lopsided grin again.

“Dead serious,” he said, smiling with his eyes, and he scoffed again at it, at himself, at all of this.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said firmly.

“You’re handsome,” Scout said again, just as firmly.

“Well, one of us is wrong,” Sniper said.

“And it’s not me,” Scout said, and kissed him once more before he could reply, and pulled back again, pushed his glasses back up onto his face crookedly. “Alright, c’mon. Tacos.”

Stood in line later, Sniper dragged a hand down over his face, thinking.

Rugged Rock Hudson, huh?

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #sniperscout #speeding bullet #que? #shut up me #my fanfiction #we love a supportive boyfriend

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

Casablanca: Genre and Themes

Casablanca is widely remembered as one of the greatest romance films of all time, and with good reason.  The relationship between Rick and Ilsa is one of the most memorable romances in the history of Hollywood.  Full of iconic lines and moments, the scenes between the couple make for one of the most justifiably tragic love stories on film, and all accompanied by the melancholy tune: ‘As Time Goes By’.

Yeah, Casablanca is a romance all right, but, as always, there’s a lot more to it than that.

See, genre, as it applies to film, has less to do with the setting, and more to do with the events of the film itself.  The themes, the story, the ideas in a film are more intrinsic to it’s genre than where (or when) the film is set in.  The way to discover a genre has more to do with what type of story it is than the setting of the story.

Such is the case for Casablanca.

Casablanca displays elements belonging to a wide variety of genres, including romance (obviously), drama, war, thriller/suspense, film-noir, and even a dash of comedy here and there.  You see, no film possesses the qualities of only one genre, but it’s rare that a film covers quite so many as this one does.  That’s why today, we’re going to be going through each genre that this film contains shades of, and seeing how they apply.  More specifically, seeing which genres are the primary genres for this movie, and which are not.

Let’s start with the oddball: Comedy.

Most people would be very hard pressed to call Casablanca a comedy by any stretch of the word.  Most of the film, and the characters within, are very grim, and for good reason: World War II is on the horizon, and Europe is already suffering under German occupation.  There doesn’t really seem to be much of a source for laughs.

However, one of the greatest things about Casablanca is a razor-sharp script that’s packed to bursting with great, quips, usually courtesy of Rick or Captain Renault.  The humor, while delivered in the driest fashion, is just what’s needed to ease the tension of the film, and sometimes is enough to get a genuine laugh out of the audience, but again, no one would make the mistake of calling Casablanca a comedy.

A film-noir on the other hand?  There’s a much stronger argument for that.

The term ‘film noir’ most closely translates to ‘dark film’, and is a category of film known for including elements like cynical protagonists, dark lighting, and an extremely pessimistic outlook.  If that’s the criteria, Casablanca would seem to more than fit the bill, with one of the most cynical protagonists in film history and an intially incredibly bleak viewpoint.  But there’s one problem with that.

Casablanca, while starting out as a dark, pessimistic look at the world in the face of World War II, ends as an idealistic film with a romanticist protagonist.  While one could argue that it starts out as a film-noir, there’s no doubt that it becomes something else by the end.  Rick’s change from cynic to idealist is one of the most memorable aspects of the film, firmly placing Casablanca in a realm totally different from that of the film-noir by the end, even if it was one in the beginning.

How about thriller?

There is a lot of suspense in this film.  The characters (and the audience) have a lot to worry about, and there are some pretty big stakes here, all boiling down to the central concern: Will Ilsa make it out of Casablanca, and if so, with who?  There are a lot of possible outcomes to be had, and the audience is on the edge of their seat to see what happens to the letters of transit, and the characters who are after them.  Like I said, there’s a lot of suspense in the film, but the thing that prevents Casablanca from being a thriller is simply that it’s not the focus.

So what is the focus?

The focus of Casablanca is in its characters, the personal relationships between them, and how they deal with the oncoming threat of war.  The friendly-enemy dynamic of Renault and Rick, the love Ilsa has for both Victor and Rick, the relationship Victor has with Ilsa; this film is about people, and how they relate to one another.  It’s a very character-driven piece, and as a result?  The film is a drama.

Technically, Casablanca is a drama/war/romance film, and as a matter of fact, that’s incredibly accurate.  The interpersonal dynamics between the characters drive the film, but it is, of course, the romance that the plot is really centered around.

Love changed Rick Blaine’s life, for the better, overall.  It is his love for Ilsa that shapes and drives his character through most of the film, leading to his decision to be more involved in the world’s problems.  Like I said at the beginning of this article, it is their love that gives us the most memorable scenes in the film.  While the drama provides the background driving force, it is the romance angle that is the main thrust of the film, the emotional punch that the viewers feel at the end.

The odd-genre-out would seem to be war.  After all, there are no battles, and the heroes are not soldiers, at least, not at the moment.  So, why war?

For the same reason it’s a drama: that’s the focus of the movie.

Unlike some films set in the 1940s, there is no plot for Casablanca without the war.  Every action taken by the characters is a direct result of the German invasion and occupation.  It is the reason the characters are in Casablanca in the first place, and the reason they cannot leave.  It was the war that tore Rick and Ilsa apart, and the war that brought them back together, and it is the war that forces Rick to take a stand in the world’s affairs and pick a side.  The oncoming storm of World War II drives the interpersonal conflict and drama, which drives the romance plot.  It’s a domino effect of genres, and it’s extremely effective.

But there is one other way to tell what genre your film is, and that is quite simply: the protagonist.  In this case, it’s Rick Blaine.

The definitive test for what genre a film is has, in my opinion, quite a lot to do with what type of protagonist your story has, and how they interact with the story.  In the case of Rick Blaine, it can be very easily argued that Casablanca is a film noir after all.  He’s even played by Humphrey Bogart, the king of film-noir.  He’s even shot using the same camera-tricks used for other film-noir films at the time.  But for the same reasons I listed above, Rick is prevented from being a film-noir protagonist by his own character development.  By the end of the story, he is no more a neutral cynic, he is an involved idealist, a romanticist, a crusader for the Good Side.

So, what kind of protagonist is Rick?

A dynamic one.

Like I said, the character of Rick goes through a bit of development throughout the story of Casablanca.  He interacts with plenty of different characters in very distinct ways, and his relationships with all of them are perfectly realized, and his internal struggles are perfectly clear to the audience without any explanation, as is his love for Ilsa.

In short?

Rick Blaine, while beginning the story as a traditional, film-noir-esque character, ends it as a dramatic, dynamic character, driven by love and the oncoming war.  An idealist, returning to his roots and fighting on the side of the angels.  As a result, Casablanca is a romantic war drama, focusing equal attention on each genre, while also mixing in a few flavors of other film styles for added distinction.  There really is something here for everyone, and it’s that, combined with a winning script and great characters, that have allowed this movie to hold up as well, and as long, as it has.

Stay tuned for next time, when we’ll be discussing the many interesting characters that wander in and out of Rick’s during the course of the film.  Thank you all so much for reading, and don’t forget that the ask box is always open for questions, comments, or just to say hi.  I hope to see you all in the next article!

#Casablanca #Casablanca 1942 #1942 #40s #Film #Movies #War #Drama #Romance #PG #Humphrey Bogart #Ingrid Bergman #Paul Henreid #Dooley Wilson #Claude Rains #Conrad Viedt #Sydney Greenstreet #Peter Lorre #Michael Curtiz

[firesign23]

Per your prompting, I hereby prompt a Brienne/Addam wedding (or a nice pre- or post-wedding scene. Or all of the above.)

