#dubiously magical girl

[mahounomanga]

Mai (a.k.a. Mai, the Psychic Girl)

I am extremely grateful to live in a time where English translations of manga are as accessible as they are. There are plenty of titles I either plan to cover on this blog, or have covered already, that would not have been accessible to me just fifteen years ago. Even if we're only talking about official releases, we are in an era when I can walk into my local Barnes & Noble and buy volumes of semi-recent magical girl titles like Cosmo Familia, Machimaho, and Nirvana. Today I want to take a look back to the beginning of that legacy, and examine what was probably the first magical girl manga ever to get an official English release.

Mai is a 1985 manga written by Kazuya Kudo and illustrated by Ryoichi Ikegami. The story revolves around Mai Kuju, a 14 year old girl with powerful psychic abilities, especially psychokinesis. At first she mostly uses her powers to amuse herself when bored; however, she catches the attention of the Wisdom Alliance, a shadowy organization tracking young psychics worldwide. Mai is one of five teens the Wisdom Alliance has taken an interest in, and once she realizes she's being followed, she has no choice but to go on the run. Encountering danger at every turn, Mai accepts help from those willing to offer it, but when the going gets tough, the tough get psychic.

The story is highly serialized, gradually building on itself and undergoing major status-quo changes along the way. Usually these changes have to do with who Mai's allies are at any given time. One of the things that stands out to me about this manga is the number of people who come to Mai's aid. Ordinarily this kind of character-trying-to-escape-from-a-myserious-group story carries a message of "trust no one", and I was honestly glad to see that subverted here. These supporting characters (usually) don't detract from Mai's story, but reinforce her as the emotional core of the narrative. Oftentimes, Mai's reaction to the events unfolding around her are given as much focus as the events themselves, especially early on. I found this series more compelling than I expected, and even with a chapter count higher than any other manga I've read for this blog yet, it was decently easy to get through. It helps that the chapters were short and well-paced. Lavishly detailed panel compositions draw out the action in some scenes and sell the more tender moments in others.

Not everything about this manga is great though. A content warning is in order for violent and erotic imagery. The violence is used sparingly, and it often conveys the emotional impact and stakes of the narrative, but still, the headsplosions felt unnecessary and caught me off guard. The horny stuff is generally pretty tame, but it does show up more frequently near the end. There's some occasional nudity and inevitable panty shots during the flying scenes, which, whatever, but Mai sustaining outfit damage during the final battle felt completely uncalled for. The political implications of this story are a bit messy as well. Not just in the sense of dated gender relations and gender stereotyping (though there is plenty of that too). The Wisdom Alliance alludes to real-world political systems and historical events in ways that can be hard to parse what the author was implying. They even go so far as to draw comparisons to the Third Reich in terms of the amount of power the Wisdom Alliance holds, which feels questionable. Not to mention, there's some racial stereotyping going on with the psychic kids from other countries. Japanese and white characters in this manga are almost always drawn attractively and/or with realistic proportions, while the Mongolian and Vietnamese boys are... visually distinct let's say. Almost everything about the way they act and talk feels like it's designed to other them, and it's really uncomfortable to read honestly.

The series was co-created by Kazuya Kudo and Ryoichi Ikegami, with Kudo on writing duty and Ikegami drawing the manga. Both worked with Kazuo Koike early in their careers; Ikegami providing illustrations for Koike's 1973 manga I Ueo Boy, and Kudo being one of the first students of Koike's renowned story writing course, Gekiga Sonjuku, in 1977. Both men also worked predominantly in adult-oriented manga with dark and mature themes. From what I can tell, Kazuya Kudo never illustrated any manga, all his stories I know of were drawn by other artists, but he continued writing manga well into the 2000s. Mai is perhaps his best known work, though he is also remembered for Pineapple Army and Nobunaga, the latter of which was also illustrated by Ikegami. Ryoichi Ikegami has been making manga since age 17, and he is still active in the industry as of this writing. Like Kudo, he usually collaborates with other mangaka, drawing rather than writing. One of his earliest works was the 1970 Spider-Man manga co-written by Kousei Ono and Kazumasa Hirai. Three of the manga he drew for have been adapted into OVAs: Kizuoibito in 1986, Crying Freeman in 1988, and Sanctuary in 1996.

Mai was originally published in Weekly Shounen Sunday, a Shogakukan publication, from March 20, 1985 to April 2, 1986, for a total of 53 chapters. The series was reprinted by Shogakukan in six tankobon volumes between July 1, 1985 and July 18, 1986. Media Factory reprinted the series twice in the 2000s, first as three volumes between 2002 and 2003, then as two volumes in 2006. Most recently, Shogakukan published a digital version of the original 6 volumes on April 28, 2020.

But of course, that's only the manga's Japanese run. This series was also translated into Portuguese, Italian, Chinese, and most famously, Mai was among the first manga to be officially published in English. Viz Media collaborated with Eclipse Comics to release the series as Mai, the Psychic Girl from May 19, 1987 to July 12, 1988. Mai (, the Psychic Girl) would prove popular enough with western audiences to warrant multiple reprints, which Viz continued to handle after Eclipse went defunct in 1994. The chapters were compiled into four volumes in 1989 (this time by Titan Books), and a three volume Perfect Collection was published by Viz from 1995 to 1996. Such a widescale release at the dawn of the North American anime and manga boom means that this series is decently well-remembered, seemingly moreso in America than in Japan. (Though that could also have to do with the Japanese title being so nondescript it's difficult to search.)

In fact, Mai, the Psychic Girl was so beloved that there were talks of adapting the manga into a live-action film. This project languished in development hell for decades and ultimately wouldn't see the light of day, despite a script being written and a soundtrack being completed but never released. Over the course of the film's troubled and inconclusive production, it was worked on at different points by Sony, Columbia Pictures, Tim Burton, and Francis Ford Coppola, with Burton expressing interest in the project as recently as 2010. It's unlikely a Mai, the Psychic Girl film will ever happen now, but still, it's kind of a cool side note.

Anyway, back to the manga's English release. I had my concerns going into this, given some of the xenophobic attitudes of the time, and especially because of the tagline on the cover that reads "She is pretty. She is psychic. She is japanese." (Lowercase j? Really?) Thankfully the translation job doesn't seem to lean too heavily into that kind of orientalism. I don't have a secondary translation to compare it to, or a copy of the raw Japanese text, but at the very least the character names are unchanged and the localization team didn't try to hide that the story is mostly set in Japan, in contrast to later and more infamous localizations. There are some nods to American pop culture, such as Mai singing Walk Like an Egyptian by The Bangles in the first chapter, and cameos from recognizable cartoon characters like Snoopy, Garfield, and Mickey Mouse throughout, but from what I can tell, these were in the original. As far as I'm aware, there were only two visual edits made. One was a nude scene being removed from the initial run, which was restored in later printings. The other, and more substantial edit, is that the whole manga is "flopped", a term that refers to the mirroring of pages and panels. Flopping was a common practice in early manga localization given that Japanese books read right to left whereas English books read left to right. Weirdly enough, the flopping here seems a little inconsistent. There were a couple of times I caught details switching sides from one panel to the next. It's not egregious but it is noticeable.

No magical girl manga was officially localized in English before Mai. But I did specify at the beginning that this is probably the first magical girl manga ever to get an official English release. Which raises the question: is Mai even a magical girl manga in the first place? That's... debatable. I talked a little bit about psychic magical girls before in my post on Sennome-sensei, and I stand by the assessment I made in my initial post defining the boundaries of this project that the magic in a magical girl series doesn't have to be literal. It can instead derive from sci-fi or supernatural elements such as E.S.P., so long as the story otherwise meets the criteria of the genre, namely that the story is female led and driven by her using her powers. Therein lies the disconnect with this series. The number of supporting characters in Mai, the Psychic Girl is staggering. That's not a problem in and of itself, after all, many of these characters are pretty fun. Hands down my favorite is Intetsu, a university student with a big heart who might not be a full-on himbo but is at least himbo adjacent. But the sheer number of other characters means there are some chapters, particularly in the middle section, where Mai doesn't appear much. She's still the main character mind you, (no other character gets more focus, and the story manages to continue being about her even in her absence), but it's still a noticeable difference from other titles we've covered. It doesn't help that even when she does show up, there are a couple of stretches of time during which she refuses to use her psychic power to avoid inadvertently hurting anyone. All of this is without even taking into consideration authorial intent: i.e. I doubt the creators intended to make a magical girl manga. Mai, the Psychic Girl draws influence from a lot of different genres. It's an absolute kitchen sink of tropes ranging from martial arts and sword fights to international espionage and government conspiracies. If Kudo and Ikegami wanted to throw in a power trinket or a transformation, it would not have felt too out of place. And yet, this series does not contain any recognizable magical girl signifiers of the time, nor does it draw any influence I can identify from magical girl works that came before it. That's just not the kind of story they were trying to tell.

But despite everything I just said, there are plenty of moments in this manga that feel magical girl-esque somehow. There are certain narrative and visual cues that are not exclusive to the magical girl genre, but are still very prominent within it, which do show up in Mai in some capacity. For one thing, Mai has a puppy named Ron which spends so much time with her, he ends up developing latent psychic abilities of his own. This manifests as extrasensory perception of danger, which he uses to warn Mai of incoming threats, much like some mascot characters do in certain later magical girl works. Mai also has two best friends (named Yumiko and Rie) who are average schoolgirls from whom she has to keep her double life a secret. I was actually pleasantly surprised by how often they reappear in the story, as they and Mai genuinely care for one another, and their friendship very effectively establishes that despite her abilities and the danger she consistently finds herself in, Mai is an ordinary girl. Speaking of how Mai relates to others, the Wisdom Alliance eventually calls in one of the other teen psychics, a German girl named Turm Garten, to help eliminate Mai. A major story arch revolves around the one-sided rivalry between Turm and Mai, the latter of whom just wants to be friends, and it's very much evocative of the dark magical girl archetype. I also feel the need to point out that the series starts with Mai having a prophetic dream, something that jump starts the plot of a few high profile magical girl works. And lastly, we find out early on that in the Kuju family, psychic powers are passed down matrilineally. Mai comes from a long line of female protectors, and this revelation influences the way she thinks about her destiny.

Mai, the Psychic Girl is a mixed bag in just about every way. Some aspects of it are deeply artful, other aspects are atrociously tacky. There are things about it that have aged like milk, and yet it does boast some historical significance. I like it for what it is, even if it's not my usual cup of tea. It's not what one might expect from a magical girl manga, but if you enjoy magical girl stories, you might enjoy this.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Even my Friends just Love Her

|| Dear John Series 💌

Warnings: 18+ sexual and thematic material, not a lot in this chapter but some brief voyeurism and mention of naughty photographs, letters and imagined sex acts

Coauthored: honestly bless my baby Bri who I begged to beta read this when I was stumped three quarters of the way to completion and she went above and beyond and gave the ending of this segment so much life, pretty phrasing and a beating heart. It was a total joy to work on this with you, darling, thanks for your lovely idea that spawned this whole series in the first place.💋 so many thanks to Christi and Ashley who endured my screams about Spangles and writers block

April-May 1945

Her tenth night in Paris found Marge Spencer hard at work earning her keep as a trusted member of The Lana Tierney’s retinue.

She didn’t mind the labor, it had paid for a boat ride and a plane over the pond and the prettiest shared suite in the Ritz, with a view of the iconic skyline and more macaroons than Marge knew what to do with. An American girl of average means, moderate schooling and a vast imagination, Marge felt like pinching herself that her view consisted of the Eiffel Tower; instead, she applied herself more earnestly to her occupation and diligently set about petting the soft white fur fringing Spangles’ little pink nose.

That was the extent of Marge’s job description, pet Spangles, feed Spangles, brush Spangles, wash Spangles, walk Spangles, carry Spangles; anytime Julie Jean couldn't tend to Spangles herself, Marge was at the ready.

Spangles, you see, was a white bunny rabbit of the masculine sex given to Julie on her latest War Bond tour by a Marine gunner and nothing short of death could part the two. He had a blue velvet collar, a fetching little name tag hanging from it and a very active set of whiskers.

“Spangles was my dearest friend before you.” Julie had told Marge when she first introduced them and Marge had done her best to not crumple at that unwittingly dismal revelation.

There had been a lot of those. Julie Jean, as Miss Lana insisted Marge call her, was a unicorn of sorts. Very magical, very shiny, very fragile, dubiously real even to herself. For someone so universally adored she was the loneliest creature Marge had ever encountered, before meeting her she had assumed that waifish little fairies like Julie didn’t exist outside of rather maudlin novels. That felt like a very cruel denial of a very real predicament in retrospect. Julie's happiness was unbounded, universally ignited and childlike in its exuberance, her sadness was without a bit of restraint beyond some brittle and fleeting acting capabilities of keeping it together until she got to the powder room.

During their brief friendship, Marge had already spent a great deal of time hugging the starlet and patting her milk white shoulders in powder rooms. Anyone else indulging in such frequent fits might have caused Marge to give them a little shove and advice to ‘chin up’, but Julie did “chin up” so thoroughly and profitably in between -more than anyone Marge had ever known- that Marge felt rather unentitled to that specific sermon. When Julie was up, she was really up and so was everyone within a mile radius of her. And when she was down -only the single person with her or Spangles knew it. And Marge figured that was a pretty decent way to live; as were three room suites at the Ritz and more flowers on flat spots than a funeral home.

What was missing was someone specific to channel it all into. But that, Marge knew, was why they were in Paris: so that Julie Jean could pour out what she had to offer to an entire crowd of furloughed GI’s or else the recently liberated POWs still waiting for transit and looking altogether too thin and too shocked by their first female sighting in over a year. Julie managed them all beautifully, standing under hot afternoon suns and chilly evening spring breezes like a champ, in spindly heels and fetching chiffon straps, collecting flowers and kisses and horror stories with unfading aplomb.

Tagging behind her each day, cradling Spangles and the overflow of flowers not even Herb could manage, Marge grew tired just by observing. You had to have some kind of heart to keep doing what Julie did day after day. Wake up looking forward to it. You had to have an awfully large receptacle to receive what she had to give, too.

A revolving crowd of hundreds of GIs -or Bucky Egan.

Tagging behind, ever watchful for threatening Hollywood acquaintances or freshly liberated boyfriends in the crowd, Marge had no luck so far. She went to each show, mingled in each press of the crowd before and after, scanning, always scanning for blue eyes and golden hair and the sweetest face she’d ever known.

Gale. There was no reason to think he’d be here, but it had been ages since their last letters, only word had been that they’d been moved and that was from some other pilot in the same gargantuan holding place. As the flurry of a world war wrapping up took hold of bedraggled Europe, no one knew where anyone was. Unless you were a world famous starlet residing at the Ritz in a very promoted continental tour -then folks knew how to find you and serenade you under your hotel window.

Communication lagged terribly and it was a roll of the dice whether your next bit of news would be the most tragic or joyful you’d ever received. Whether you’d hold the person you missed or the telegram regarding them first.

So Marge scanned the crowds and tried her best to receive the overflow of flowers -and the occasional kiss- from the men around her with half the grace Julie showed each. It was really all very flattering, very exciting, and while back home in America there was felt the buzz of approaching victory, nowhere exuded it in such frantic merriment of expectation like Paris.

“Everything’s better in Paris.” Julie had told Marge on the way over, dreamy and giddy herself that her plan had worked, that they were headed over to the same land mass as their men, and that Marge was with her, “Even the best things in the world get magnified in Paris. That’s why everyone doubts it’s real. But it is Marge! It is!”

So far, even sitting on the carpeted floor of the suite, staring out the balcony after ten nights spent here, and petting Spangles wet fur for a living, Marge had to agree it felt more than a little magical.

“Laaaa!” Julie’s exclamation interrupted her reverie, silver belled voice matching the atmosphere to perfection, “Wasn’t that a bop?”

She’d been soaking in that tub for two hours, tap turning and on and off to add more hot water and Marge thought her poor, no doubt sore, feet deserved every second of the extravagance. Plus the room now smelled of bath salts that Marge was pretty sure were the very distilled essence of seduction. And that complimented her view of the Parisian skyline, too.

“Always is with you at the mic.” Marge swore, meaning it, too. Nine shows in ten days and even though she had ulterior motives for attending Lana’s shows -scanning, always scanning- Marge was astounded by the variety and interest the entertainment retained after repeated tastings.

“Yeah? Really? Honest?” Julie sat herself cross legged on the fluffy duvet at the foot of their shared, king sized bed, and chewed her lip like it was her first performance ever. There had been another suite with another bed, and after the second night when Julie heard Marge crying her little heart out over Gale, the consolation had been made. Julie was eager for sleepovers. Never had them before, she swore.

Now these chats happened each night.

“Honest.” Marge got up from seat on the floor and came over to the bed, setting Spangles between them, “You gotta know that? Like those screams and yells were all hoo haa. Trust me, Julie, it was electric. You were electric. Again.”

They sat and pet Spangles in silence for a few moments before Julie spoke up again, soft and sweet as she watched Marge’s dimple deepen, “You’ve made this trip so much better than any other I’ve taken, you know that, Margie? Paris is how it should be with you.” she proclaimed triumphantly, “Lovely and pretty and makes me feel like I can float.”

“You can in my book.” Marge drawled, chucking under Julie’s chin, the girl looked half too young without the makeup and Marge felt it was easier to be friends like that.

Just two girls and a bunny in Paris.

“What do you think they’re doing right now?” Julie whispered.

They spent most of their sleepovers talking about them -the boys. Speculating happy little comforts for them and spinning happy little ever-after’s for themselves when this all wrapped up.

“Hopefully cuddling for warmth.” Marge’s grin grew sly, the mental picture too amusing even if it was bittersweet.

A small commotion in the hall outside sent both girls into high alert suddenly, Spangles’ whiskers twitching in solidarity for their anticipation. This had been happening most nights, too.

“Is it them do you think?” Julie gleefully whispered, untangling her legs and tiptoeing to the door with Marge begrudgingly protesting but following nonetheless.

Julie was generous with the peephole and Marge had given up pretending to be above the jovial pastime of people watching -especially when their swanky floor at the Ritz meant they had the most shocking sort of neighbors. Ingrid Bergman for one, and as of the last six days; accompanied by a man who was not her husband.

“He’s dark.” Marge reported, finally getting a better look at the man in question as the illicit lovers grappled in a kiss and fumbled longer than usual at their key.

“Lemme!” Julie shoved at Marge’s giggling frame and tiptoed to line her eye up, “Ooooh, lord! Marge, Marge I think that’s Capa!”

Marge made a disgusted little face. “Frank Capra? ‘Why We Fight’ Capra? Isn’t he old?”

“No, no.” Julie swatted at her without tearing her eye from her spying view, “Robert Capa -life magazine. War Photographer, Hungarian, very dangerous profession.”

“Being hungarian?” Marge snorted, “Or stealing wives?”

“Oh hush they’re so in love.” Julie whined, rapt attention until the door of the opposite suite banged shut with a decisive crash. “They’re so in love.” she moaned, letting her forehead thud against the door, allowing herself to dramatically slide down the length of the door to the plush carpet.

“He’s very hairy.” Marge was amusedly unimpressed.

“I don’t want him for meeeee!” Julie whined and Marge sensed another little fir coming on and cast a furtive glance at the macarons and tissues across the room on the side table. “It just reminds one of being in love.”

“Well, don’t fret, that’ll be you and John Egan in no time, clawing wallpaper and ruining respectable people’s evenings.”

Julie looked up at her unimpressed and Marge could have recited from memory the next fussy little cry: “He’ll probably hate me.”

Marge sighed and knowing this was going to be a little bit of a moment, sat down beside her, back to the door, matching pajamas a cool silk rub against each other as she hugged the poor girl. “No he won’t.” She insisted, “He’ll think you’re a silly little goose for crying so much over him and he’ll think you’re smart as anything for all the money you’ve raised -and the good you’ve done. He’s an ambitious man, he’s not one to knock a good idea. I bet he’s proud as anything. If he knows about acorn -he’s proud. You can count on it.”

They did this every evening, too.

Julie had never known a lovelier creature more convinced they were unlovable. It helped that the comforting sentiments she dished out like tranquilizers were firmly true; in fact, if anything, Marge was a little braced for the shock of Julie being quite happily eaten alive by the most voracious man she’d ever had the fortune to meet.

“I might as well jump into the Seine if not.” Julie commented casually.

“Yeah, well,” Marge tempered with a squeeze, “maybe don’t come on to him with that one.”

After some time of more innocuous conversation, a commotion startled them, the triple rap of knuckles on the door behind their backs -Herb’s special little knock. They shared a spooked look. Marge, quite settled in her protector mode, rose first. She gave the peephole a cursory little look to make certain before sliding the lock and cracking the door open as wide as was respectable in silk pajamas.

“Herb?”

“Miss Spencer, Miss Julie,” he gave a nod, something odd in his bearing, a simmering thing near to nervous excitement that jarred with his sober expression, “sorry to bother, but there’s been a development in the lobby -I, ya see, I’ve been turnin’ all the young bucks away after you go up, as you asked but -there’s one down there now-“

“Does he need a room?” Julie inquired anxiously, she’d put up about ten refugee families in various little suites and over a couple dozen servicemen, “That silly concierge not letting you put it on my tab?”

“No miss, this one’s not lookin’ for a room.” Herb’s keen eyes skittered to Marge, an almost cautionary expression on his face, “He says he recently escaped a camp and by the look of him I’d belive it. He’s asking for -for Miss. Spencer, Miss.”

“What?” Marge was not one to be cautioned against hope, “Herb! What did he say? Where is -what’s he look like? What did he say his name-“

“Gale.” Herb let it drop gently. “Said his name was Gale Cleven, and that Miss Turner didn’t know him but her Bunny Friend did. That he saw Miss Spencer’s face in the papers when he got in this evening, he’s meant to be flown out tomorrow.”

“Julie’s Bunny Friend!” Marge repeated with a hysterical little cry, watery smile gone megawatt, “Julie!! Julie it’s gotta be him!”

“Well, well should we-“ Julie patted her pajamaed self down in a bewildered state of companion joy, “-should we go down? Should he- Herb!” too flustered she begged for some direction.

“Up here, I’d think miss.” he advised, “If he’s not the one, there’s no scene made, I can keep him in the hallway while Miss Spencer’s makes use of the peephole -as she is so fond of doing ages after I knock.”

Marge gave him a wry face which he returned in kind.

“Herb, is he -alone?” Julie asked suddenly, voice quite small and Marge could have knocked herself over the head with the ice bucket for being so very callous.

“Yes? Is there a dark haired, tall, big, loud-“

“-American major with him named John?” Herb supplied, ever astute and dampening in the extreme, “No, he’s alone. Or that is, besides the army man who drove him in.”

“Right.” Julie wiped her sweating palms on her thighs, sitting heavily on the bed but doing her damndest to maintain a bright smile. “Don’t leave poor Major Cleven down there any longer, Herb! Bring him up! I’ll wring for room service.”

“He -he may not be-“ Herb cautioned once more but Julie was adamant, already dialing:

“No, no more buts, it’ll be him. And he’ll have news of John. Go! Go go go!”

Marge gave Herb a pitying shrug of solidarity but the minute he was out in the hall she gave all pretense of calm, turning in a giddy spin that spooked poor Spangled and took out an already precarious floral arrangement. “Should I dress? Should I-“ Marge patted herself down now, but Julie, having primly placed her order and tipped it with a sugar coated thanks came over to her, and merely began to take Marge’s blond strands out of their rag curlers.

“No, you should have your hair undone.” the actress proclaimed, “And your top button, too.”

“Julie!“ Marge gasped, somehow it all felt so very likely, with him possibly downstairs, maybe in the elevator now, all their naughty little girls chats suddenly leaving the realm of hypothetical at the likelihood of Gale actually seeing that extra sliver of skin in mere moments.

“Marge.” Julie gave it back to her, fingers insistent on the silk, “It’s up to you to welcome him home.” she preached with girlish simplicity, “And as you’re not home yourself, you must make do, bring home with you.”

“How?” Marge stressed.

“There is nothing more domestic than a lady in a carefully crafted state of repose.”

“There’s not?”

“No, there’s not. ‘Me? Just rolled outta bed to welcome ya honey!’ See?” Julie parroted her alter ego with a little shimmy that sent her own curves jiggling beneath the shiny fabric in such a blatant way that even Marge had to admit she had a point. “Besides,” she added with practicality that sounded very much parroted from Marge herself, “we don’t have time and there’s nothing sexy or welcoming about a woman struggling into her house dress.”

“Ohhh shooo!” Marge began to hit at her when another knock sounded.

“Oh god.” Julie vocalized for her, squeezing Marge’s hand encouragingly, “It’ll be him.” she rallied.

“Yes.” Marge set her chin firmly and having plucked up her bravery, strode to the door purposefully. Somehow it felt like a doubt unworthy of their love for her to use the peephole, so without even a moment's delay in turning the handle, Marge flung wide the suite door and stared back at the two men outside in the hall.

He was pale as spector, those dear and onetime soft features nearly gaunt from deprivation, a criss-cross of purpling scars cutting across parchment skin; but the eyes were the same, sunken and dulled as they were, the same soul stared back at her and the thread between them held firm.

“Marge?” that voice was just as deep and thrilling and homey as she remembered, it had melted her belly and filled her with devotion from his first greeting in Texas. She had not stood a chance, not then and not now.

She was throwing her silk clad self against his filthy overcoat before she could fully comprehend anything else beyond it being him -it was him.

“Gale, Gale, Gale it’s you!” Marge panted in his embrace, the heavy feeling of his hand cradling her head a long imagined thing that winded her in reality.

Julie stood back mildly stunned. She fiddled with her own turban, having forgotten to see to her own appearance. If watching Capra and Bergman hurt so good this- this was bone deep beauty that hurt like a hundred little cuts soothed by a warm bath. Major Cleven was muttering about dirt and redefining what missing her meant into something eternal and something else comparing Marge to angels.

Julie and Herb exchanged the communicative glance of well satisfied colleagues over the lovebirds’ shoulders. If she looked hard she thought she could see commiseration in his face, too. It was intolerable, and she turned her back on the scene and fumbled on the bureau for her cigarette case. The latch was being pesky, it made a clatter as she tried to wrestle it open on the tortoiseshell table top. She’d dropped the thing one too many times, and now the latch was busted just so that it was a bore to get it open.

“Miss Turner.” her real name spoken by a man made her jump, all the more so as he was so close behind her, suddenly deep into the suite as Julie had let too many moments go in her fight with the case.

Julie braced herself on the bureau and turned round to give Major Cleven his deserved smile. He really was as beautiful and ethereal as Marge talked of, recognizing in him some matching features to her own made her want to giggle in embarrassed disbelief at Egan’s obvious preferences. But her quips and greetings died on her tongue at his intense stare, a pink flush making it into his sallow cheeks the longer he looked at her and she recalled how he had seen her picture. But still he held her gaze and behind him Marge looked encouragingly expectant, and as if he could feel his girl’s prodding, he rallied.

“Miss Turner I-“ Gale Cleven looked at a loss for a brief moment, “-for everything! Thank you, for everything.”

“Why, whatever for? I-“ Julie’s batting little laugh was smothered by a sudden and engulfing hug of her own, and while she’d endured and repaid many a hug from soldiers and men alike, this one was different. “Oh Major Cleven, it’s alright, it’s a joy really.” She patted at his back and tried to grin back at Marge’s watery eyed happiness. Herb had gratefully closed the door behind the bedraggled major.

“You saved his life, ya know?” Cleven had pulled away suddenly, very emphatic hands on her shoulders and Julie caught a glimpse of something fatherly like she’d only imagined. “You’re what kept him going.”

“Did he-“ Julie felt her voice grow thin, in aggravation she about stomped her foot in his embrace, “-did he hear? I tried to send messages after-“

“He heard, ‘em.” Gale’s little nod shook her, too.

“He did?” Some chipped and unsettled hope was suddenly falling right into place in her heart, cemented and sure, “He did. But, he’s not with you?” she couldn’t help the little beg.

Cleven’s face fell and so did his hands. Marge approached them, feeling a presentiment. “What happened?”

“We planned to make a run for it together.” Cleven sounded guilty as hell, “Had to be that night. Two went over the wall just fine and I was following and he was behind and they spotted us.” If Julie could have found it in herself to hate him, the wretched look he flashed her would have compelled forgiveness on the spot, “He told me to go -and I did. And I heard shots after and I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Stunned, not at all expecting something of that nature, Julie clung to her furniture a little harder and tried to lean on that newly fastened hope in her heart. They had been connected all this time, she had felt it and now Gale had confirmed it and, she may be insane for it but- “It’s alright, we don’t know, which means we don’t know anything bad either.”

“Yes!” Marge’s voice was a little overly emphatic for the quiet moment, “That’s true! Nothing bad.”

“I know he’d take care of himself,” Gale offered, “-he has been. Just for you. Only thing keeping him on the straight and narrow.”

“Then I think,” Julie dared, feeling her cheeks growing hot and wet, this night being altogether too much to pretend at something close to sanity when with dear friends, “I think we’d know, don’t you? Me and you, we'd

know if he wasn't ... here anymore."

Gale looked at her like she was crazy but at the same time, understanding unfurled behind his eyes, as if he wasn’t used to relying on feelings like this, but it didn’t mean he didn’t know they were real.

Julie meant it, and believing it made some loathsome part of himself calm under the comfort of it. “Yeah,” he muttered, “I think we would.”