Well, one of each so I can finally get these fuckers married. It was supposed to happen in the second chapter, not the fifth. A little bit longer than the 1500 word cutoff, but I’m counting this as three prompts so it’s fine. Can also be found on ao3.

It was… odd. The hours after Brienne’s declaration. It was very easy to say that they should marry, and much more difficult to grasp what this would mean; the conversation stretched out, neither of them completely certain what it was that needed to be asked, but some shape of their marriage-to-be began to emerge from the winding thoughts. Their respective commitments and how to balance them, how they would dissuade doubt of the child’s parentage when she was three moons gone and only been in King’s Landing for six weeks. Around and around, tentatively feeling out the terrain before them. She assured him that his place in the Kingsguard would not be earned or lost due to their connection; he assured her that his father was in robust health and he did not expect to inherit Ashemark in the foreseeable future, and that when he did there were plenty of competent family members to manage the day-to-day runnings.

“Do you have any bastards I should be aware of?” she asked. It would not change her decision, but it would be good to know of potential claimants that might benefit from exposing the truth of her child’s parentage.

“No.”

“Are there any likely to emerge?”

“Ahh, no. Not—” He gave a small shrug. “I can account for everyone I’ve lain with long enough to know it impossible.”

Were there many? she might have asked, under other circumstances. Instead she nodded. “And you will tell me if that changes?”

“It won’t be a concern.”

“You cannot—” Oh. “Men?”

“On occasion. It is more…” He shrugged again, as if it was unimportant. “I would tell you, if there was someone else. As a matter of respect. I don’t think it likely.”

Else, as if… Trepidation niggled at her as she wondered whether she’d misunderstood his offer, of asking nothing. She twisted her fingers, the pressure grounding her.

“I won’t—I cannot… I know it is a duty, but I do not think I could bear… that. Not yet.”

He blinked, then reached out as if to lay a hand on her knee before thinking better of it. “I told you I would expect nothing, save cooperation and an honest attempt at friendship if you could bear it.”

She studied him for a long moment, trying to find answers in unfamiliar features.

“You are an odd man,” she finally said, startled when he smiled.

“And you’re an odd woman,” he replied. “A remarkable one, but odd.”

She waited for the sting to come, but whether it was the lack of judgment in his words or her having grown into her skin, all she felt was amusement. She was odd, but it was not as if she could be anyone else, and she didn’t particularly wish to be; if she’d been someone else… if she’d married Ser Humphrey and set aside her sword she would not have saved Sansa, if she’d married Ser Ronnet she would not have served Renly. If she had not done both, she would not have—

Grief was a funny thing, the way it would gently lap at your feet in one moment and crash down upon you like a wave in a storm in another. If she had not served Renly, served Catelyn… if she had not saved Sansa, fought the undead… if she’d not done those things, if she’d not fallen in love with Jaime, if she’d—

“Brienne,” Addam said, a gentle command. It was the first time he’d called her by her name, some distant part of her realised. She turned to look at him fully, and saw his understanding expression. “Perhaps we can discuss this more tomorrow,” he said. “The Seven know there is much still to do.”

***

A sennight and as many discussions later, they were to wed in the Godswood. The King had, in one of his queer moods, insisted that it be there and not a sept—Brienne was grateful, uncertain she could speak her vows before the Seven, given everything, and it was not as if any in attendance cared where the words were said. She wished her father could be present, but given the already difficult nature of events, they did not have time to wait for his arrival from Tarth. Instead she would walk unaccompanied, the wedding witnessed by a handful of people she knew in King’s Landing—she hadn’t had the heart to keep Tyrion from the event, aware he was Addam’s only family near enough to make the journey, and Podrick and a few men from Winterfell who had chosen to remain in the south.

The irony of such a small wedding did not escape her; Jaime would have wed her, after that first night or any other, but they had both been so certain there was an after the war, and… she’d wanted, they both had, something more than hastily exchanged words in the midst of preparations and repair, a chance to be publicly loved and celebrated with those they loved best. Not ostentatious, neither of them had wanted a spectacle, but a chance for those flung far away to be there too. No secrecy, no shame. And now…

Addam was seated on a bench near the path that led into the garden; he didn’t see her at first, his head tilted back to catch the first warmth of spring sun. He was freshly-shaven and dressed in a richly woven doublet in his house colours, dark grey with burnt orange details, a sense of control in his lanky body even as he was at ease. This far away she could not see the slight lopsidedness of his smile or the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, but she knew them to be there. She moved closer; he must have heard her coming, dressed as she was, but it was not until she was close enough to cast a shadow across his face that he opened one eye.

“Ser,” he drawled, “I wondered when you would arrive.”

“Second thoughts?” she asked, torn between standing tall and hunching away; she knew she hardly looked like a bride, fripperies set aside in favour of looking like herself, but she wondered whether it was the right decision.

He shook his head and reached up, knocking his knuckle against her breast plate. “A bold choice.”

He was dressed far more in the spirit of a wedding, but there was no hint of derision in his comment.

“Blue,” she explained, then lifted her arm to where her rose-coloured undershirt was peeking out, “and pink, for Tarth. A Maiden’s cloak felt rather…”

“Of course.”

“I won’t have many chances to wear it, after today.” She had considered and discarded so many options, but none of them had meant as much as the armour she’d worn for years, so much of her history wrapped in its metal. “I can—”

“No, no,” Addam said, rising from the bench. “It suits you.” Then he gave her a small, knowing smile and leaned in as he dropped his voice, “The lions are a particularly nice touch. My cousin was not a subtle man.”

Brienne laughed, truly laughed, for what felt like the first time in moons, and took her betrothed’s arm as they headed into the Godswood. The guests were assembled, the septon was disgruntled, and the king smiled at her as they took their positions. Thank you, she mouthed; whatever came of this, she had not been able to forget Bran’s words, their subtle reminder that no matter her grief she need not isolate herself from those who cared for her.

The ceremony began, the septon’s prayers drowned out by her own thoughts—the sunlight on the trees, and the water in the distance, and the subtle reassurance of the man beside her—until it came time to bind their hands. She recognised the shape of the calluses that brushed her own, felt a strange sort of peacefulness at the commonality. He squeezed her hand lightly, and she met his eyes; the secret smile he gave was enough for her to find her voice.

“Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone…”

***

There was a small feast, after the wedding, and she changed into a tunic and breeches for comfort before joining. The event was more informal than Brienne would expect from a noble marriage, which was—absurdly—what this was, but there was laughter, and music, and a demonstration of fighting styles from each of the seven kingdoms and several places further afield—it was different than seeing the styles in battle, and Brienne found herself making notes for the training of the Kingsguard as she watched.

She grew tired earlier than she might have once, one of the few signs of being with child that she’d experienced, and the flowing drink began to remind Brienne of another feast. The memories had not… they were there, of course, she would not want them not to be, but they had not been so omnipresent as to taint the day. But whatever small part of that crossed her face was noticed; Addam placed his hand on her arm, gave her a small smile, thanked the guests and made their excuses to retire. Under other circumstances she would have chafed under his attentiveness, but as she dragged herself from the hall she was simply thankful for his presence of mind.

Very little was said as they made their way through the corridors, but it was not an uncomfortable silence, not the way she’d once imagined any wedding night of hers would be; they were friends, or on their way to becoming friends, and that was enough.

With so much of the castle still destroyed, they were to share chambers, a bed. It was a matter of practicality, and more convenient than him keeping his quarters in the city, but not without questions.

“I can put a roll on the floor,” he said, when they had made their way to what had been Brienne’s rooms. “It’s better sleeping arrangements than many I’ve made.”

She looked at him, then the stone floor. They were both soldiers, first and foremost, knew the value of a night in a real bed.

“Do you snore? Kick?” she asked bluntly, unwilling to allow sentiment to colour her words. Sentiment here was… dangerous. Exposing in a way that other things had not been.

He shook his head.

“I’ll take the side nearer the door,” was all she said, unlacing her tunic.

He undressed behind a changing screen, emerging in sleepwear remarkably similar to her own, and ensured the door was locked before he slipped into bed beside her.

#my fanfic #I take the parts that I remember (and stitch them back together)

[dolphin-bouillabaisse]

GO-ctober Prompt, 27

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #27 - Coat

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

London, 1925

“So, what do you think?” Aziraphale turned in front of the mirror once, twice, before turning fully to face Crowley, who was trying not to slip off of the chair the attendant had brought over.

“I think if this is the thing that made you drag me back to London from Chicago, it better be made from spun gold.”

“Now, there's no need for that.” Aziraphale tutted. “I only wanted your opinion.”

“What for? The suit's already made. You're going to not buy it if I say it looks stupid?”

“I might.” Aziraphale turned back to the mirror, inspecting the waistcoat, his voice turned quiet and almost shy. “You think it's stupid?”

A pause, a very troubled look in the mirror, before Crowley sighed and stood up to saunter over (made even easier by the height and swing her heels gave her).

“I didn't say that.” She straightened the lapels, patted along his shoulders, avoided his eyes. “It's a very nice suit. Fits well. Good choice of material. Something's missing, though.” She turned to the attendant waiting at the end of the dressing room. “I assume you have pocket squares and ties that match?”

“Certainly, ma'am.” The attendant, up to now a silent figure in the back, dashed out to the shop room to pick a selection. He was smart and well-trained enough not to interrupt or even pretend to notice a little lovers' quarrel (well used to them by now, anyway, after 5 years working in a men's tailors), and should've made an exit far sooner, but it had been to tempting. Mr. Fell had never, not once in his various visits to the shop, even mentioned a partner. Certainly not a wife. The lady that had strode in behind him earlier today was the last thing he would've imagined if Mr. Fell had ever mentioned anyone.

They'd picked out a very fetching tie and pocket square (or rather, she had picked one, and Mr. Fell had barely looked at it before agreeing to it), paid, and left with his usual friendly good-byes and promises of another visit, while she'd almost dragged him out.

His colleague sidled up to him.

“Well?” Humphrey asked. “What'd you hear?”

“I don't know what you mean.” Humphrey was fairly new, and not yet as well-versed in the proper behaviour in the shop, and Edward was not going to stoop so low as to gossip.

“Oh, come on. Fell showing up with a lass like that?” A pointed thumb thrown towards the door, where some of her perfume still seemed to linger. “You gotta find out what's going on there.”

“She merely mentioned coming over from Chicago. A very fashionable lady. Good eye for colours.”

“You know how he introduced her when they came in?” Edward had been in the backroom preparing the suit, so Humphrey had been left to greet them at the entrance. He probably hadn't even thought to offer to take their coats. “He called her 'Miss Crowley, a dear friend'. Hah! I'd like some friends like that.”

“I simply assumed she was his fiancée.” A stern look towards the younger attendant. “As you should, when a customer brings in a lady. Unless you know about a wife, of course.”

“Yeah, alright.” Humphrey let out a short whistle. “If he's managed to bag her as a fiancée, I wanna know his secret. To be honest, I always thought he was more... you know. Confirmed bachelor, and all that.”

Edward was not going to dignify that with an answer. However, he had wondered. There was no ring on her finger, he'd noticed as she'd taken the bag from him. The way Mr. Fell had looked at her as she hooked her arms around his elbow, though, left little to wonder about.

The bookshop hadn't changed even an inch since the last time Crowley'd been here years ago, safe for at least twenty new books stacked on top of the shelves.

Still, it felt different. Less... guarded. More protected. She was glad to get inside.

Things had been fine in Chicago, where most people didn't bat an eye at a clearly unwed couple in the streets, but this was London. Crowley's hair and pearls, just a tad too finely decorated for day wear, had already caused some ladies to stare her down on the street. She'd expected it to not feel any less troublesome inside the shop, with collections of angel statuettes staring her down just as well.

Sliding out of her coat, which Aziraphale promptly hung up on the hatstand, and settling down on the sofa in the backroom, made her realise that nagging feeling of constantly being watched had disappeared, though.

No one seemed to care. Heaven was still licking its wounds from the chaos of the years gone past, the Great War and all that came with it. They could be excused not to check in too often with their rather disengaged agent down on earth.

“Maybe I should change.” She mumbled over the rim of the glass Aziraphale had handed her. “Wouldn't want your neighbours to think you're having some sort of illicit affair.”

“And what are they supposed to think if I enter with a lady and leave again for dinner with a gentleman?”

“We're going for dinner now?”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, almost stumbling – and he'd finally looked so suave, too, filling his own glass – and mumbled just as quiet as Crowley had.

“Well, I'd assumed- if you're visiting, I mean, you've not been to the Ritz yet, and I-”

Crowley'd smiled, then, actually smiled, and Aziraphale's stutter had come to a halt. The reservations had already been made, anyway.

Dinner had been delicious, as always, and Crowley in her evening dress had looked stunning, as always, and had eaten nothing, as always. She'd had a drink, though, and gloated about how good it felt to openly order it, not having to sneak around in some speakeasy to get a good gin & tonic, even though she was probably supposed to enjoy that all a bit more, demon and breaking the law and whatnot. Aziraphale had thought back to their short time in Chicago on the days before, after she'd run into him in one of said speakeasy's. He'd thought back to her in his rented apartment, a far better drink in hand as she stretched out on the settee and asked him about what he'd been up to, how he'd gotten to America now of all times. He'd thought back to her on the settee, glasses on the floor, all curled up, hair undone, fast asleep.

No one had cared in Chicago. Hell was far too busy handling the mob's work across the entire continent. They could be excused not to check in too often with their rather disinterested agent up on earth.

“So.” Crowley dragged him out of his reverie. “Anything planned for the rest of the night? I'll assume the clubs here are not quite as up to date as back in the States. We should've gone over to Berlin, I know some very interesting corners there. Very up and coming.”

“I hadn't really thought that far.” Aziraphale finished his last bit of dessert, avoiding her eyes, piercing even behind the glasses. “I thought we could just retire back to the bookshop, I have a very nice bottle of Château d’Yquem I've been saving-“

„Of course you have.“ Crowley smiled, again, and Aziraphale made sure to commit that one to memory just as much as the past few days. “Well, let's get back to the shop then.”

The waiter gave them nothing but a bright smile and a polite goodbye as they left their tip – he was smart and well-trained enough not to eavesdrop, but it was hard to resist when Mr. Fell showed up with what could only be described as a luxurious show girl on his arm. He'd introduced her as Miss Crowley, and there was no ring on her finger, but something about the whole evening had made it more than clear that that was really the only thing missing. One was meant to assume a fiancée, anyway, if one didn't know about a wife.