“Now!” Julie clapped her hands, Lana’s mask coming to smooth her face and brighten her smile, it wasn’t fair to Gale or to Marge to make this a somber evening, late as it was -this was Paris! The Ritz! If a celebration couldn’t be had and comforts procured, where could they be? “What we do have on our hands -is you! And you look as if you could use a burger and coke and a bath! And I’ve got all of them here, don’t argue, don’t you dare, Marge deserves to see you fed and moderately clean, don’t you think?”

Put that way, as a service to someone else, Gale Cleven only had weak thanks and pale rebuttals about needing to be at the newly rebuilt airport outside the city to get back to Thorpe Abbots tomorrow. He was still enthralled to military time, he hadn’t counted on this, not at all, but it didn’t change things-

“I’ve got a valet, Major, he could get you to Siberia tomorrow if you needed. Now hush, I’ve rung for food. Where are they? Herb! Herb!”

“It’s best to just go with it.” Marge teased him as he catatonically watched the starlet boss about the waiters and her valet, bewildered and bamboozled at the sudden luxury. The sudden proximity of his girl, too.

Suddenly there was nothing else on his mind but one thing, “You said yes.” he reminded in the middle of the chaos swirling around them.

“Yeah,” Marge’s dimples popped, “yeah I did.”

“You still of that mind?” he nudged closer, noses brushing and he was aware that he was filthy, but she was magnetic and willing.

“You’d have to drop off the earth to get out of this one, Major Cleven.”

Gale refused to sit on anything while Julie and Marge fed him from a sumptuous buffet off the cart. He swore he was too dirty to even stand in such a nice place like this but he was also shaky, pale and in dire need of food and with two little blondes plying him with the first bits of American cuisine he’d had in years, he wavered and stayed. His insistence on going to his original billet grew weaker with each passing moment as Marge smiled at him and fed him fries. By the time Herb had been sent down to inform Major Cleven’s jeep driver that his passenger was lost to welcoming arms, Gale had quite forgotten much of anything beyond the feel of a full stomach and the promise of a bath.

For a long time he sat in the cold porcelain shell and ran the water over himself, such a terrible amount of filth and grim didn’t deserve a bath, it would turn even his hardened stomach to sit in the juices of a year and a half’s captivity. So after being shooed by Julie Jean into her intolerably bright and ornate en-suite bathroom, complete with a star’s assortment of toiletries and the bunny’s monogrammed food and water bowls, Gale gingerly let his ratty clothes fall to the marble floor and stepped into the tub.

Over the roar of the faucet he was unaware of the tittering whispers at the door -still slightly ajar and unlatched as Julie Jean was nothing if not a little wicked. And concerned.

“People drown in bathtubs where I come from all the time!” She refuted Marge’s scandalized objections.

“Yes, because they’re pickled with booze!”

“After what he’s been through he’s in about as good of shape.”

Marge knew that statement wasn’t false exactly but her hand still fluttered over her belly in nervousness at the impropriety. “Alright.” she went with it, breathlessly anxious and a little flustered at the blurry something beyond that chink in the hinge.

“Aren’t you going to peak?” Julie unfolded the rest of her play with an alarming smirk. “Come on, he’s going to marry you, how many times will you see him in his natural state at the ritz?”

It wasn’t fair to put it like that, to remind Marge she was living on borrowed fairytale time. It was a deep seated fear she had shared with Julie once as they had the covers tucked up to their chin’s and their hearts out on their pillow cases -that she woke sometimes with a feeling of terrifying urgency and nothing but regrets for a laundry list of bypassed chances she had not taken. Upon waking further and regaining some sanity, she couldn’t for the life of her recall what these fateful omissions that startled her so badly had even been. But times like these, when she went to be good but then was asked if that really was worth her time, such urgency crept back, nagging. “Go on then.” Julie slipped aside, her battle won as Marge surrendered and delicately placed her cheek against the door frame, an eye to the crack.

She had spent many nights imagining the whole of Gale, a beautiful back she had only seen beneath drab olive, the nipped waist and the lanky legs that sent his trousers on a mile long spill of fabric. Her breath hitched at the pale expanse now before her, each proportion how she lovingly recalled but this time without obstruction or disguise, a strange dichotomy: the youthful taper and swell of his backside jarring with stark ribs and a mottle of ugly bruises and festered creases. She didn’t know if her gasp came from desire or commiseration, jerking her face back from the sliver of light as Gale turned his head sharply, as if feeling her observation even as the water had hid her inadvertent noise. Either uncaring or convinced he was mistaken, she watched as Gale stepped into his tub and promptly sank his head beneath the splash.

Julie watched Marge as she watched Gale and she wondered if this is what it was like in fairytales when the gates of the kingdom are thrown open, everything wanted and wished for is there. The protagonists never know what to do with a dream come true, do you eat it? Fondle, crush, preserve it in a glass case? Such a cruel kindness, dreams that come true; Marge’s twitching fingers and gasping lips suggested a torture going on inside her, heavy lidded love and belly hot want.

Julie swore to herself then, she’d feel it too. Soon, she’d be watching the man who owned the jacket as he showed her himself, just as he’d written his heart out for her eyes alone, one day soon he’d be naked and hers and she could watch him and do what people do with dreams.

Perhaps feeling vindictive for being ignored, or perhaps merely thirsty, Spangles suddenly made a series of determined little hops across the suite floor, threaded the blockade of the girls’ feet with ease and, perhaps seeing his chance, nudged open the crack of the bathroom door only to bounce along the marble floor in a cacophonous clatter of little paws that even Gale could hear over the faucet’s roar. Like a slippery fish, he skidded to his side along the bottom of the wide tub, a pink, bath-warmed hand clutching at the edge and hauling his sopping head above the lip to observe his long eared visitor -and the guilty little audience of girls in their night clothes at the threshold.

The look he leveled Marge made Julie’s toes tingle and second guess how chaste these two’s reportedly tame trysts pre-war had really been. “We merely wanted to make sure you didn’t-“ Marge clasped and unclasped her hands, “-drown.” it was a deflated little excuse by the time she got it out.

Spangles had begun to sneeze, ever sensitive to steam and Yardley’s lavender soap, his poor little legs skidding apart further and further on the damp floor. Gale bit his lip from laughing at the cute little creature’s plight.

“Oh laa!” Julie gave up all pretense and entered to save him -the bunny, that is- causing Gale to flail a little harder as if there was a deeper level to the bottom of his tub where he could take refuge. “Add in the bubbles, Major,” Julie always had a remedy, “it’ll hide everything nicely. Don’t ruin poor Marge’s first evening with you by being a prude, she misses you. It’s been years, you know.”

They spent much of that evening in the following way, Gale in his topped off tub, Marge with a mostly useless cloth beside him on the ledge, and Julie primly sat with Spangles in her lap on the closed toilet seat.

“Bucky’s confirmed as best man.” He told Marge, sheepish grin breaking out until both girls laughed at the thought of the boys indulging in their own wedding planning.

He tells them about the radio he built, about the first time they heard her broadcasts, of the photo she’d sent which Bucky and him divided in half each keeping their girl in their pocket,

about Brady and the liturgy of devotion he made up for Egan to recite to Julie’s printed picture on the combine wall. The particulars were left out, Gale being a gentleman to the last, but Julie glowed and wept under the obtuse assurance anyway.

“I trust you kept him warm.” Julie demands, “Seeing as how it’s your fault he didn’t take his jacket.”

Gale tells her of Egan’s presumptuous bunk sharing, how strange things were happening every day and that grew to be commonplace. At her inquiring look he only blushes and stares down at the water, the bruise on his throat blooming under the flush, and for once Julie thinks she knows Gale Cleven better than his Marge.

“I’ve gotta be on that flight tomorrow early!” Gale had just enough energy left to fret even as he was led in a fluffy terry cloth robe to the sofa and made to lay down on fluffed pillows under a velvet duvet.

“Don’t worry about it major, I’ve got everything sorted. We’re coming with you.” Julie insisted, without having even discussed it with anyone as it didn’t require it -of course they’d be going to England with him! And no, she had nothing sorted but as soon as she had Gale deposited on the sofa with Marge’s hands entwined with his from her place on the floor, Julie Jean sent for Herb and summarily entrusted him with sorting it.

“Before seven thirty am tomorrow, please.”

Alone in bed, as Marge had made a poor showing of joining her only to go “check on his breathing” and predictably not returned, Julie lay awake and thought of John. Fat, hot tears rolled out the corner of her eyes and into her ears, tickling her, making a miserable spot on her pillow. Whispering prayers with her eyes on the skyline, she begged him to stay alive for her. “We’re so close, sweet man. We are so close and I love you too much.”

By next morning Herb did indeed have things sorted. Or close to it. There was a small hitch. “Mr. Huston is confused by your change of plans.” Herb informed her as he oversaw the bellman with the last of the trunks. He had ensured Major Cleven’s threadbare uniform had been cleaned and pressed in the night, and when Gale appeared out the en-suite bathroom this morning he looked a modicum closer to how Marge recalled him shipping out.

“What doesn’t he understand?” Julie asked, feeling cross and dreadful suddenly.

“He asked to hear it from you. Room 608.”

“Well I, I suppose I should run by it and then we can be on our way.” Julie decided with brave sprightliness, fixing the little net on her hat to cover more than just her eyes.

“We’ll go with you.” Marge decided with forceful kindness; her pull on his arm was all the command Gale needed not to protest.

“Who’s Huston?” he asked as the elevator whirled them one floor higher.

“My business partner in the broadcast.” Julie replied, “And the man paying for this excursion. I suppose he’d like to make certain I’ve not gone looney.”

Mr. Huston’s cuban valet opened the door and behind him, despite the fresh morning hour, was a scene out of one of Gatsby’s parties. Multiple women in little clothing and a significant amount of discarded booze littered the place, and Huston, smoking a cigarette and flicking through the paper, did not even bother to leave his perch against the headboard. Julie suddenly felt as if she were seeing the scene through newcomers eyes and her face burned to be associated with it.

“Jack.” She greeted, knowing that despite how he had moved on for the most part, he would have teased her maliciously for trying to distance herself in front of her friends.

“Baby.” He flopped down his newspaper, “What’re you doing in here wearin’ tweeds? You know how I hate tweed, does nothing for your assets. God take off that jacket and pour a drink -who’re your friends?”

Julie clutched the donned sheepskin even tighter and could almost sense Gale Cleven shifting from one foot to the other, a loose stance of being on guard. “This is Major Cleven of the mighty eighth, and you know my dear friend Marge -she’s is his fiancé.”

“Ah, a fellow airman!” Jack perked up, rising off the bed with his full chest on display under a gaping embroidered robe and approached Cleven with a smug sense of equality. He stuck out his hand and Gale made him wait five whole seconds before he returned the grip, tightly. “Pleasure, Major.”

“Do I know your squadron?” He drawled.

“Oh, I’m an observer mostly. But I’ve seen some combat.” Jack didn’t have a group, those wings on his uniform meant about as much as Lana’s broach collection in regard to brave service.

It was like Gale could smell the costume party off him, and Lana admired him immensely for that. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Pacific theater mainly”

Gale was smiling sympathetically and it was the most unsettling thing Marge had ever seen, and it satisfied something deep inside her that had loathed Huston since she first met him in the lobby ten days ago, his hand encroaching down her back and his language towards Lana so territorially possessive it gave the impression of her friend being a collectors item instead of flesh and blood.”Heard it was real windy on those atolls.” Gale remarked.

Huston’s smile wavered but only in confusion, no shard of doubt finding its way into his mind that it was derision curling Gale’s lip. “So- London?”

“East Anglia, actually.” Julie dared, “Major Cleven is in need of a ride” that wasn’t exactly true but “and I thought it would mean a great deal to give him a lift.” After a lengthy pause where Jack just stared at her with a smokescreen between them from his cigarette she added, “Great press, too.”

“You soft hearted little dolt.” Jack barked a laugh and it made Julie jump like all his rash emotions did, he pinched her cheek and tickled her ribs right beneath the swell of herbrassier as he went around her to his desk. “Ok, ok, you can have it. I’ll swing by to collect it and maybe get some footage for the documentary. What’s your group?” he asked Cleven.

“100th.”

“Oh, hell, I’ll definitely be swinging by.” Huston whistled, mind already ablaze with prospective press. “And you,” he pointed at Julie with his checkbook poised like a loaded gun, “better find something to do over there besides playing chauffeuring cupid, something that’ll make your mother think you aren’t going off script.” Julie gave him a frantic nod as victory was in sight and he went on, “But I’ll definitely be swinging by, I’ll pick you up, we’ll go back home out of London. Say, first week of May.”

Julie had no capacity to argue with her benefactor and meekly accepted his proffered momentary advance. She could only pray that John Egan would be in East Anglia by then, and she’d know something of her future: whether ‘home’ would depend on men such a Huston and their fickle lust or a steady ever after with an honest man like John.

“Thanks Jack I-I-I won’t forget t-this.” she managed, before they all dashed out the suite, Cleven having to be pulled from measuring up his seedy benefactor, and down to the taxi stand -England bound.

————————————————

Harry Crosby was taking sharp turns down the long runway at a pace and tempo Rosie Rosenthal did not find suitable but they made it alright, just as the anomaly of a jet came to a full stop on the runway, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the utilitarian bombers stacked alongside on the hardstands. When the radio tower had gotten buzzed for landing instructions from a foreign craft everyone had gone a little bizerk with speculation, but the pilot himself put them out of their suspense when he told Kidd that his cargo included The Lana Tierney and a Major Gale Cleven.

Harry had raced Rosie down the stairs to the nearest jeep and had begun to accelerate before his friend even fully landed in shotgun. Now they were just in time to see the hatch opened and the lanky and familiar figure of Gale Cleven drop to the tarmac in a graceful crouch.

“Harry!” He greeted as he straightened, his voice robust even if his constitution appeared battered by captivity, “They still got you at this dump?”

“Fresh outta the stalag Major,” Harry gave him grief back, “and getting dropped off on base in a private plane with Lana Tierney?”

“Yeah,” Rosie added, “What kinda war you been runnin’ anyway?”

Gale laughed off their backslapping greetings before suddenly recollecting, “Oh, right I forget. Ladies?” and turned back to offer his arms for Marge to take and he swung her gently to the ground.

“Boys, this is Marge.”

“Of course it is.” Harry admired with a hand outstretched to shake hers before he peered up into the plane, not being disappointed when he caught sight of a pair of ever so delicate ankles. “Holy mackerel, it is Bucky’s girl.” he blurted loudly as Lana’s angelic face peered back at him, as pristine and fuckable as her photographs but the delectable whole of her was swathed in Egan’s goddamn sheepskin.

“Aren’t you pretty.” Julie Jean admired Crosby right back, liking him immensely already for the fact he recognized her as Bucky’s girl. “Are you also strong?”