Crowley'd fallen asleep on the sofa, again, after the bottle of Château d'Yquem had been emptied, and three others after it. Aziraphale had made sure not to jostle her awake as he brought her upstairs to bed (which, luckily, had been dusted only recently, considering it was mostly decorative) before retiring with a book – not in the backroom this time, but rather in the flat upstairs as well, which was usually mostly decorative itself. Something had pulled on him, asked him to stay, and he was used enough to temptation by now to know when it was safe to give in.

The demon was a sight to behold when she stomped into the sitting room the next morning – dress all akimbo from turning in her sleep, dark kohl lines mixing with red lipstick across her cheek, curls and curls of red hair almost obscuring her eyes. Gorgeous, Aziraphale thought, but was smart enough not to say out loud.

“Would you like some coffee?” He said instead.

“I'd kill for some coffee.”

Aziraphale got up as she sat down, putting down the newspaper to putter over to the small kitchen to start the coffee he'd prepared an hour ago. His tea had already been emptied, but he wasn't against making another cup to share with the demon currently spreading her arms across his table, almost falling back into sleep as the sun turned her hair into flames sprawled across the wooden surface. He could hear Crowley's yawning and grumbling all the way through the room. It was a nice change to his usual quiet. It was all a rather nice change.

No one was watching. Heaven and Hell were busy enough not to bother them with assigments right now, and far too busy to take notice of where they were, and what they were doing (or how little they were doing, wasting away the morning in comfortable silence ).

“Why'r'you wearin' that?” Crowley tugged on his coat as he brought the cups over.

“What? My coat?”

“The whole thing.” She waved (not with the hand that already held the coffee, luckily) all over him. “Didn't we buy a suit yesterday?”

“Oh. Well.” He brushed across his worn-out waistcoat that had become just as comfortable over the years as he had felt during the last few days. “I figured I'd save it for special occasions.”

“Special occasions.” Crowley, who'd dressed up every day for the past century, repeated. “Alright.” Why she had to come from Chicago to London just to give her opinion on a suit he wasn't even going to wear with her around, she wasn't quite sure. She might have an inkling, though.

London, 2020

“The Twenties. Again.” Crowley was staring into the night sky, even as rockets and explosions obscured the view of the stars. “Wonder if it'll be as fun as the last time around.”

“We'll just have to make it fun now, I suppose.” Aziraphale handed him the refilled champagne glass they'd just emptied at midnight (or maybe slightly after, factoring in the time spent on the traditional New Year's kiss).

“D'you remember when I saved your bum in Chicago in '25? That was fun.”

“I remember.” Aziraphale joined his side, leaning on the railing of the plant-filled balcony the bookshop had acquired in the past year.

“And then we went back to London and got drunker than we ever could in the US. That was the first time we went to the Ritz together, remember?”

Aziraphale remembered the Ritz, and the surprised waiter, and the Château D'Yquem. He remembered fringed dresses and perfect curls and red lipstick. He remembered the smell of perfume stuck to his bedsheets for weeks. He remembered Crowley's quiet snoring, his yawning and grumbling, his slow putter in the morning around the flat right behind them now that hadn't changed an inch since then, except to make space for some statues and a painting and a lot of plants.

He remembered simple pleasures, soft mornings. He'd remembered them a lot in the past decades, leading up to the new 20's.

“D'you remember the suit you bought? I bet those attendant had a field day, with me showing up in your dressing room.”

“I still have that suit.”

“Of course you do.” Crowley smiled, again, like he did often now, and just like Aziraphale remembered. “Kept it nice and clean for special occasions, hm?”

“Tip top shape.”

“Good.” Crowley's hand rested on Aziraphale's on the railing, trailed across the ring on his finger, next to the winged signet ring. “You'll need it in the new Twenties. For a special occasion.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #prompts #october prompts

[fibula-rasa]

Cosplay Under the Stars: Mary Astor

Putting it lightly, 1941 was a noteworthy year for Mary Astor. So, my closet cosplay of today reflects her styling from that year. Astor had already been in the film business for twenty years and had built an impressive resume of featured roles–surviving both the transition to sound and the code. Surveying her filmography for today’s post, I thought to myself, “wow, I really haven’t seen all that many of her movies!” Except that I’ve seen two dozen of them. That’s just how many movies she was in. (And after today, I want to delve more into her silent work. I’ve only seen two of those!) 

Widely recognized for her “good girl” roles, in the 1930s Astor played a lot of well-meaning and often well-heeled women. Astor distinguished herself in these parts with her sonorous voice and by carrying herself with an air of maturity. These qualities are exemplified in Astor’s roles in Red Dust (1932), where she plays Barbara, a counterpoint to Jean Harlow’s raucous Vantine, and in Dodsworth (1936), where she’s the self-sufficient yet lonesome Edith. (They’re both on demand through TCM right now FYI.) To suggest that this was Astor’s only mode isn’t quite accurate though–there’s a bit more variety in her filmography than that. After all, Astor averaged more than four films a year for the entire decade of the 1930s. 

Astor’s billing became less prominent and the parts became a bit less frequent by the late 1930s. Rather than saying Astor’s career had faltered, I’d say she was on the precipice. This might be due in part to a lack of motivation from Astor–she only got into film acting at the behest of her outrageously controlling parents. Regardless, Astor was due for an image revitalization. This is exactly what Astor got in her two films of 1941, The Maltese Falcon (1941) and The Great Lie (1941).  In these movies, Astor gives two of her career-best performances.

READ ON below the jump!

In The Great Lie, Astor is Sandra Kovak, a concert pianist competing with Maggie (Bette Davis) for the love of pilot Peter Van Allen (George Brent). Sandra loses Peter to Maggie, Peter is presumed dead in a plane crash, but by then Sandra is pregnant with his child. Maggie then comes to her with one hell of a proposal: she’ll financially support Sandra if Sandra will give birth to the baby in secret in Arizona and let Maggie raise the child as her own. The Great Lie is a classic soap-operatic melodrama that should be considered with the greats. Even if this type of movie doesn’t normally grab you, I’d recommend checking it out. It might surprise you! And, if you’re familiar with Astor and Davis, you’ll appreciate their role reversal.

When the women were preparing for the movie, it was Davis’ idea to swap their roles. The two of them then went off together to rework the characters. And gosh did that pay off. Astor and Davis’ dynamic repartee is something special and it comes as no surprise that they became good friends after making The Great Lie. As an aside, the costumes are exactly as wonderful as you’d expect for a 1940s melodrama. (Designed by Orry-Kelly, whose final film as a costume designer was Irma la Douce (1963), which I cosplayed for Shirley MacLaine day.) My kingdom for this cape.

As for The Maltese Falcon, I can’t say much that hasn’t seen said a million times before. Astor plays Brigid O’Shaughnessy, a compulsively deceitful femme fatale involved with a ring of criminals. She ropes them all in with Humphrey Bogart’s Sam Spade in a scheme that doesn’t quite pay off. Astor stretches her acting muscles in this movie and that *does* pay off. She’s believably treacherous and bounces between vindictive and desperately compliant in milliseconds. Even if you’ve seen The Maltese Falcon before, I recommend watching it again, paying close attention to Astor’s performance with the knowledge of how things play out. (BTW: Orry-Kelly also did the costuming for this one!)

So, 1941 was the year Astor proved she could top the marquee. But, she found she didn’t really want to. She was happier with featured roles. Which, in theory, could have been fine and dandy. Unfortunately, the nature of those featured roles shifted quite suddenly to a slew of mother roles under a seven-year contract with MGM.

In a story similar to what you’ve heard from me before about other actors from her generation, Astor moved to doing more radio and theater as she was dissatisfied with what she was offered on film. In the 1950s, Astor also took action on her alcoholism and took up writing. Astor published two memoirs, one focused on her personal life and the other on her career, and about a half dozen novels. In 1964, she appeared in her final film: Hush… Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964), which reunited her with Bette Davis.

The Great Lie is playing on TCM at midnight eastern tonight, but by all means, check out Dodsworth too if you haven’t yet!

Originally Posted on Watch More Movies

#Mary Astor #1940s #Cosplay Under the Stars #cosplay #closet cosplay #cosplayers of tumblr #Summer Under the Stars #suts #tcm #turner classic movies #The Great Lie #The Maltese Falcon #film #movies #Film Recs #movie recommendations #classic film #classic movies #old hollywood

[mattzerella-sticks]

Buss Down (Bruce Banner/Thor, Steve’s POV, 2.7 k)

Steve forgot the reason he went down to the labs, thoughts derailed after catching a glimpse of Thor's godly assets. Now he finds himself in league with a few others who have made it their mission to keep Thor's bottom up until a certain scientist can't take it anymore before turning green with envy.

It's naughty... but it feels so nice. What's a Boy Scout like Steve to do?

(Link to Ao3)

           Steve walks into the lab to a strange sight. Thor, bent down within a cupboard, his ass pushed out as far as he can make it and his back arched like a smooth valley. He stares, hypnotized by the jiggle of Thor’s cheeks as he rummages around for something. Fingers snap near his ear, and that shocks him out of his trance. Grabbing for the source of the sound, Steve raises his fist. Steve only lowers it down when he realizes it was Tony who snapped.

           Tony winces, “Sorry, forgot that was a trigger…”

           He rolls his eyes, releasing Tony’s shirt from his grip. Steve can’t stay mad, his focus drawn back to the god of thunder.

           Tony snorts, taking him by the arm and leading him away. “Come on,” he says, “if you’re gonna stare at least do it without being a roadblock.”

           Steve blushes, ducking away to gape at him. “I wasn’t… I’m not –“

           “It’s okay, trust me,” Tony says, “We all do it.” They stop at Tony’s worktable, where others have gathered. Natasha, Wanda, Scott, and Sam have spread out across the surface, each gazing at the same spot.

           Steve’s breath stutters. “The hell? What are you all doing down here?”

           “Enjoying the show,” Natasha shrugs, holding the popcorn bowl out to him, shaking it, “Want some?” He pushes it back towards a waiting Scott, who crams a handful into his mouth. A few fall to the floor, but Scott barely notices as somehow Thor’s ass rises higher. Steve’s face flushes a splotchy red.

           “Guys,” Steve whispers harsh and commanding, “This is not okay. Thor’s our friend, we shouldn’t be… ogling him like some painting on the side of a fighter plane!”

           “Wow,” Natasha says, “dated reference much?”

           “That’s not the point –“

           “Steve, chill,” Tony says, arm comfortingly coming to rest on his shoulders, “This is all for a good thing.”

           “…If you say Thor’s ass is the good thing, Tony, I swear –“

           “No, no – well, it is a good thing, but… that’s not what I was talking about.” Suddenly, Tony’s eyes shift and scan the room as if Hydra would swarm in any second. He leans into Steve’s ear and tells him. “We’ve got a bet going on, about who can get Bruce to hulk out and do something about Thor.” Tony then nods his head over to the other scientist a few tables over.

           Steve hadn’t noticed Bruce was in the room at all, an embarrassing misstep given how aware he usually is. But as he takes him in now, Steve sees what Tony meant. While Bruce keeps his eyes glued to his research, his control over his other half is tenuous at best. He holds onto a beaker too tight, a spider web of cracks branching out from where his fingertips meet glass. His tan hands are streaked with green, shaking every few seconds.

           He looks back to Tony. “Why would you want to do that?”

           “Because Bruce has the biggest crush on Thor.”

           This is news to only Steve, as everyone else barely bats an eye after Tony dropped that bit of information turning half his mind to dust. “What?”

           “Yeah, and he won’t do anything about it even though Thor’s totally game,” Tony sighs, dipping his hand into the bowl for a few pieces of popcorn. “So I thought I’d help push things along by dangling Bruce’s favorite piece of our friend in front of his face – really, he should learn how to not talk in his sleep if he’s gonna pass out here.”

           “But then what are all they doing here?” Steve gestures to the rest of them. Wanda slaps his hand down when it blocks their view.

           Sam sighs, joining their conversation. “We all found out what Tony was doing at one point or another and offered to help, I mean… any chance to watch Thor’s ass clap like it’s making thunder.”

           “And you turned it into a bet,” Steve says, pinching the space between his brows. He bites his lip, thinking about what he wants to say next. “Is it only you five involved?”

           “No,” Tony tells him, “There’s also Peter –“

           “Which one?”

           “Both. Quill’s been through the entire galaxy and hasn’t found an ass like Thor’s,” he says, “And what kind of pseudo-father figure would I be if I didn’t encourage Parker’s budding sexuality? I send them both pictures with every new task we give our thunder god.”

           “I seriously can’t believe all of you –“

           Before he could begin his lecture, Thor stands. All around him, the others whine as their sun sets. “I don’t think your phone was in there, Tony.” Steve notices Tony duck his hand, the one clutching said phone, behind the table. Thor notices him before he could reveal their friend’s trick. “Ah, Steve! What brings you down here?”

           Steve nearly answers him with the first thought that comes to mind. He screws his mouth shut before the words ‘your ass’ break free. Instead, he mumbles out between hard-pressed lips a non-committal grunt while he turns into a tomato.

           Thor skews his head to the side, concerned. Tony swoops in and saves Steve though. “He’s just here to hang out, aren’t you Cap?” Steve manages to nod without embarrassing himself. “And about my phone… maybe it’s in the next cabinet over?”

           “Are you sure?” Thor asks, “Maybe it’s somewhere else? I could search one of the shelves up –“

           A chorus of ‘No’ cuts him off, as if Steve and everyone else by Tony’s workstation was a holy choir. Thor’s mouth hangs, eyes darting between them all. Natasha steps in this time. “You know how short Tony is –“

           “Hey!”

           “He never reaches for anything on the shelves on his own, it’s much more likely he dropped it grabbing chemicals or wrenches or something.”

           Steve hides a snicker as Thor takes her suggestion seriously. Thor nods, “Yes, that makes sense. All right, I’ll check the next one.” Without prompting, Thor bends back down and resumes his search. Scott chokes on a piece of popcorn as his butt wiggles and bounces. Sam slaps his hand twice across Scott’s back to dislodge the kernel; Scott coughing it out onto the floor with the other discarded snack pieces.

           “Well,” Tony asks Steve, “you gonna pretend to have the moral high ground or admit you’re enjoying this as much as we are?”

           Steve glares at Thor’s ass as he tells Tony, “Shut up.”

           “See Cap, you’re no better than us!”

           He makes himself comfortable in the gutter, taking Tony’s stool for his own use and pecking at the remaining popcorn. Silence returns as Thor and his ass take center stage. Steve studies the defined curve, curious as to why he’s never noticed it before. All his life, he has appreciated the male form as well as the female one. And he had fully functioning vision – even better than most people’s because of the serum – so Steve knew Thor was gorgeous. Like Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart, but teeming with muscles and surrounded by a cloud of static that followed his wake. Steve assumed that Thor’s eyes were the most beautiful part of him, even now when they’re two different colors. He hadn’t accounted for his lower end. And maybe because it was never on display like it is now. The thin gym shorts leave nothing to the imagination, and Steve’s hand twitches as if to reach out.