“I- I mean, sorta, not as much as-“ Harry stammered before realizing her meaning and so stretched out his arms to be of use, “allow me, Miss Tierney.” he helped her to the ground with a swing that was perhaps the most graceful of his life, gods be good. She was holding a little white bunny and Harry was instantly charmed.

“Thank you.” she kissed his flaming cheek.

“Who’s this?” Harry pet back the floppy ears, if only to have something to do besides gawk, he knew he needed to not gawk at Johnny Egan’s girl in Johnny Egan’s coat even if the girl in the coat was about as mouthwateringly perfect as—

“This,” Julie proclaimed with all the pride of a mother, “is Spangles.”

“You guys weren’t joking when you said Major Egan was pen pals with Lana Tierney?” Rosenthal shot Cleven a bewildered look.

“No, we weren’t.” Gale agreed.

“We should get you situated again.” Crosby rallied after Lana had sent Major Rosenthal siren red from a cheek kiss of his own, Harry was still vibrating under Lana’s assessing looks and the fond weight of her hand in the crook of his elbow, “We did not expect the company of ladies but I’m sure something could be sorted and uh, well, uh, we’ve got your billet, Major and we’ve got your footlocker. Bucky wouldn't let us ship it back to your folks. He kept saying ‘I expect him back.’ Heh, yeah he said his buddy was just MIA is all. Yeah.” Crosby trailed off before asking in a watery voice, “He not make it with you in the breakout? He ok?”

Julie watched Gale’s face go wretched again, truth dangling off his tongue too close to a damnable thing and she gently cut in for him, “He’s alive.” was all she supplied. “When have you ever known Major Egan or Major Cleven to leave behind their boys without either one of them?”

Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously close to tears before he gave a curt nod that so poorly disguised his emotion Julie immediately felt a kinship to him, “Probably just laggin’ behind, primpin’ his mustache for ya. He’ll be here in no time when he catches wind of our esteemed visitor.” Harry had also gone a little drunk under the influence of Julie’s perfume and Rosenthal had to admit it made him a little charming even if the balance could tip into cringeworthy at any moment.

“Oooh a Jeep ride.” instead Julie bounced Spangles gleefully in anticipation of utilizing the boy's regular mode of conveyance, taking a seat between Rosenthal and Crosby, the gearshift between her legs much to Harry’s driving distraction so that- “Gale and Marge can canoodle in peace” in the backseat.

Harry took the scenic route to Cleven’s old barracks, perhaps to give Gale and Marge more time, to brush Julie’s knee more often in shifting down or out of genuine desire to show her each storied handstand and Nissen hut. Probably a mixture of all three knowing Crosby. But the end result was Julie pink cheeked and wide eyed as a child, soaking in every bit of lore about the man she loved and never recalled, a hanky dabbing at errant tears now and again and Spangles being happily allowed to roam between her lap and Rosenthal’s.

Near the end of their little tour they stopped at one hard stand where Major Cleven seemed close to beside himself in joy to reunite with one of the mechanics, there were two children lagging about as well, civilians and Gale was very eager for them to meet his Marge. Not wishing to be aloof, Julie alighted as well and extended her hand to each of the ground crew, learning of their contributions and their marital status. There was a giggly stir amongst the group when suddenly a bouncing ball of fur attacked Gale from the back, bouncing on hind legs and nipping joyfully, it would appear the loving assailant was an overgrown husky.

“Meatball.” Gale sounded about as fond as he had when he first saw Marge and it made the girls titter behind their gloved hands.

Meatball, having exhausted his greeting of his old friend, turned to inspect the other newcomers, licking at Marge’s outstretched hand before turning with great interest to Julie. She was also inclined to stretch out her hand to him and give the pretty baby a good ear scratch when a sudden perk in the husky's face warned of a different interest: Spangles. If Gale had not noticed at the same time, there might have been a rather gruesome outcome but between Julie’s careful pivot with her precious rabbit and Gale’s strong restraint on Meatball’s collar, both pets lived to be reconciled another day.

“Guess we’re gonna have to train him not to think of Spangles as dinner.” Rosie laughed.

Their final stop was at Buck’s old hut, average in every way from the outside as the next cylindrical skinned hut, muddy path outside that the boys kindly spared the ladies by carrying them to the threshold, even if they protested they weren’t scared of a mired heel. Julie walked up and down the rows of beds, feeling the chilly air inside the metal shelter, footlocker names catching her eye as she scanned them. Somewhere behind her Gale was opening his footlocker, sounds of Marge’s pleased murmurs over finding her picture there reaching Julie from the end of the row. They deserved a minute to themselves and Julie had a specific thing she was searching for.

“Lookin’ for something in particular?” Crosby’s kind voice was very near her.

Julie turned and gave the mild mannered major a soft smile, shrugging her shoulders and her bunny before admitting her sentimentality, “I was trying to find John’s bunk. Felt like I might- know it somehow. But I’ve come up at a loss.”

“Oh he wasn’t in here.” Harry informed her, he always seemed beyond eager to talk about Egan and it warmed her, “He was with the 418th, you know, so he bunked with his boys. When he bunked at all.” He added as an afterthought and Julie’s mind went to all the letters she’d gotten from John dated with a slash between entries, as he wasn’t sure which date to sign as he began most of them at night and finished them at dawn. “Though he hung out here plenty to be with Buck and the other way around.” Harry added.

“Do you, do you think-“ Julie began, feeling shy despite how moderate she knew her request was.

“Wanna see his bunk?” Harry lept at her unspoken desire, “We kept his footlocker, too. We were all too scared to open it after he’d threatened us about your property in it.” Crosby’s creasing cheeks were flaming pink and Julie wanted to pinch them, then he went on, “And for the same reason we hated to send it to his mother. I mean, who knows what was in there, I mean, you’d know what but, I’m not saying there’s anything bad I just, we just-“

“Major Crosby, Harry, I’d love to see it.” Julie took his arm and he swallowed his tongue to shush himself, “Have you got the key?”

“I know a man with the keys.” Harry demurred his own influence yet his smile was sly.

“Major Crosby,” she murmured again as they slipped away from Gale and Marge’s preoccupied chat on his bunk and back out into a misting afternoon, the jeep left for them by a considerate Rosenthal, “I want it known I like you very much.”

Another metal hut. Nothing remarkable from the rest, but to Julie, stepping inside with Crosby at discrete hovering distance, it felt as hallowed as a cathedral. He stood here, he slapped this doorframe, knocked his fool head on that beam, paced a hell of a furrow between these bunks. Crosby had been generous with the anecdotes on the way over, and Julie had allowed herself to pester him, he liked it she could tell, and so she knew that Major Egan spent little time in here anyway, except to occasionally sleep, to dress and to read her letters.

Three of the most intimate activities she could conjure up, one’s she’d laid in her own room and imagined him doing. Basic, human, unpretentious necessities, she imagined John at them all the time until she felt like she’d truly played voyeur: the straightening of a tie, the scratching of an itch, the bleary coming to with a face down in the pillow.

He did those things here. Crosby was scraping a hefty metal thing from under one of the nondescript beds, and with a catch in her breath Julie realized it was his footlocker. “We couldn’t bear to stow it away, all the rookies who slept here after him had to deal with it. This was Major Egan’s bunk, they were just passing through.”

All the rookies. All of them. That meant many had slept here and then, truly passed through, passed on, a fiery death and mud hard landing. Sometimes she felt like the only girl in the world who’d lost something, and then she got told of rookies passing through his bunk and she thought of their mama’s who’d never allow their rooms to become the “spare.” Those rooms would always be theirs, even if they never came back. Just like John’s bunk.

But he was coming back. He had to.

“I-I imagine you’d like a moment to go through it.” Crosby had turned the key but left it dangling there, lid ponderously shut, Egan’s threats of evisceration and testicular imbibement still hanging loudly in the air for Harry, as if not a week had gone by since the last threat. No one looks into Major Egan’s footlocker.

“Yes, I would.” Julie whispered.

“Think you can manage the lid?” Harry hoped she’d not ask him to open it for her, that was too close to losing his balls for comfort. Jean needed them.

“I think I can.” Her voice was weak and her hands a little shaky but she wanted it, and what she wanted she always managed to find strength for. “I’d like to spend a little time in his bunk. Just -just to think of him.” she found herself saying, forgetting to blush under Crosby’s understanding gaze.

“Of course.” he didn’t bat an eye. “I-I could, I could take Spangles for you.”

A laugh bubbled out, “Why, you think I’ll need both hands?” Julie teased.

“Major Egan always did.” Crosby teased right back and Julie never would have suspected so puppyish a man could wear so lewd a look, it made her heart flip flop pleasantly.

“Shh, you’re awful!” She swatted at him with a beaming smile that she knew did the opposite of discourage him. “Take care of him, and get him somewhere warm.” she charged him with her pet, handing over the dear bunny.

“The officer’s club is two huts down.” Harry told her, “Turn right and it’s the second hut, you can’t miss it. Silver Wings. You’ll need to warm up too and that’s where we’ll be.”

“Alright.” she muttered and watched him leave before the slam of the door confirmed her as alone in vast space. It was chillingly sterile and looming as she turned to his footlocker in desperate need of something less monotonous and impersonal.

The lid was heavy and it had his name printed nearly on it. She kissed the C that stood for Clarence -what kind of middle name was that for a young buck anyways? It made her choke on her laugh before she bruised her fingertips by forcing the metal open. It was well stocked, all various sorts of items one might find in any man’s footlocker, soap that she had already become intimate with the scent of from the fleece of his jacket, a baseball, ever so many playing cards, razors, photographs of what she assumed were his family, a brown parcel that screamed of his mother so she left it untouched and books. A lot of books.

Guys and Dolls by Runyon was on top. He’d said that he was reading it in one of his last letters. She put it on the bunk. And then took out another book, and another, admiring the breadth of his taste, the way knowledge was balanced with humor in the collection, just like him. At the bottom of them she found an odd little wrapped thing in silk that her heart whispered was the thing it was secretly pacing its beats for.

His scarf came undone under her cold fingers and from its little makeshift bundle her envelopes poured out. Not a single one unaccounted for. She scooped them up and sat on the bed, allowing them to fan out, testimony and evidence of how much she cared, confession and declarations inside that could damn her a thousand lifetimes over.

-I love you.

That was the only line missing in them. Oh how she hoped he knew it. One envelope was an oddity. Blank, not from her, conspicuously fresh and unbattered by the postal system. She opened it and with a zap of arousal spied her photographs inside. She took them with her as she carefully laid back on the pillow. Sheets had been changed, pillows no doubt swapped, it wasn’t his bunk in more than metal and history but she laid there and held up the black and white prints and imagined him doing the same. The way her figure silhouetted against the hut’s curving ceiling, the patter of rain on the metal roof, the dismal gray light filtering through.

The fact he’d found inspiration to write her such stirring things from so blank a place suggested what kind of mind he had and she had ached, ached for him to not be restrained to suggesting only, but to doing, acting on every wickedly wonderful impulse his pen had confided. The throb grew so badly she wept, clutching and creasing the photographs to her breasts -they were so worn from his constant tracing and kissing and sticky with his smearing that a few more bends would be of no consequence. She pressed them to her face, wondering if she could smell his appreciation off the lewder ones. She could not, if she were being honest, but she felt her nose smudge against something tacky and imagined swallowing.

At the Silver Wings, Harry was trying to recollect if he’d ever been so popular. Maybe when he returned from Breman, they’d all slapped his back and joked about his charting them into a tree and they’d all meant it so admiringly he’d finally felt like he belonged a bit. But that was mostly Ev’s day, as it should have been. And then he’d been promoted, and he’d sent all his friends off into hell, and now days no one but the bartender and Rosie cared for him here as much as he’d have liked.

He should have brought a white rabbit with him sooner.

“The hell did you get that from?” Ev asked him, more intrigued than shocked at this point in the war, little bunny rabbits were a mild apparation.

“This is Spangles Egan.” Crosby informed him, being obtuse just to prove he could be funny when he wanted.

“Egan?” Jack barked from beside the bar, “Who’s naming their pets after Bucky?”

Harry grinned, “Well see, it’s his girl’s rabbit. Which makes it sorta their rabbit. Which means it’s an Egan.”

Ev didn’t look impressed but Jack just looked ever more concerned.

“Lana Tierney is on base and this belongs to her.” Harry finally fessed up although his original explanation still stood as true in his mind.

A repetition of her name and “Acorn? the Acorn?” rose up in the club, a battle between acorns and their varied associations rising up between the old timers, who recalled movie night with John Egan, and the youngsters, who’d spent their recent nights with an ear pinned to her broadcasts.

“Yeah, the ACORN.” Harry confirmed as both stood.

By the time Julie Jean had wiped her cheeks of tears and carefully folded her letters into her coat pocket for safe keeping, snapped the lid of his dear locker and set her sights for the outdoors, she had her face back in place: by the time she entered the Silver Wings, she was everything those service boys had ever dreamed of.

Platinum and cherry lipped and ever so thrilled to see and hug each and every one, Lana Tierney was well and truly in the house and those who knew it whispered amongst themselves about “Bucky’s girl.”

Upon meeting Jack Kidd he received a smattering of kisses on his face as she thanked him endlessly for sending her his jacket.

His laconic, “Glad it made it, ma’am.” was perhaps a little thicker than usual.

The newer arrivals couldn’t share any stories they personally had with Major Egan but they were more than happy to share stories told to them regarding the leader. Like how he paid off that one farmer after Meatball slaughtered his chicken. Or how he let a man from the village throw a dart at the apple above his head. From then on it continued and Lana delighted in hearing stories of her man told over and over again, of the impact he carried with these brave men and the life he brought to the crew. She sat in the middle of all of them as they regaled her with tale after tale, and she only wished he was there to tell the story from his perspective. She was sure he would have the most vibrant commentary.

“… told me he’ll buy me a jacket just like his,” one of the boys was telling Lana when Gale and Marge entered the Silver Wings. They were both flushed and her lipstick was on the collar of his jacket. “Major Cleven!” The soldier stood to attention at the sight of his superior being back.

Gale patted him on the shoulder, “At ease, soldier. And don’t go buying another ugly jacket like his. One on base is enough.”

“Major Egan said it’s about how one wears it.”

“I’m sure he did,” Gale returned, looking over how it currently cocooned Lana’s form. He took in the sight of her surrounded by over a handful of young boys and men, all eyes gawking at her and vying for her attention. Even Ev Blakely was seated beside her with his chin propped on his fist. He looked close to a lovesick idiot. “Now I’m sure you boys don’t want me telling Bucky you were all over his woman while he’s away. I trust you are being polite and proper and nothing else.”

Once again Lana beamed at being labeled as Bucky’s woman or Bucky’s girl. She had never felt so damn proud than in those moments; not even the achievements of Lana Tierney compared. If it was up to her she would gladly belong to Bucky Egan for the rest of her life.