           Tony presses himself against Steve’s back. “Hey,” he whispers, “pull yourself away for a sec and look at our friend, Mr. Incredible Self-Control.” Steve glances at Bruce from the corner of his eye, the scientist’s shoulders trembling now. Listening closely, he hears fabric ripping and Bruce muttering mantras. “Looks like I’ll be winning this one.”

           Steve sighs, “When did you all get so ass obsessed?”

           “We’ve always been like this,” Scott says, “I mean, don’t you remember our first plan to defeat Thanos?”

           Shuddering, Steve recalls Clint’s idea and how he demonstrated it with an arrow and a watermelon. They all knew it was a lame attempt at a joke, but Scott seemed too into it at the time. When Thanos was ultimately defeated, Scott was slightly miffed Carol landed the final blow and his size-shifting abilities weren’t utilized the way he wanted.

           “This is insane…”

           “How so?”

           “I… I…” Steve falters, “I mean –“

           “Look, Steve, this isn’t even the craziest thing we’ve made Thor do,” Tony says, “Right guys?”

           They all meek out their assent. Scott tells him how he shrunk down and broke pipes every now and then so Thor could fix them, even if he had no knowledge of plumping. Wanda used her powers to untie Thor’s boots whenever Bruce was around – and sometimes when he wasn’t. Sam started yoga so he could show Thor, and together they would stretch and bend in the common room during Bruce’s breaks from his research. Natasha chose the simplest route, pulling up videos on YouTube and teaching him how to copy the dance moves.

           “I discovered his true namesake,” she chuckled, “Thor, God of the Thunderthighs.” The others laugh at her wordplay, Steve’s brow furrowing in aggravation.

           As much fun as it had been for everyone involved, Steve included, he couldn’t let the bet carry on any longer. Tearing his gaze from the Asgardian’s backside, he puffs his chest up switches into his leadership stance. “This ends now.”

           Tony ignores his order, clapping him on the shoulder. “Sorry, Steve, this goes on until Bruce claims that ass for himself.”

           In between his eye roll and withering sigh, Thor frees himself from the second cabinet. “It’s not there either…” he says, “Tony, where on Midgard could your phone possibly have hidden itself?”

           Like it’s wont to do, Steve’s brain implements a set of actions without having had time to think it all through. Thor provided a great distraction, allowing him to sneak Tony’s phone out from his grip. Then, he dropped it to the floor, thankful that the casing absorbed any sound that might give him away. Steve kicked it a good ways away, watching it slide to a stop a few feet away from Bruce. The only one to notice this is the scientist himself, but with how tightly wound he already was he couldn’t say anything.

           Steve breaks apart from the group, pointing at the phone where it now rests. “Were you all blind this entire time?” he asks loudly, “It’s right over there!” They all turn to where he gestures, startled by his statement. Tony checks his hand, glaring at how empty it was.

           Thor breaks out into a smile, “Steve! You prove yourself the sharpest amongst us once more!” He thanks him for the compliment, following Thor over to Tony’s phone.

           Corralling him so that his backside faces Bruce, Steve nods at Thor, “If you will.”

           Thor bends down. However, as he does so, Steve hooks two fingers into the waistband of his shorts and tugs. Only after he glimpses the forbidden skin does he realize what a bad idea this was. Especially once he sees Thor forwent underwear that day.

           A cacophony of sound surges over him, from Thor’s gasp as the cold air hits his skin to the cry from the peanut gallery at the sight they were treated to. Over it all, however, is the distinct shredding of clothing. Everyone, including Thor, whip over to Bruce. His glasses lie broken in front of him, and his lab coat’s sleeves tatter around his now broad shoulders. Bruce hadn’t turned fully green, but his verdant eyes complement the stripes of similar color highlighting where his veins were.

           “Bruce,” Thor says, fixing his shorts, “What are you… what’s going – woah!” Bruce lifts him over his shoulder, stalking out of the room with furious intent. “Bruce!” Thor shouts over his grunting, “Where are we going?”

           “Bedroom. Now.” Thor’s response remains unknown as the metal doors slide closed behind them, giving the two privacy. Steve watches them leave, sighing in contentment. His calm dissipates when he finds five faces glowering menacingly at him.

           “What?”

           “I can’t believe it,” Sam starts, “All it took was mooning him?”

           “You’re not even in the pool!” Wanda shouts, fingers sparkling with red energy, “How much time and energy I spent untying shoelaces –“

           “That was low, Steve,” Natasha says, “Even for you.”

           Scott kicks at the floor, slumping in on himself. “Now where am I going to look at an ass like his?”

           Tony let the others vent their pent up frustration before stepping forward. He reaches into his pocket and stuffs something into Steve’s hands. Upon closer inspection, he sees several folded bills. “I hope you’re happy Steve,” Tony says, “You can buy yourself lots of charcoal pencils with this allowance.” He whistles, rounding up his troupe and leading them away from the lab as well.

           Steve stays, still confused over what dominoes he knocked over.

Epilogue

           He hasn’t left the Tower yet, going through paperwork Fury sent him from the rebuilt SHIELD compound upstate. Steve sits alone in the break room, rubbing at his tired eyes. There’s only so many times he can stare at numbers before his mind starts shutting down. He’s saved from his duties by the sound of a door opening nearby.

           “Hello Steve,” Thor greets, moving over to the Keurig to make some coffee, “What are you doing here so late?” He can’t speak; too shocked by how his friend wears nothing more than a fresh lab coat that hugs him tight in all the right places. Steve waves his tablet, communicating his tasks silently. Thor understands, smiling. “A leader’s job is never done I suppose. Wouldn’t you rather do this though from your apartment in Brooklyn?”

           Steve shrugs, clearing his throat. “Rather keep a work-life balance…” he says, voice hoarse from the tension.

           Thor chooses not to remark on Steve’s mood, grabbing a nearby mug and pouring his drink into it. All the while, Steve’s conscious harasses him for the terrible thing he did. Circles overhead, calling him names and saying he was no better than the others. He takes all he can until he breaks, when Thor pours sugar into his coffee.

           He apologizes, rushing out his words before they could stick to the roof of his mouth. When he finishes, he clamps his eyes shut and waits for Thor to verbally strike him with lightning. A long beat passes with nothing happened. Steve blinks his eyes open, finding Thor staring at him in confusion, sipping at his coffee.

           “Uh… what was all that?”

           “It was… I’m saying sorry,” Steve tells him, “For exposing your… you know.”

           Thor clucks his tongue, understanding. “Oh, you don’t have to apologize for that.”

           Steve splutters, features morphing to express his frustration. “What do you mean?”

           Setting his coffee down, Thor leans against the counter. “It was all a part of the bet wasn’t it?”

           “You knew about the bet?”

           “Of course I knew about the bet,” Thor chuckles, “You think I didn’t notice everyone staring at me like the juiciest leg of mutton left on the banquet table?”

           “Then why… why did you –“

           “Go along with it all?” he says, “It’s not like I’m ashamed of my blessings. Plus I love the attention, especially from a certain nerdy scientist with anger issues…”

           “So you’re fine with all that happened?” Steve asks, “What I…”

           “I got what I wanted, and you won the bet,” Thor says, smirking, “All in a day’s work, I say.”