But she also couldn’t shake the feeling of how wrong it felt to be there without him. He was supposed to be the one showing her the base. He would have loved to invite her to his bunk. He would take her to his favorite pub and introduce her as his girl to all the people in his life and having to do any of those greetings and events without him was only managing to further break her heart. Bucky would be so proud to show her around; she wouldn’t take that chance from him. As much as possible, she’d save that for him or not have it at all.

“Rosenthal says he knows a family who can put you and Marge up in the countryside,” Gale informed her. “They’re real big fans of you, he says. It only takes about twenty minutes to get there and back so you ladies can come down to base any time or, uh - I could go visit up there, as well.”

His cheeks tinted pink at his last admission, like anyone would bat an eye at Gale Cleven taking a day’s leave to visit his girl after everything he had recently endured. Julie Jean had half a mind to lock Gale and Marge in a room and let them have at each other, all propriety and waiting for marriage be damned. She didn’t begrudge their beliefs one bit, she saw the passion the two carried for one another and although she had never been in her Johnny’s presence, she knew all the longing and desire and love she had for him would have her undressing and bowing before him in seconds. She would gladly kneel before her man and knowing John Egan would just as happily do the same, settled any feelings of womanly resentment or weakness. Gale and Marge’s pent up passion made one wonder at the fire and electricity that would erupt their wedding night. Julie felt hot under the sheepskin collar simply thinking about it.

“I’m sure Marge would love having you come, sir,” she cajoled, patting the fist he rested on the table between them. Gale didn’t seem all too amused by her sentiments as he narrowed his eyes at her. “Oh, hush! I mean coming to visit. Get your mind outta the gutter, Buck Cleven!”

Gale sent her a look that said he didn’t believe a word out her lying little rosebud of a mouth. She was all mischievous passion under the dusting of make-up.

“Uh huh. I’m going to have my hands full with you and Bucky,” he states with a head nod, like he’s already resigning himself to the fact. There’s a comment on the tip of Julie Jean’s tongue - something about how happy Bucky would be to fill Buck’s hands and how she’s sure he’d enjoy watching Buck touch Julie - but she bites it back. She means no disrespect towards Marge and her loyalty is only to Johnny. She’s also no idiot and the love the boys carry for one another knows no bounds or familiarity, yet, if they wanted to choose to be blind and ignore it, who was she to step in on what they had going on?

Her eyes settled on the bruise on his neck once more and Gale seemed to feel her looking, tucking his neck further into the collar of his coat. Julie Jean bit back a smile. She didin’t want Bucky’s best friend to think of her as mean.

“John Egan is my best friend,” Gale started suddenly, and for a moment Julie Jean wondered if this is where he professes his love for the man or if he was going to interrogate her on behalf of his best friend’s best interests. Turned out to be the latter. “He’s got a real big heart, Bucky. Wears it on his sleeve and gives and gives and never expects anything different than what you give him back in return.” Gale had pondered that a lot over the years. How Bucky was always so openly affectionate and loud in his love and trust in their friendship and how Buck never managed to give that back to him until the end during the train ride. Curt was like that too and Buck wonders if that’s why the two men clicked so easily and never shied away from any of the jokes or weird looks. “If you aren’t here to stay, Miss Turner -” and by stay they were both aware he meant for forever. “- then maybe you shouldn’t be here when John gets back.”

Julie Jean clocked Marge at the center of the club, preoccupied under the arm of Douglass as he no doubt regaled her with stories of their brave Majors, and for Buck to stay away from Marge -she wondered how long he had been planning to say this. Waiting for a moment of privacy to lay it out on the table and not upset Marge while doing so, because this was between them.

“I don’t feel comfortable sharing my feelings with you when Bucky himself hasn’t had the chance to hear them,” she admited, tears burning the back of her eyes again. She took in a deep breath. “He had to have known though, right? Be honest with me, you know him better than anyone and he loves you the most and you him. Do you think he knew, Buck?”

Once again Gale wondered what on earth John must have written in his letters for this woman to understand and suspect the deep nature of their relationship so completely. It was just like him - a stone in Gale’s shoe even when he wasn’t aware.

There was a hope in her glistening eyes that Gale was aware can be crushed by him. He’d never felt so much like father than he did now.

He had no interest in hurting this sweet woman who embraced John and Gale and Marge exactly for who they are. This selfless woman who he was so thankful brought Marge to Paris. A gorgeous woman who kept John mildly sane in the camp when there was no hope - an, admittedly, tempting woman as Buck recalled the photo he picked up from the floor all those years ago. His thumb pressed against her black and white nipples -it had a flush setting in and he had to avert his gaze.

“He knew, Julie. He knows.” Truth of the matter is, Gale knew John was aware. John, who was self deprecating and going crazy stuck in the camp, with not enough sky or land to keep him occupied but who woke up every day and tried to stay alive and out of trouble because of a pinky swear he had made to the woman sitting across from Gale currently. John was frightened and he fought against believing it at his darkest times but Gale remembers times when John would stand too close to the fence and guards would point their guns, images of John getting pushed and provoked but one thing always brought him back from that point of no return. Julie Jean Turner. If John didn’t believe he had love to return, he wouldn’t have bothered.

Julie released a breath neither realized she’d been holding waiting for his response.

“What about your fiancé?” Buck asked.

“What about him?” Julie returned. “In my line of work, Major Cleven, a fiancee is the only guarantee against a husband. One ya don’t want. I can tell you this, there’s one man in my future, there’s only been one man since the one letter I got on the 18th, years ago. One sweet man who calls me acorn and tells me he adores me and asks me for naughty pictures in exchange for him staying alive.”

“And you’re okay with that? With him asking?”

“He doesn’t need to ask. I’d do it anyway. But he loves me so he still asks.” Sitting across from his best friend, she’m was near glowing in the love Johnny had for her. Gale wouldn’t give her the time of day if it wasn’t real.

“I’m glad we had this chat,” Julie slowly eased back into being Lana Tierney before Gale’s very eyes, a charming smile on her face with white teeth glinting behind her red stained lips, looking every bit the movie star like when he’d seen her on film or in magazines. She looked different than in the photos she sent Bucky. In those she always looked younger, vulnerable, needy even. “Now that I've got your approval I can breathe easier, Major.” She teased him and he managed a bashful smirk.

“He’s got two protective sisters and a momma who turns his world,” Buck warned in jest and that was how Marge found them at the table. Julie warm and beaming at the thought of hearing about his family and getting to meet them one day. Bucky hadn’t been shy to tell her his mom was his best friend before Buck came along and she was the only one able to keep him out of trouble.

—“Not scared of no Colonel’s or SS officer’s - they haven’t met my momma he wrote in a letter one time. She’s a one woman army.”

Julie took the conversation she had with Buck and held on to hope even when time continued passing and no word of Bucky reached them. She kept the promise she made to herself - she refused to spend any more time on base or at the officer’s club or at any spots Bucky wrote about in his letters to her, because she wanted to wait for him. Instead she spent time with the boys when they visited her and Marge at the swanky estate with the kind English family. In order to appease her mother she booked performances at local bars where they are more than happy to accommodate her and the hordes of army boys that followed her around.

The first week of May arrived and Julie found herself white knuckling her mic in anticipation of Huston showing up any minute and whisking her off. She was not sure if she was sadder about being torn away from her vigil as she was terrified of being stuck back in an enclosed plane cabin with that man for over a day. Marge too, began to fret a little on the second day of the month when Gale told her he was going to be flying mercy missions to Holland. He was too happy about and too assuring about its safety for her to question him, but it was hardly assuring with a war still on.

But Marge knew better than to show that, so she went to Thorpe to wave him off and watched him at his craft while Julie went further north to help co-host a charity event for servicemen’s families. The joy had gone out of it, worse than Paris, she used to be decent at distracting herself with the task at hand but as her days flitted by as uncaring and ephemeral as dreams, the end of the first week of May came in sight, and nothing could keep her mind off John Egan and the heartbreaking notion of not meeting him. Not even the supreme pleasure of dueting with Vera Lynn. All that honored pleasure made her think of was how much her John would have enjoyed listening to it.

Huston came on the sixth. He also left on the sixth. And he didn’t loiter at Thorpe to interview anyone. There were bigger fish to fry out near the Solomon Islands, according to him, and he was off to film it and at his side was an intrepid little secretary he’d met in Paris and thoroughly vetted in between his sheets.

Julie wondered if he’d entirely forgotten her own existence, an unlikely thing, seeing as how she was the entire reason his plane was in East Anglia, but as she was removed at a distance from Thorpe and he had a new adventure and a new lover, perhaps it was a happy case of out of sight out of mind. She breathed easier the minute she heard that he was off in a roar over to another hemisphere.

And right after, or later that evening to be precise, interrupting a charming dinner of rationed butter and plentiful pheasant, was a phone call from mother. The gig was up, in as many words, Huston had lost interest, the fiancée had only gained more and that of the suspicious sort, and mother wanted to know what on earth there was in bombed out England for Julie to find time and payment for. Julie had to list a growing set of fabricated engagements for her mother to even countenance another day spent there, working her name-dropping way up from canteens to a dazzling venue in London which gained her a hem-hawing allowance of three more days.

All the while keeping her sane and functional was one singular thought : John Egan coming home. It was terribly cruel and unfair of the world to have him be within her fingertips, to finally allow her to land in Europe, and then to take him so far away again. Sending his best friend back and leaving him behind felt like the punchline to the joke that was so obviously her heart.

Take that, the universe was saying, you still don’t get to have him, spoiled girl. In her lowest of times, right before she went on stage or nights that she spent having everyone around her praise her she wondered if fame was the price for her man. She didn’t want it either way; she wanted him always.

“Take it all away,” she prayed one night, once her tears had dried and her pillow was soaked and the smell of him on his jacket had wafted, “I only want him. I only need him.”

Meanwhile mother chided, “Have them send me the details on the honorariums, you’ve lost your head over there girl, just like I knew you would, I warned you, remember how I warned you? You’ve lost your head and you’ve grown very lax about these things. Make them send it to me before you even put your foot out for them to applaud, if it’s not top notch we aren’t doing it. And afterwards, you’re coming home and we’re getting this wedding settled. I’ve already got the dressmaker holding a nice dove gray-“

It all blended together in the end, her own lies and her mother’s requirements and in abashed desperation she had managed to plead and finagle Herb to actually book her into “something swanky in London, anything Herb, I just need it to be legitimate to stave her off!”

It was cruel torture to say goodbye to everyone at Thorpe, Julie took her sweet time with it and permitted herself to get a little sniffly about it. This prompted a flurry of produced tissues and solicitous hugs and assurances of Major Egan’s love. It made her sorely tempted to curl into a ball of sheepskin and hide in a footlocker in this nice place till doomsday -let the world try and find her if they dared.

“Send me word!” she charged Gale and Croz, gripping jacket sleeves for extra emphasis, “If he gets back -I’ll still be in London until late tomorrow. Send a telegram, call, whatever you must. Even if you just hear of him, you must tell me, you must! I’ll -I’ll change everything for him. If he comes, I’ll leave it all and come back. Tell him that.”

On the way to the airport Julie Jean only had their promises to do so reverberating in her head and Spangles on her lap to keep her warm. Croz’s eyes had been sadder than she’d ever seen them, sadder still then when he had asked Gale why Major Egan hadn’t followed him back home. And Buck - oh, sweet, virtuous Buck Cleven who had pulled her into his arms tightly and whispered promises of Bucky’s love and intents for their future in her ear. He had spent the entire week thanking Julie for making it possible that Marge stay with him longer with no worry for money or anything back home but in the moments where they had said goodbye, the last words he had left her with were only of Bucky.

Leaving Marge was no easy feat either. The girls had wobbled in their heels and held onto one another tightly and cried and laughed whilst feeling so ridiculous because they were aware the friendship they had formed was for life. Julie wasn’t sad to leave Marge - the only sad part of leaving was losing another piece of John - most of her sadness stemmed from having to be thrusted back to the land of selfish vultures with no care for her after being around the loveliest humans she had ever met. Everyone had been sure to level Spangles with kisses and cuddles and assuring him they would tell his father stories of the joy he brought to base.

“I’ll be sure to give him a stern talking to for getting back so late!” Marge had insisted, clutching at the jacket she had never seen Julie without. “That Bucky Egan - it was bad enough when he changed my Gale’s name. I’m not the pen-pal type, that’s what he told me the night he shipped out. He had no idea you were right around the corner, Julie Jean.”

Her heart beat with the hope that she would never make it to the airport but now here she was. Julie Jean had convinced herself there’d be something happening that would stop her reaching their destination. The driver wouldn’t arrive. Her mother would call to inform of a high paying job. The sky would fall. Bucky would run in front of their vehicle and announce he was back. Anything. But no, none of that happened. The traffic was light and the drive was quick and every step she was taking was a step further away from the future she wanted. Away from her Johnny.

Julie Jean would have to marry Vincent. None of her future children, if they allowed her any, would be safe. Her mother would never relent. The studios would never stop demanding. With each passing thought her vision began to blur and the breaths she was taking came out quicker. On her own accord, she felt herself reach for Herb’s arm in order to maintain her stance. Paparazzi were snapping photos and journalists were yelling and a few regular folks had came out to speak with her - everyone unaware she was losing the love of her life and any chance of happiness.

Bucky had promised her babies. Bucky had promised her safety. “I’d marry you first chance I got,” he had written one letter when she teased possibly visiting Europe. They had been hopeless fools in love and the world wouldn’t relent to them it seemed. She was never going to get any of that.

“We’re almost there,” Herb reassured with a sympathetic pat to the hand gripping his suit, opening the door to allow her entry. “The cameras will know you were poorly from the change in weather and tired from the shows.”

Inside the airport she didn’t feel any better but at least there were no people there to yell in her face. Herb had led her inside a private room and had been sure to lock the door behind him and now he was allowing her silence and her grievance for what might have been. She clutched the jacket tighter around herself where she had curled up on a reclining chair, Spangles asleep on the open spot beside her. This would be all she ever had. And even maybe this they would take away. After all, they had taken away her letters.

The only way they will get this off me is if they pry it off my cold, dead body.

There was a knock on the door and whispers following it. “If it’s the press I’m not pretty enough to be looked at, Herb.” She said. Her make up was running and her hair was disheveled and hiding inside the thick coat of the jacket certainly wasn’t helping the heat in her face but Julie Jean didn’t care.

She was allowed to be heartbroken. John had always told her he would take all her moods, even when she wasn’t behaving like the Hollywood starlet her mom conditioned her to be.

Herb answered the door then, but only a crack so that he was able to see the person on the other side but allow no one to look inside. He excused her, saying the traveling and working hadn’t left her feeling her best but offering her apologies to England. Whoever was on the other side of the door was clearly disconcerted. Star-struck, possibly at getting so close. Their words were breathy and they were stuttering. Julie Jean could faintly make out them saying they adored her but actually - and everything else couldn’t be discerned. Whatever it was, it held Herb’s attention long enough that the door remained open a couple more seconds before he thanked the person and turned to Julie Jean.

“Well,” the tone in his voice, amusement for the first time all evening, had Julie Jean turning in her seat. Taking her face out of his jacket for the first time. There was a paper held in his hand, brown with an approval stamp from the army and the English postal service. “This certainly changes things.”

Julie Jean quickly stood to her feet, approaching Herb with her hands outstretched so she would reach the mail even before she was next to him. She startled poor Spangles who had been deep in sleep, causing him to hop to the floor. Herb wasn’t a cruel man, not to Julie Jean he wasn’t - he extended his own arm so it was within her grasp even faster.

Julie Jean [stop] hope this finds you well and in Europe [stop] Major John Egan is back [stop] Has returned to Thorpe Abbots [stop]

Sincerely,

Major Harry Crosby

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[sailormoonandme]

Mamoru is NOT useless in the Anime

Yes, yes, the memes are funny and all, but this is simply objectively not true and I'm rather exhausted of folks critiquing the character/the anime as though it were.

I will hopefully kill his BS once and for all.

"He just throws a rose and leaves!"

For those who have actually watched the anime (or even just the very first episode) to describe Tuxedo Mask as 'useless' is reductionist to the point of being outright disingenuous. In particular when this argument is made in such a way as to negatively compare him to his manga counterpart, who is put over as allegedly superior on this point.

The original 1992 Sailor Moon anime had 200 episodes, 3 TV specials*, 2 theatrical shorts and 3 films, with these latter theatrical releases being dubiously canonical to the anime. Mamoru appears in the overwhelming majority of those 208 entires, even accounting for the final 34 episodes where he was dead/functionally absent almost all of the time. Even if we seriously low balled things, the majority of those appearances feature him partaking in the following scenario.

Sailor Moon, often with her fellow Senshi, are fighting the monster of the day (maybe it's a higher ranking villain, or a general threat they are dealing with).

They get into a tight spot where either they or whoever/whatever they are trying to protect is in danger from whatever threat they are combatting.

Then, out of the blue, a rose slices through the air and imbeds itself into the scenery like a dart. Typically, this action saves the lives of Sailor Moon, her friends or whomever they might be protecting.

Tuxedo mask gives a speech and either leaves or else sticks around to see Sailor Moon perform her finishing move that effectively ends whatever threat she was dealing with, often with Tuxedo Mask being the one to prompt her into performing this finshing move.

For the sake of argument lets pretend that the above is literally the sum totality of what Mamoru does in regards to the superheroics of Sailor Moon. How could anyone describe the above as 'useless'?

If his interventions regularly save Sailor Moon's life then that is a zillion miles away from useless. For him to be useless, his actions need to be superfluous, pointless, contribute nothing. Even if he contributed a little bit he would by definition not be useless. And saving the protagonist's life is much more than 'a little bit'. If the protagonist dies then the story is over. Evil has won, the world is doomed.

And this isn't even considering all the ways Mamoru contributes OUTSIDE of the above scenario.

He has, whilst untransformed, stabbed a Lemures with a knife to save Sailor Moon.

He has willingly acted as a magical life support system for Chibi-Usa when her Pure Heart was stolen, an act that maybe anyone else could have performed but it is still a noble thing to do, in particular when it freed up the more powerful characters to go get her heart back.

He personally met up with the Outer Senshi to learn about them on behalf of the other girls, going alone which might have been dangerous, but the episode also gives the impression that he, as the oldest member of the team, was better positioned to get info from the older Outer Senshi who has a demeaning view of the younger Inner Senshi. In this same episode, he tried to convince the Outers to join forces with the Inners, acting as a diplomat.

He went 1-on-1 with Rubeus to defend an injured Sailor Moon who was herself acting as a human shield for Chibi-Usa

He has personally gone on a one man mission to infiltrate the Black Moon Clan's HQ to rescue Sailor Moon from being sexually assaulted by Prince Demande.

Mere episodes later he and Artemis went on a scouting mission to learn more about the Malefic Black Crystal

He formed a double team with Sailor Moon to tackle a tennis themed Youma, an encounter that involved more than a singular rose throw and a speech. One of the multiple times he got more directly involved in fighting the monster of the day

He literally carried Sailor Moon on his back to save her when they were both trapped in an elevator courtesy of Nephrite

He was prepared to willingly reveal his identity and hand both himself and his Rainbow Crystals over to Zoisite in order to save Sailor Moon and her friends

The love he shared with Usagi directly led to the manifestation of the Silver Crystal, to the salvation of Chibi-Usa when she'd been brainwashed into Black Lady & the creation of a new weapon and transformation brooch for Usagi in season 3

As Prince Endymion, he went against his own subjects and risked his life to infiltrate the Moon Palace and warn his beloved Serenity that his home planet was going to invade her home

He took not one, not two, but three impalements to protect Sailor Moon's life

More often than not he has acted as reliable emotional support for Usagi and Chibi-Usa, encouraging them, helping them with homework or just being there for them. i.e. he is an imperfect, but ultimately good husband and father. Which is particularly impressive considering he hadn't yet married his wife nor conceived his child.

There are those who might scoff at the latter. Is emotional support really useful? Well, putting aside how the Sailor Moon universe clearly demonstrates how magical power/energy is directly linked to emotions, this is categorically true in the real world as well. There are no end of testimonies from fire fighters, doctors, people who have serious illnesses, or soldiers that the emotional support of thier loved ones have kept them going and kept them alive. So, this is rather useful for our heroine Usagi who's job is that of a Sailor Soldier.

The Outer Senshi

Furthermore, there is an inherent hypocrisy in the 'Mamoru is useless' narrative because such criticisms are never levelled against other characters whose typical role in the narrative are similar to Mamoru's.

The most popular season of the original anime was season 3 (Sailor Moon S) and one of the biggest reasons for that show's popularity were the fan favourite Outer Senshi: Sailors Uranus, Neptune, Pluto and Saturn. Let's exclude Saturn as she wasn't active as a Senshi for most of season 3. Uranus and Neptune's role in the first half of season 3 typically amounted to

Attacking the monster of the day, usually to the same end that Mamoru's rose throws did, i.e. a distraction or last minute save

Swiping the Pure Heart of that episode's victim

Checking it over before concluding it wasn't a Talisman

Leaving, or else at least standing by as Sailor Moon administered her finishing move on the monster of the day

Golly...that seems just as 'useless' as Mamoru now doesn't it? In fact, maybe more so considering they weren't even trying to help Sailor Moon in the first place. In fact, during their second appearance, they unintentionally saved the lives of a powerless Usagi, her friends and an innocent civilian to check a Pure Heart, then uncaringly left them all in danger.

You know who then saved them immediately after that? Mamoru!

Later when he too was overwhelmed by the monster he directly contributed to saving the day as his emotional bond with Usagi generated the Spiral Moon Heart Rod, upgrading Sailor Moon and giving her the power to save everyone.

During the third sub-arc of season 3 (where the recurring villain was Mimet of the Witches 5) Sailor Pluto joined the Outer Senshi's ranks and their role in the typical monster of the day plots became yet more minimal. More than once, the trio literally appeared but did nothing, something that had also happened at least once before Pluto joined the team. Examples include (but are not necessarily limited to) episodes 97 (The Labyrinth of Water – Ami Targeted), 116 (Sunny Skies After a Storm – A Friendship Dedicated to Hotaru) and 118 (Battle Inside the Demonic Space – The Sailor Guardians’ Gamble). In some of these instances the Outers deliberately choose to do nothing.

Barring 2 of the specials mentioned above (one of which was a clip show), the Outer Senshi were wholly absent in season 4/Sailor Moon SuperS. In one of those specials, upon learning that a new threat had arisen Uranus and Neptune...choose to continue their road trip and leave the fighting to Usagi and the others...How...useful???????

They, along with Pluto and Saturn get much more involved during the course of the final season/Sailor Stars. Even then, Saturn only appears in the first few episodes and the last few. Pluto only gets involved in the monster of the day schemes once or twice and Uranus and Neptune three or four times, if that. Whilst Mamoru is barely involved at all in this season, he at least has the excuse of being dead for most of it.

So, the fan favourite Outer Senshi got far LESS involved and were LESS useful than Mamoru typically was in the course of the whole show. In fact, even if we exclude the first two seasons where (exempting Pluto) the Outer Senshi hadn't appeared yet, Mamoru overwhelmingly contributed MORE than the Outer Senshi did.**

The Other Senshi

Much the same can be applied to the Sailor Starlights. The Starlights more often than not actually got MORE involved in fighting the monsters of the day during season 5 than the Outer Senshi did in season 3; or at least they were interested in defusing a direct and active threat to innocent lives. But even they literally showed up and did nothing on at least one occasion.

Whilst the Starlights are nowhere close to the Outer Senshi's popularity, they are also never subjected to the 'they are useless' narrative Mamoru frequently is.

Nor in fact are the Inner Senshi of Sailors venus, Mars, Jupiter and Mercury. Now, whilst it's easy to argue due to their superior screentime, the fact that they often initiate combat with the monster of the day and are generally heavily involved in whatever crisis is happening, that they are obviously more useful than Mamoru is.

And you know what, even including the rare occasions they too show up and do nothing else (or do a last minute save like Mamoru is prone to do) this is perfectly true. It is also perfectly true however that the quartet have rarely ever defeated any monster of the day on their own. The overwhelming majority of the time the Inner Senshi act as a distraction to the Monster of the day or else sufficiently lower its HP so that Sailor Moon can actually beat the monster. That might be more useful than Mamoru's typical contributions, but, call me crazy, it seems like Sailor Moon is doing the lion's share of the work there. So, how 'useful' are the Inner Senshi really if we run by the 'Mamoru is useless' narrative?

If Mamoru is useless so are many if not all of the more popular heroic characters in the series.

But...how useless is Mamoru in the anime compared to the Manga?????????

*Well, one special with three segments, but go with me on this.

**They were mostly absent from season 4 whilst he appeared routinely in that season. Meanwhile, in the season he was mostly absent, they rarely helped out.

Obviously, there are real life writing reasons behind that difference, but my point is why is the fandom not treating the Outer Senshi as 'useless' too?

[gracexthoughts]

of violent delights chap 8

truce

30 January 1996

Mattheo’s POV

I make my way through the halls, music playing through the walkman I enchanted, as I head towards the Astronomy Tower. I’ve been dragged through a study session with Astoria most of the day and I need a cigarette badly. 

As I reach the top of the tower, I pause not expecting to see anyone else up here in the cold. But standing there, silhouetted by the golden setting sun, is Euphemia Potter leaning against a stone pillar. Her hair looks like fire where the sun shines through it, and I figure she must be cold because she’s only in jeans and a dark sweater. “Aren’t you cold, Potter?” I ask, stepping closer and pushing my headphones to hang around my neck. Her head snaps towards me, startled by my voice and the sun highlights a tear trail down her pink cheeks. She turns away quickly, a hand wiping away the tears before she turns back to me. 

“It’s not so bad in the sun,” she shrugs, her arms crossed over her chest, hands hidden in her sleeves.

“You okay?” I ask hesitantly. She nods and I lean against a stone pillar a few feet away from her and pull out a pack of cigarettes, lifting one to my lips and lighting the tip. I look out over the grounds and surrounding mountains, resisting the urge to look at the girl to my left. 

“Any chance I can bum one of those?” Her voice, quiet and soft, pulls me from my thoughts, my eyes finding hers. 

“You smoke?” I ask dubiously, raising an eyebrow. “I would’ve thought that beneath you, princess.” 

“Maybe you should stop assuming things about me,” she responds, but there’s no malice in her voice but rather, it sounds more like a soft plea. I hold out the pack to her, both of us stepping closer to close the gap, and I watch her pull a cigarette from the pack and lift it to her full lips. Before I can offer her my lighter, she snaps her fingers producing a small flame to light the tip. I watch, bewildered at the small display of wandless magic, as her take a deep inhale, her eyes closing as she exhales. Her head falls back against the stone at her back, grief and sadness in her eyes so intense I feel as if I’m intruding. Her eyes are red and her cheeks flushed.

“So, what brings you up here besides the allure of bumming my smokes?” I ask, feeling the need to fill the silence and pull her out of whatever thoughts make her look this sad. Her eyes find mine and her lips turn up in a small smile. 

“Allure of some peace and quiet actually,” she responds, covering the sadness with playfulness. “A cigarette is a consolation,” She lifts the cigarette to her lips and I can’t help but watch as she exhales the smoke slowly and as it curls around her, glowing golden in the light of the setting sun. 

“What were you listening to?” she asks motioning toward the headphones around my neck. 

“The Smiths,” I say quietly, surprising myself with my honestly. My enjoyment of Muggle music is something I keep close to my chest, not many people in my life would accept it and I’d rather not deal with the disappointment. 

“You listen to The Smiths?” She asks, looking surprised. 

“Yes,” I grumble, feeling defensive. She steps forward, reaching out to take the headphones from my neck and puts them on her own head before I can stop her. She listens for a moment, smiling slightly as the music washes over her. 

“The Smiths are great. I like a lot of muggle music. I’m surprised you listen to it though,” she says, taking the headphones off and handing them back. 

“Muggles’ artistry is better than ours. Music, literature, film,” I shrug, taking a drag of my cigarette and taking my headphones back, our fingers brushing as I do so. 

“I agree,” Euphemia says, her eyes looking out over the grounds expanding below us. “It’s like… they don’t have magic so they create their own. They see the world differently than we do, and they make their own magic, find it in things like love or nature. Honestly, I’m not sure who is better off for it.” I watch as she looks out over the grounds, sadness returning to her eyes as she takes a deep inhale of smoke, her auburn hair swaying slightly as a cool breeze comes through. 

“There’s a Muggle town near our house and I used to sneak out to go walk around, get out of the house. One day I wandered into this record store and… never wanted to leave,” I say quietly, looking out at the view to avoid Euphemia’s gaze. 

“Really?” She asks, her voice sounding genuinely curious. I nod and take another drag. 

“The shopkeeper eventually got sick of me coming in and listening but not buying anything so he gave me an old turntable and a couple damaged records he couldn’t sell. Hid them under the floorboards in my room,” I continue, chuckling slightly at the memory. 

“Floorboard trick is a life saver. Our aunt and uncle would lock all our school things away during the summer so we couldn’t, I don’t know, hex them or whatever. So Harry and I would have to sneak down, grab a couple books and do our summer work at night and hide it all in the floorboards during the day.” I turn to look at Euphemia as she talks, shaking her head at the memory. “They’ve never been smart enough to catch us,” she chuckles and takes one last drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out on the metal railing.

“I think my mum knows but doesn't want to make a fuss of it, I guess,” I shrug. Euphemia turns to look at me, our eyes meeting, and for a moment we don’t speak but just hold each other’s gaze. 

“What’s your mum like?” She asks after a long moment, her eyes not leaving mine. 