           The weight in Steve’s stomach still doesn’t sit right. He digs around for the money Tony gave him, pushing it across the breakfast table and over towards Thor. “You should have this, I don’t feel comfortable –“

           “Nonsense, Steve,” Thor says, “You won that fairly. To the victor belong the spoils.”

           “You deserve it though, for putting up with all of us.”

           Thor shoves the money back across towards Steve before walking over to the door. He pauses, glancing at him over his shoulder. “You should know me well enough by now that I don’t put up with anything I can’t handle. And like I said… I got everything I need from this.” He winks, leaving Steve alone in the break room once more.

           Steve sighs, staring at his dirty money. “I’ll give it to Bruce,” he decides, “He won’t turn down free money.”

#Avengers Endgame #Thor #Bruce Banner #Thruce #Steve Rogers #Post Endgame #Thruce fanfiction #Thruce fic

[warsofasoiaf]

Composite bows continued

Okay, back from holidays.

To continue where we left off, proper bow care is as important for a longbow as for a composite bow. Water will dissolve the glue that attaches the horn nocks (something Humphrey Barwick, arguing in favour of firearms in the 16th century, knew first hand) and weaken the string (which was treated with hide or bone glue for durability) of a longbow just as much as it will start to dissolve the glue of any unprotected composite bow. The stave might fare better and take a lot more abuse from moisture, even unoiled, than a composite bow will, but John Smythe still though it essential that the stave be treated with a mixture of wax, rosin and tallow to protect it from damage by the elements.

The big difference I see is that composite crossbows and longbows is that composite bows had more durable waterproofing. Between the leather/parchment/birch bark etc that covered the bow and the lacquer or other hard wearing waterproof layer applied on top of this, composite bows could stand up to a reasonable amount of abuse without needing to be treated. I’d say that it’s less necessary for a composite bow to be protected from a shower than a longbow (assuming horn nocks, which don’t seem to be common until the late 14th or early 15th century), although I wouldn’t want either to be exposed to the rain for any length of time. The degree to which modern owners have this problem may reflect the construction of their bows, which might not reflect traditional standards. Alternatively, it may be that their bows were constructed in dry areas, and thus aren’t able to cope with moisture as well as a bow made in a humid area. At any rate, at least one manufacturer of traditional bows hasn’t found any problems with moisture, which points towards materials and quality of construction in my opinion.

 If I remember correctly, Payne-Gallwey used a steel crossbow instead of a wooden crossbow for that test, but I only half-remember that anyway.

I was a bit ambiguous here. What I meant to say is that Jean de Venett, the source for the story about the rain effecting the Genoese crossbows, mentions the Genoese strings getting wet and contracting so that the Genoese couldn’t draw the string back, but Ralph Payne-Gallwey soaked a crossbow with a waxed string for a day and a night and found no change. He was under the misapprehension that the strings for composite bows weren’t under tension or waxed, which is why he mentions steel prods in connection to his tests. 

In comparison to Venett, Giovanni Villani suggests that the English archers were protected by wagons and heavy cloths, enabling them to shoot 3 arrows for every 1 bolt (the Chronique Normande also mentions the English archers being protected by hedges, carts and other defensive devices), while the Anonimo Romano does mention the rain, but blames it for making the ground muddy and the stirrups of the crossbows slippery, and thus the loading of the crossbows difficult. My view is that Venett had heard about the rain but misunderstood why the Genoese had struggled to load their crossbows, whereas the Italian chroniclers had better access to stories by the survivors. The strings stretching seems to be a latter misinterpretation.

The second part of what I said, about there being no mention of composite lathes falling apart in the rain, was meant to be more general for medieval history rather than just applicable to Crecy or Payne-Gallwey. I haven’t yet come across any mention of composite lathed crossbows falling apart as a result of rain or moisture, or there being a preference for wooden crossbows in areas like Wales or on ships. Composite lathes, so far as I’ve been able to find, thrived under all conditions in medieval Europe, and I can’t think of a reason why ordinary composite bows wouldn’t either. 

Good to have you back, though I hope you didn’t cut your vacation short on my account.

No argument in that proper care is important for any bow. Over time and with gradual exposure to the elements the stave will warp and twist. Heat and moisture over time have always been the bane of engineers, and absorption of moisture into the stave would alter the physical characteristics of the bow whether self or composite. 

I’m not sure if composite bows would be able to bear up to the same waterproofing as a crossbow with a composite prod. At least if I’m looking at these diagrams I’ve pulled off the interwebs right, the crossbow looks like it’s far better vis-a-vis waterproofing than a composite bow. 

The explanation for Crecy seems plausible to me. It’d hardly be the first historical lie blamed on the weather and it isn’t going to be the last. If the water got into the stirrups and prevented the crossbowmen from getting a secure brace, their rate of fire and thus their effectiveness would be impaired much more than a longbowman in a prepared defense, especially if a bow slipped off a wet boot in a stirrup and got muddy.

So I guess it’s a matter of investigating where the composite prods of a crossbow seemed to fare better than a composite bow itself. Certainly due to the larger construction, there’s more surface area of a bow that could potentially run into a problem, but I guess I’d have to look into it to see whether that would be very significant.

Thanks as always for your contribution, Hergrim.

-SLAL

#archery #hergrim #submission

[cleanpieceofpaper]

That Damn White Blank Page: All Hail Google Maps

This is “That Damn White Blank Page”, a series of blog posts about writing, research, editing, and all of the ways that stories are built.

This time: writing about places you’ve never been and the power of Google Maps

Have you ever been to the Grand Canyon? I haven’t. But my newest characters are about to take a road trip across North America to the big gash in the ground, and it’s not like I have the time or money to take off across the country to see what it’s all about. Good news: my seventh-grade social studies textbook was right; technology is shrinking the world. I set up shop in the coffee place that I’m trying out (my hunt for the perfect writing spot continues) and started, of course, at Google. All praise the internet, the only true god we know. Google maps can take you anywhere. You can get directions, drive roads on the other side of the world, and even visit attractions via photos—you can see inside the White House for instance—drop that little person figure down just about anywhere on the map and you can really get a feel of the place.

I first discovered how detailed all of this could be when I worked at a call center that dispatched roadside assistance. T’was horrid. But one thing they couldn’t keep you from was Google maps, because you frequently needed to use it to figure out where the fuck people had broken down. It’s always in the middle of absolute nowhere. So anyway, I would pick some spot and “drive” the back roads or pick a landmark and “walk” around. Or even visit other planets (yes, you can do that). Escapism at its fucking finest.

First, just the satellite image of the canyon from above. The 3D is a little trippy, and sometimes the depths look like mountains instead. It looks like stretch marks lumping their way across the middle of Arizona.

Then, the drive. I’m going to do another whole post about this. Look out for another That Damn White Blank Page (TDWBP) titled “Head West, My Dudes” which will detail the route that my characters are going to take. I studied the route Google had created and made notes about which states and major cities they would pass through. I jotted down which Interstates and highways they would be taking and dropped down into street view every so often to get a look around. Spoiler alert: its mostly desert.

I’m an east coaster, Florida specifically, and I’ve seen my share of the eastern US—but the only places I’ve been east of the Mississippi are Los Angeles and Seattle. There is so much gaping middle of the country that I haven’t seen. I’ve never been to a desert at all. I’m from swampland, so anytime I see an image of the southwest United States, I feel like I’m looking at Mars.