“Why?” I ask, wondering why on earth Euphemia Potter gives a shit about my mum. 

“Curious,” she shrugs. I search her face and all I find is a genuine curiosity. I take a deep last inhale of my cigarette and flick it off the tower before answering. 

“She’s like most mums, I guess. She does her best but being a Riddle… I think she’s lonely most of the time. No one remembers that it was an arranged marriage she had no say in, just that there was a marriage and who the groom was.” 

“She was a Malfoy, right?” 

“Yeah, Draco’s dad’s sister,” I answer. “Do you know what your mum was like?” I blurt out, immediately regretting it as Euphemia’s eyes snap to me filled with shock and sadness. 

“A little,” she nods. “Most people who talk about my parents just talk about how brave they were but they didn’t really know them. Professor Lupin,” she clenches the metal railing so tightly her knuckles turn white and she spits the professor’s name like it tastes poorly in her mouth, “knew her though. My dad too. Really, really well apparently.” Her tone turns bitter, her eyes avoiding mine as she looks off into the distance. The sun has now set behind the mountains, the light fading and turning blue rather than orange. 

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused. I’ve seen her interact with Lupin before and she always seemed to like him and vise versa; the anger in her voice shocks me. She looks at me for a moment before speaking. 

“Nothing, they uh, were at school together I guess. Stayed friends after,” she shrugs and I have a feeling she’s not saying the full truth but I don’t press. “From what I’ve been told she was very kind and intelligent,” she adds softly.

“I shouldn’t have asked, sorry,” I mutter quietly. 

“You know, you’re not so bad when you’re not acting like a raging prick,” she says. Her tone is teasing me but I can tell she’s genuine, her eyes soft as they look at me.

“You’re not so bad either,” I say, feeling uncomfortable at the confession, her gaze making me feel raw and exposed. 

“That hurt you to admit, didn’t it?” 

“Shut up,” I say, looking away from her face but she laughs and my eyes are pulled back to her. She laughs and it's like a revitalization potion and I wish I could bottle it and listen to it over and over. Her face is lit up with amusement and pride swells in my chest that I made her laugh like that. She looks at me with her bright green eyes and suddenly I’m laughing with her. 

“It took you long enough,” she teases, pushing her hair behind her ear. I track the movement with my eyes and I think she notices because her eyes dart away and suddenly, I feel almost weightless under her gaze. What the hell is wrong with me? “What would you say if I said we should call a truce?” She asks playfully.

“I think you’d lose your Gryffindor Princess rep if anyone heard you say that,” I quip but she just shrugs with a smile, looking over the now dark landscape. “Truce,” I agree. 

“Careful, you’re gonna lose your bad boy cred, Mattheo,” she teases. 

“Then I guess we’re both disgraced then, Euphemia,” I retort, turning so my body is facing her and smile mischievously. 

“Mia. If you’re gonna use my first name just call me Mia,” she says, looking back at me and I realize how close we actually are to each other: close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her perfume and feel her hair brush past my face as a gust of wind blows past us. She smells like jasmine and the air after it rains, her eyes the green of the trees with their still wet leaves.

We stand there in silence watching each other for a long moment and the rest of the world seems to drop away. But the moment is broken as laughter echoes up the stairs and I turn and see my friends climbing the last steps of the tower. 

“Fuckin’ hell, mate, we’ve been looking everywhere-” Theo says, his voice cutting off as he sees Mia and my proximity to her and he looks at me, eyebrows raised. Before I can say anything, Evan and Enzo reach the top of the tower, their expressions matching Theo’s as they notice Mia. 

“Am I dreaming or is that you, Potter?” Even says, his eyes scanning Mia up and down hungrily. 

“It’s me, Rosier, just don’t cream your pants,” Mia shoots back, not missing a beat. I glance at her, the softness in her from moments ago gone and replaced by a disdainful smirk as she silently dares Evan to say anything else. Enzo and Theo snort a laugh. “I was just leaving,” she says, glancing my way before pushing her way past my friends and disappearing down the stairs. I sigh and lean back against the metal railing, crossing my arms. 

“The fuck did we walk into?” Theo laughs, pulling out a cigarette. 

“Nothing,” I growl. 

“Dragon shit, you couldn’t cut the tension up here with a knife,” Enzo scoffs. 

“Did you finally hit that?” Evan asks, a crude smile on his face that makes anger risse in my chest. 

“Fuck off. She was here when I got here,” I snap, taking out another cigarette and lighting it. 

“And yet you stayed,” Evan points out. “Four months ago you would’ve run her out or left.” I level Evan with a glare to back off. 

“What was so urgent you were looking for me?” I ask, changing the subject. 

“You missed dinner,” Enzo answers with a shrug, sitting on the steps of the platform on one side of the tower. 

“Wasn’t hungry,” I grumble, taking another drag. 

“For food at least,” Theo mumbles and I reach out and punch his shoulder, causing the others to laugh. “Shit mate, nobody’s gonna blame you if you are into her.” 

“Well, I’m not , okay?” I say sharply, but I’m not so sure I mean it anymore. 

[shanastoryteller]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHANA!!! I CRAVE ME SOME TONKS x PERCY CONTENT <3 <3 <3 I HOPE YOU HAVE AN AWESOME TIME AND GET LOTS OF PRESENTS AND AFFECTION! SENDING ALL MY LOVE :* <3

When Tonks tells Marcie about her crush on the cute boy in the International Magical Cooperation department, she laughs at her.

Tonks doesn't join her.

"Oh, you're serious?" she asks, flushing. "I didn't mean - well, he's not your usual type, is he?"

"My usual type," she says neutrally.

"Yeah, well - we both went to school with him, I do remember him. You don't usually go for weak boys."

She doesn't think any child of Molly Prewett and Arthur Weasley can be described as weak, but that's not the point. "That's not important."

"I guess," Marcie says dubiously. "Well, your usual prospects are at least cute. But I suppose sometimes it's nice to have an easy conquest."

That does make her life. Percy isn't easy, in any sense of the word, unfortunately.

She'd think he didn't like girls if she hadn't seen his eyes stray a few times. He's just stubborn. That's okay.

Tonks likes stubborn.

She changes the subject because her and Marcie do have to work together and if she keeps saying stuff like that about Percy, they're going to have a problem

After work she marches over to the Department for International Magical Cooperation (a really quite awful name) and sits on the edge of Percy's desk.

He should be home by now, but he's bent over some sort of report. She has to put her hand in the middle of it to get his attention, and he blinks then slowly follows her arm to her shoulder before bloodshot eyes settle on her face. "Shouldn't you be off the clock by now?"

The hypocrisy is so obvious that she doesn't even address it. "Get dinner with me."

"I'm busy," he says. "You should go to bed early. You've been here since five am thanks to that false report. Make sure you record your overtime."

He says shit like that and still thinks he's not dating her. "Have you eaten today?"

"Yes," he says, but by the way his lips tug down at the corners she knows that he's just guessing.

"Come on," she says, gripping the back of his chair and leaning in a way that he has to lift his chin up several inches or end up face first in her chest, not that she'd mind. "Have a hot meal with me. I promise to get at least six hours of sleep if you do."

His frown deepens, but he hasn't looked back down at his report yet.

"Don't you want to get dinner with your girlfriend?" she cajoles because she knows she's already won.

"You're not my girlfriend," he says, but he's standing up, leaving a report partially unread and not even marking his place so he can go and eat with her, to make sure she gets some sleep.

She's totally his girlfriend.

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Don’t Blame My English Blood On This American Heartache

Chapter One: I Want To Break Free

AO3 info prologue one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve

All my work is 18+.

Try to color inside their lines; try to live a life by design. I just wanna be myself. I can’t be someone else.- ONE OK ROCK, Stand Out Fit In

July, 1984

Santa Cruz Mountains, Northern California 

Sera’s blue animal—an owl—flew around the clearing, and she laughed with amusement. She’d been able to produce one for years now, but successfully performing a spell, especially a complex one, was always gratifying.

Taana’s horse chased the owl, and the two girls laughed, leaning back against the trunk of an ancient redwood.

“Have you tried talking to your parents about it again?”

Sera fixed her friend with a side-eyed look. “Of course not. My mom damn near had a heart attack when I wanted to go as a witch for Halloween last year, and I was mostly joking. Y’know, ‘woo, I’m about to be eighteen, it’s witch year!’ kinda thing.” Sera sighed, leaning her head back against the tree trunk, ignoring the way her curls snagged on the bark. “Any mention of witches or magic, she freaks.”

“What about your dad?”

“Same thing.” Sera sighed again, glancing up at the setting sun. “They’ll expect me home for dinner soon. I’d better go.”

“You good to relocate back?”

Sera nodded, standing up and brushing herself off.

With a wave of her hand, her owl dissipated like smoke on the breeze.

“See ya later, Ta,” she said with a smile over her shoulder.

“Later,” her friend returned.

Then, Sera shut her eyes, picturing the space beneath her house, which was raised off the ground via a deck. Then, with a crack!, she found herself exactly where she’d pictured herself.

She’d vomited the first time she’d relocated, but by now, she was used to the sensation of the displacement of her body as she was transported somewhere else.

She crunched through the bush and out from under the house, making her way up to the deck.

A soft hooting sounded from a tree above her, and when Sera glanced up at the owl, she was surprised to see that it was one she’d never encountered before. Sera had been all around the Bay Area, particularly the Santa Cruz mountains, but she’d never seen such an owl before. It was probably of average size for such a bird, perhaps a bit over a foot in height with speckled brown feathers and jarring pitch black eyes.

The most startling thing about the owl, however, was the fact that in its beak, it was holding what appeared to be a piece of paper.

Sera blinked at it in astonishment as it descended from the branch and landed on the railing she was standing next to. Upon closer inspection, it turned out the paper wasn’t only a paper, it was a letter.

The owl looked at her—although it was difficult to tell if it was looking at her or merely facing her, as its eyes were entirely black—and hopped closer, lifting its head and sticking the letter towards her.

“You… you want me to take this?” Sera asked dubiously. Predictably, the owl didn’t respond, instead choosing to thrust the letter towards her again.

Sera took it with no small amount of hesitation. The owl hooted softly at her, and she wasn’t entirely sure why, but she got the distinct impression that it was trying to be encouraging. She looked down at the letter and examined the wax seal. She’d never seen a wax-sealed letter before, let alone one so ostentatious.

In the wax, there was an ornate family crest, it looked like: two dragons flanking a shield with a very fancy-looking letter M. She turned the letter over, seeing her full name written there, complete with her address. In the top left corner, however, it read:

Ursa Malfoy Abbott

Malfoy Manor

Wiltshire, England

Malfoy Abbott? England? She knew her parents hailed from England, having moved to the US before her birth, but they’d always told her they had no family, no relatives. Yet this woman had the same name as her, just with “Abbott” on the end. 

Turning the letter back over with shaking hands, she broke the wax seal and removed the letter.

It was written on a thick, old-fashioned piece of paper that reminded Sera of the pictures she’d seen of the Constitution. The letter read:

Miss Seraphine Marianne Malfoy,

I hope this letter finds you well. Hecate—the owl—is old, but she’s reliable.

Allow me to begin by introducing myself. My name is Ursa. I am the eldest child of Draco Malfoy, your great-great-great grandfather. He died in 1976 during an outbreak of Dragon Pox that wiped out much of the Malfoys, it was the result of a foolish attempt at dragon taming that my father thought was a good idea, wanting to celebrate his one hundred and twenty-second birthday with some excitement. 

As you may not be aware, our heirdom is patrilineal. That is to say, they fall to all male descendants before female ones. As such, after the death of Abraxas, his son, Lucius, was the only male Heir remaining. However, he foolishly supported the Dark Lord, and was imprisoned when the Dark Lord fell four years ago. His imprisonment left me the acting Head of Household until he died a fortnight ago. It was only then that I gained access to the offices of the Head of Household, which contained the unedited family tree.

As I understand it, Seraphine, your parents, Septimus Malfoy II and Marianne Prewett, are Squibs. Which is to say, they cannot perform magic. The Malfoys are a traditional lot, and my father was no exception. He would’ve been ashamed that someone of his line was born without magic, and so he must have struck Septimus from the tree, ignoring the names that formed upon his descendant getting married and having a child.

My opinion of Squibs is rather neutral, and I don’t think less of you for being born to parents who lack magical abilities. But my reason for this letter is because I am very old, and I cannot remain the Malfoy Head of Household forever. I need an Heir, and there is no one left. There are the wives of some of your male relatives who survived the outbreak, but you and I are the only Malfoys by birth that remain.

I am writing to you, Seraphine, to ask you to come to England and learn to be my Heir. Upon inquiring at llvermorny, it seems your parents responded to your acceptance letter on your behalf, declining in favor of a Muggle upbringing. I understand that you are eighteen, but the Hogwarts headmaster is willing to make an exception due to the unusual circumstances and allow you to enroll as a seventh year student. If you have not developed your magic sufficiently for enrollment in Hogwarts as a seventh year, I am capable of any needed instruction.

The Heir to the Malfoy name would, upon ascension to the title, be entitled to all land, property, and holdings to the name, as well as the contents of the primary Malfoy Gringotts vault in addition to the one that was automatically added upon your birth.

If you choose to take this role upon yourself, please send the letter with Hecate. You may speak to her if needed; she will understand. If you consent to it, I shall respond with a portkey that will bring you here to Malfoy Manor. I advise that you bring anything you wish to have with you, as your new life will be here in England. We can, of course, arrange for your parents to come, as well. 

Yours,

Ursa Malfoy Abbott

Sera couldn’t believe the letter. She couldn’t believe it. Mind still reeling, she recognized that if she didn’t want her mother’s interference, she had to respond, and fast. 

She turned to the owl.

“Y— You can understand me?” she asked it rather hesitantly.

It hooted quietly at her, and Sera hoped that that meant yes.

“Please fly back up to the tree you were in before,” Sera told it, “and try not to make too much noise or draw attention to yourself. I’m going to go in the house and write a response before my parents notice I’m home. When I come back outside, I’ll give you the letter.”

The owl hooted once before swooping up into the tree without hesitation.

Unsure if her mother was home or not, Sera went around to the side of the house and climbed through her bedroom window. She grabbed some stationary from her desk, wrote a quick response saying that she’d been taught magic in secret, was fairly advanced at it, and to please come in person or work out a way for them to communicate verbally or something. There was a lot of information in that letter, and she wanted to speak to this woman over the phone at the very least. 

A couple of weeks later, the owl returned with a small pouch of black powder and instructions to put her head into an unlit fireplace when she knew for certain she wouldn’t be disturbed, and to say the words, “Malfoy Manor.”

Naturally, she couldn’t very well do this at home, so she went straight to Ta’s, explained the situation, and was promptly led to their fireplace. 