So, I “drove” across parts of Texas and New Mexico, and Arizona and, while it’s no replacement for the real thing, it’s as close as I’m going to get, at least for the near future. I would follow the road for a while, get a feel of it and then jump farther down the route. I stopped and zoomed out here and there to get a look at the surrounding area—just like a tourist making a quick pit stop to see the sights. I plopped down at random points on the Laguna Pueblo and in the Petrified Forest National Park, and even “hiked” around on Humphreys Peak (with a group of sporty folks and a dog) in the Coconino National Forest north of Flagstaff.

Back on the road, I was starting to get close. I wasn’t sure how it would work. How close could it get me? Can you see it from the road? That feels dangerous. You know, like Thelma and Louise, when they got the blues. (Yes, you can count on me for all manner of quotes from musicals, you are welcome.) Finally, I found a sign: 25 Miles to Grand Canyon National Park. Woot!

I skipped forward a bit, saw the entrance gate, and then a sign that said: First view of the Grand Canyon 500 Feet.

Google took me right up to the edge. Well the roads took me to a parking lot. And then I jumped over to some photo spots right on the rim by the Desert View Watchtower. And Holy. Fucking. Shit. It is amazing. It is breath taking. Nature is so fucking skilled at creating cool stuff. And I haven’t even been there. This is just a picture. But it’s a pretty awesome picture. I know where I’m ending this story now.

I grabbed a couple screen shots of my adventures and put them down below. Obviously, these are not my photos. Google has credit to the photographers in the upper left corner, and the people are, of course, blurred out (but not the dog).

My map adventure gave me a great jumping off point for understanding some of this terrain, but that’s all it is, a glimpse into the visuals.

Next time on That Damn White Blank Page: first-hand accounts of Texas, cross country driving, and what it’s actually like to go see the Grand Canyon. Also, marriage, parenthood, and loss. I’m going to ask people I know and listen to what they have to say.

Use every tool in your belt. Fuck that “write what you know” bullshit (look for a TDWBP on this topic coming soon).

Until next time, put life in every word to the extent that it’s absurd -Jay

The canyon:

“Hiking” with a dog

#that damn white blank page #tdwbp #writing #blogging #long post #google #google maps #maps #research #books #dogs #grand canyon #pictures #Arizona

[heartofstanding]

the brittle crown - excerpt (so I realised I was writing a bit in the “Humphrey Duke of Gloucester and Henry VI feed ducks” which would really hurt if you guys read this scene from my novel, and I need validation so, here it is. 872 words, set in 1398, featuring the Lancaster brothers, no warnings apply except for sad children and unedited writing.)

Everything Lancaster said echoes in Harry’s head, pounding at his temples, as he heads upstairs. He would like to find somewhere dark and quiet to sit and think, but his brothers are waiting for him and his news.

He finds them in the room set aside for their lessons, two of them sitting at the bench in front of the long table. Humphrey’s head lies on the table, his nose pressed against the spine of a closed book, and John is sketching idly with charcoal on parchment. Thomas is stretched out on a chair, looking almost like he’s sleeping. His eyes slit open as he regards Harry.

‘You were gone a long time.’

‘Grandfather wanted to talk to me,’ Harry says. His brothers stare at him, horrified. ‘I didn’t get caught, he just wanted to talk.’

He sits down between John and Humphrey, and Humphrey crawls determinedly into his lap, not caring it’s a tight fit. Harry settles an arm around him, and looks at John’s sketches. Vague shapes are all he can see; perhaps a boat, perhaps a wave.

‘Well?’ Thomas says. ‘Did you hear what’s been decided?’

Harry nods. John drops the piece of charcoal and wipes his hands clean on a crumpled cloth, staring up at Harry. Harry sighs. He doesn’t want to tell them, but he has to. Better to do it quickly, then.

‘John’s going to London and Humphrey’s going to Eaton with Blanche and Philippa.’

‘What?’ Humphrey’s head jerks up. ‘What? But I – what have I done wrong? I’ve been very good, Harry. I even ate the cabbage soup without complaining! Why can’t I go with John?’

‘Father’s worried you’ll get sick again,’ Harry says. ‘He doesn’t want you to travel.’

‘And London smells,’ Thomas says. ‘So you’d probably get sick again and die. Father wouldn’t even be allowed to go to your funeral.’

Harry scowls at Thomas, feeling Humphrey grab onto him tight. There’s no point trying to scare Humphrey into being grateful. John pats Humphrey’s arm, but it’s clear he’s torn between joy at being in London and upset at being on his own.

‘But I haven’t been sick for ages!’

‘Five months,’ John says. ‘That’s not long.’

Humphrey pouts, slumping against Harry. ‘Can’t we run away? All of us together?’

Harry almost laughs. Thomas does.

‘If we had any idea of how to fend for ourselves, sure,’ Thomas says.

‘We could be knights,’ Humphrey says. ‘We’d travel around England, killing dragons and fighting bad men.’

‘Dragons aren’t real, you clout,’ John says. ‘I’ve told you that before.’

Humphrey’s face suffuses with colour. ‘Dragons were real. Saint George fought one.’

‘Well, they’re not real anymore, dog-face,’ John shoots back.

‘Don’t argue,’ Harry says, delivering a warning poke to John’s side before squeezing Humphrey. ‘As skilled as you are in your training, Humphrey, you’re too small to take on a live dragon if one could even be found.’

‘But you could!’

Harry laughs. ‘I’m very flattered, but—’

‘He can’t even beat me,’ Thomas says, grinning. ‘Either way, Humphrey, you need a better plan.’

Humphrey opens his mouth, but John beats him to it. ‘So, of course, dragons aren’t real, but we can still offer our services as knights, and people would see how brave and good we are and give us free lodging and food. And if the king tried to banish us, or have us locked up, the people would rise up and protect us.’

Harry grins, shaking his head. ‘Alas, you have failed to account for two things.’

‘What are they, then?’ John says, eyes turning shrewd, ready to solve the problem the moment Harry names it.

‘One – none of us have been knighted. Two – our lord grandfather.’

‘He won’t care,’ Humphrey says, then pauses, as if some horrible thought is coming to him. ‘Will he?’

‘Oh, he will,’ Harry says. ‘He will be furious and, after that, he will have us found and dragged in before him, made to answer for our disobedience.’

‘And Father would be very disappointed in us.’ Thomas says. ‘Anyway, I want to see France and everything, so I’d betray the plot and have you all locked up.’

‘Thomas!’ Humphrey squeals.

‘I hope you get really seasick,’ John mutters, glaring at Thomas. ‘You’d deserve it.’

‘It’s not fair,’ Humphrey whines. ‘It’s not, it’s not.’ He buries his face in Harry’s chest, shoulders shaking. Harry hugs him closer.

‘We’ll write,’ he says. ‘All the time. So much so that when we see each other again, we won’t have anything to talk about.’

Humphrey clings to Harry’s tunic. ‘You can’t go.’

‘You know I don’t have a choice,’ Harry says. It is both a kingly order and their grandfather’s wish. ‘And neither does Thomas. But I will do my best to have the king look kindly on you, and on Father again.’

‘And on you,’ John says. He leans into Harry like he’d crawl onto his lap too if he could fit. Harry wraps his free arm around him. ‘He’s got to like you as well.’

Harry shrugs. It doesn’t really matter whether the king likes him or not, so long as he does what he’s supposed to do and convinces the king to allow Henry to return home.

#sometimes i write things #the henry v novels #lancasterlings