Sera knelt down, her knees on the cold wood floors, and stuck her head inside. She coughed momentarily before waving a hand to clear up any residual particles in the air. Then, she dropped the black powder in the grate and said, “Uh… Malfoy Manor.”

Suddenly, there were green flames surrounding her field of vision, and then… and then she was looking out from what seemed to be the fireplace in a very nice bedroom that was furnished in gold and white.

“H— hello?” Sera called out, confused.

After a moment without a response, she was about to call out again when an elderly woman walked through a set of double doors across the room. 

The woman approached her slowly, looking hesitant and maybe even a bit nervous, before sitting down in a chair in front of the fireplace Sera was looking through.

“Hello,” Sera greeted awkwardly.

“You are Seraphine, I assume?” the woman asked, examining Sera’s features with keen eyes.

“Ye— Yes. I prefer to be called Sera, actually, but yeah.”

“I am Ursa Malfoy Abbott, your aunt.”

Sera stared at her. “Nice… nice to meet you.”

The woman nodded, a small smile on her face. “You look like a Malfoy, you know.”

Sera’s eyes widened. “I do?”

Her aunt—Ursa—nodded again. “Indeed. It’s your hair, you know. Oh, it’s wilder than ours tends to be. I expect that’s the Prewett in you, honestly. But the color, that white-blonde? A family trait.” 

Sera smiled a little at that, pleased at the idea that some of the heritage she’d apparently been kept from was visible.

“Is it true?” she asked after a moment. “Everything you said in your letter?”

Ursa looked at her for a long moment, clasping wrinkled hands in her lap. “Yes. You and I are the only ones that remain of the Malfoy bloodline. I can’t very well have children, of course, and someone needs to take over in my stead someday.”

Sera hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to have any kids,” she admitted.

Ursa waved her hand dismissively. “We can find someone to have them for you if you so choose. The important thing is we continue the bloodline through you. As long as you consent to children being born to you, even if not from you, that’s perfectly fine.”

“What, like surrogacy?”

Ursa thought for a moment, looking a bit confused. “Another witch would carry your child, essentially. It’s done on occasion.”

Sera nodded slowly. “I’d have to think about that. But… you wanted me to be your Heir, didn’t you?”

Ursa nodded. “Indeed. It was supposed to go to Lucius, my nephew through my brother, Scorpius, but Lucius was foolish. Allied himself with a madman who would obviously fail.” She sighed. “So it falls to you, my young niece.”

Sera stared at her. “And… and I’m not descended from Scorpius?”

Her aunt shook her head. “No. Your great-great grandfather was my youngest brother, Cepheus. Both he and his wife are dead, as is their son, Serpens.”

Sera frowned. “Oh.” Just how old was this woman? She didn’t look like she was old enough to have outlived Sera’s great-great grandfather.

“In any case,” her aunt went on, “if you choose to accept, I will ensure you are able to take a placement test for Hogwarts. I’ll speak to Albus about it.”

She blinked. “Albus?”

“The Hogwarts Headmaster. We went to school together, you know. I was a few years ahead of him, of course.”

“I… see.” She swallowed, looking around the fancy room her aunt was in and trying to imagine herself inside it. “You’re sure it’s me?”

Aunt Ursa pursed her lips. “Yes, quite sure. The family tree is in my study.”

If this woman was telling the truth, if she really was Sera’s aunt, she owed it to herself to go and explore her identity, didn’t she?

“Okay,” Sera finally said. “Go ahead and send the portkey.”

“Very well,” her aunt said with a nod. “Shall I expect your parents as well?”

She tensed at the thought of her parents and their lies. “No,” she decided. “No, I don’t think you should.”

Sera returned home in a sort of daze; her parents had lied to her. They had lied to her entire life, it would seem. Now that the anxiety of speaking to her aunt had passed, fury scorched through her veins.

Sera strode over to the front door of the house, and it slammed open without her so much as touching it. Her magic was crackling in her hair and tingling in her fingertips the way it did when she was too angry to control it.

She heard her mother working in the kitchen, presumably on their dinner. “Mom,” she called out, her voice shaking in her rage.

“In here, darling,” Marianne returned.

To her surprise, her father was already at the kitchen table. He must’ve gotten home from work unusually early. This was just as well— she needed to speak to them both, and she’d rather not repeat herself if she could avoid it.

“You lied to me,” she said without further greeting. “You have been lying to me my entire life.”

“What?” her mother asked in shock and confusion. Her father’s brows furrowed, and then his gaze fixed on the letter clutched in Sera’s hand.

“Mari,” her father addressed her mother in a very nervous-sounding voice, “look.”

Her mother’s eyes found the letter, too, and then flitted back up to her daughter’s face, the way her eyes were burning with hurt and betrayal, the way her wild curls were crackling with magic.

“You knew I was a witch,” Sera practically growled. “You knew I’d been invited to attend a magic school, and you didn’t even tell me. I was forced to learn magic in secret, to hide it from you.”

The kitchen lights were flickering, the cookware shaking.

“We… we only wanted to protect you,” Marianne said shakily, taking a step towards her daughter.

“From what?” Sera hissed furiously. “From my identity? From my heritage? You don’t have any magic, so you didn’t want me to have any, either?”

“That world,” her father began, standing up to join his wife in an attempt to placate their daughter, “it’s dangerous, Sera. You’re safer here. With us.”

“You can’t protect me from anything,” she snapped. “I can protect myself a hell of a lot better than the two of you combined.”

Both her parents’ faces were ashen, and her mother was near tears.

“I’m the last living Malfoy with magic, other than an old woman. Did you know that? It’s just me. You kept me from my life.”

“Sera,” her mother began tearfully, “we just wanted what was best for you—“

“Apparently, you have no idea what’s best for me!” she shouted, her rage spiking. This seemed to be too much for the kitchen lightbulbs, because they shattered in a burst of sparks and glass. “You deceived me, you separated me from the only family I’ve got that’s like me, you denied me an education—“

“We did what we thought was best!” her father shouted, his own temper flaring up. “We hoped you didn’t have any magic, and we held out hope for it until you got that ridiculous owl post, and when you did, we tried to stop you from partaking, because we thought it was best for you!”

“Well,” Sera hissed, her eyes narrowed, “if you ever decide you can love me despite my magic, write to me in Wiltshire.” She glared fiercely at her father. “I expect you know how, Dad, as the great-great grandson of the former patriarch.” She turned to walk away, then said over her shoulder, “In case you’re interested, Dad, your parents are both dead. So’s your great grandfather and great-great grandfather.”

“W— what?” her father sputtered, having the audacity to sound upset about it. “When?”

“‘76,” Sera told him. “I’m packing and going to stay at Ta’s until our aunt sends me a portkey.”

“We won’t let you!” her mother exclaimed.

Sera rounded back on them. “And what the hell do you think you can do to stop me, huh? You can’t keep me inside. You can’t force me to do anything.” She glared viciously at them. “There is no cage you can craft that could keep me in.”

With that, she stormed off, slamming her bedroom door with a flick of her wrist.

She shrunk her belongings and shoved them into a fairly small (but magically extended) bag. Her parents pounded on her door, but they couldn’t get inside. The charm she’d used to lock them out would’ve been difficult to break even with magic.

Once she was packed and her bedroom was sparse, she relocated in front of Ta’s house with a sharp crack!

Two weeks later, Hecate the owl returned. It seemed she’d had no trouble finding Sera in the tiny mountain village Ta lived in.

In the envelope was a coin, which the letter said was the portkey. Sera said her goodbyes to her friend, promising to call, and took the portkey in hand.

She was off to England.

Beta’d by the wonderful @lilmaymayy 💗

Tag list:

@ellamaianderson @shika1200 @blackqueenstarseed1 @gatoenlaciudad @esmaada @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @softhecreator @timolaurence @timmymyluv @oddlyenoughiamweird @leecrunchybones @s-we-e-t-t-ea @almostg @leespparker @bubblebuttwade @glizzymcguirex @starberry-cake @camille-1019 @lixzey

To be added, please ask 💗

[morally-grey-girlbosses]

Homura Akemi Propaganda Post

she fucked with time itself and shot a weird little immortal evil aminal for her gf what else could you need

A thousand thinkpieces debating the morality of Homura already exist, you don’t have to look far to find them. She’s obsessive, she’s toxic, she’s brutal, she’s doomed to a downward spiral of tragedy. She’s literally the devil. She’s god’s specialist solider. She’s an optimist, holding onto hope with her teeth. She’s driven by love and grief. She’s radical change in the face of suffering. She perseveres in search of a better future even though it costs her everything. She’s a teenage girl. She’s an asian catholic lesbian. She’s got a gun.

Homura is a 14 year old girl stuck in a time loop of her own choosing in order to save her best friend from becoming a magical girl after having watched her succumb to becoming a witch over and over again. She uses time stopping and time traveling powers and also straight up weapons that she's stolen from shady organizations. In fandom she's usually headcanoned as being catholic due to her intense devotion to Madoka as well as having a lot of guilt and hatred towards herself. In the 3rd movie Rebellion she literally creates her own ideal world where madoka and their other magical girl friends are happy and alive but Homura still ends up spiralling after discovering that she was the one who made this too perfect world and she ends up succumbing to her own despair by becoming a witch. She's isolated herself from the other girls since she's the only one who knows the truth about the magical girl system and is committed to working by herself so she seems untrustworthy to some people but Madoka still chooses to see the good in her, so much so that she becomes basically god so that she can protect all magical girls. And then homura kinda becomes a demon in rebellion after madoka saves her from her witch form and she rewrites the whole world again. But yeah uh Homura ... she's got A Lot going on and is in desperate need of therapy but at least she has a gun and a goal.

Literally so in love with another girl that she unconsciously created a false reality where they were happy together, then discovered she was the one who created the false reality when the other girl broke her out of it. Proceeded to become the actual devil, kidnap the girl (who was also god), and make another false reality again. Queen of trying so hard and making everything worse

Efficient girlboss who cares so much. She restructed timelines and rewrote the universe(morally dubiously, not to spoil anyone) for her very best and only friend

In the movie Rebellion, Homura betrays and dethrones God, taking her place, claiming herself to be the Devil and bending reality to her will in order to create her ideal world, without Madoka’s consent on taking her godhood. Therefore trapping her and the quintet quartet into yet another false reality, something nobody but Homura wanted.

Both the narrative and Homura herself view this action as corrupt, and the narrative considers it wrong. However, it is not evil, because her intentions were to be able to save her best friend, Madoka, from the cruel fate she saw her in. Homura doesn’t base her actions in the greater good, only in what would give Madoka happiness, even if said choice would go against Madoka’s own wishes, (for example, in the series, there is a supposed murder attempt against Sayaka due to her choices “making Kaname suffer”) said mindset being created due to the mindfuck timeloop that Homura stuck herself in attempting to save her first friend.

And even if she doesn’t care as much about the other members of quintet (and basically tried to kill Sayaka lol) she still gives them a happy life in her creates reality. So while stripping Madoka of her godhood and, depending on how the world building develops, *possibly* dooming the world to continuing to have witches, it was done with good intentions and the fact that there are multiple debates on fandom about whether that was a good decision or not shows that this was something with complicated morals.

If I messed this up sorry, it’s been a while since I watched the movie, haha!

[theminecraftbee]

bee that ask gave me brainworms. so. you know how gem was established in the empires/hermitcraft crossover to cross between those two dimensions. in the magical girl scar universe, something happens to give gem universe crossing abilities. take this in what direction you will-- does she cross into an apocalyptic world and drag team scar with her, showing them the consequences of their failure? does she find some vital piece of info through this? just gets yanked for no reason inconveniently?

...see i ALREADY TALKED ABOUT my concepts for the two dubiously-canon movies but what you're describing here sounds like SUCH a good take for like, a dubiously-canon movie or like, side-series. like that's SUCH a cool movie/omake concept of "person gains the power to hop universes, accidentally drags team scar with her, and now they're in the topsy-turvy universe where they meet alternate versions of themselves and have to figure out how to get home while also fighting... themselves?".

like. imagine. premise: spirit attack near gem's, in her attempt to help she triggers, as powered by the spirit unintentionally, a gift that slides team scar into another universe. but this is a weird universe! in this universe, team scar are actually the BAD GUYS, using their powers for EVIL! oh no! now if they want to get home they have to figure out where gem went, prevent themselves from catching onto themselves, and maybe even are forced to work with the shadow organization? that, or the mysterious blackbird of this universe, who, even in a world where team scar is evil, appears to be a maverick of her own with her own agenda...

there's a bunch of classic identity shenanigans where like, scar interacts with people who only know Evil Him and are nice to them and stuff and everyone's confused, or like, the joke is that cub and evil cub are basically impossible to tell apart and scar and bdubs are offended on his behalf but like, don't worry about it guys, cub's chill with that. and mirror blackbird (grian) i think is a conflicted figure in this universe too who ultimately helps our heroes escape.

meanwhile, the poor lost civilian gem is having an ADVENTURE. she gets rescued by her friend pearl, who... works for the shadow organization? and we get "beleaguered good guy shadow organization" shenanigans on gem's end as they try to figure out how she swapped with THEIR gem and how to fix that before either of them get hurt.

just... excellent one-off movie premise right here.

[steinwayandhissons]

something im obsessed with about miles’ music (and especially change the show) is the sheer number of references to other songs he makes, including his own - these are the ones i could catch, some may be quite dubiously linked/coincidental but i love discovering all the lyric parallels, please let me know if there are any that ive missed

tell me what you’re feeling (cts 2022)

silverscreen (cdg 2018)

(also science fiction 2018 - arctic monkeys that was released in the same year as coup de grace - i discovered the parallel recently and went insane)

adios ta ra ta ra (also dancefloor reference?) (cts 2022)

don’t let it get you down (cts 2022)

don’t let it get you down (cts 2022)

cold light of the day (cdg 2018)

don’t let it get you down (cts 2022)

come closer (cott 2011)

nothings ever gonna be good enough (cts 2022)

peaches - the stranglers (1977)

adios ta ra ta ra (cts 2022)

psycho killer - talking heads (1977)

tonight (dfwya 2013)

come together - the beatles (1969)

first of my kind (dfwya 2013)

higher ground - stevie wonder (1973)

better than that (dfwya 2013)

four letter word - beady eye (2011) (which miles has posted about on insta)

cry on my guitar (cdg 2018)

the hellcat spangled shalalala - arctic monkeys (2011)

loaded (cdg 2018)

the element of surprise - the last shadow puppets (2016)

paint it, black - the rolling stones (1966)

killing the joke (cdg 2018)

cole porter - you're the top (1989)

looking out my window (b side 2012)

Waiting for that little brown eyed girl, she's coming back

brown eyed girl - van morrison (1967)

My brown eyed girl, you my brown eyed girl

la five four (b side 2018)

I was out of control, I was here for the roll

out of control (dfwya 2013)

But we'll rock as we roll, rev the engines and go, let's get out of control

la five four (b side 2018)

With your fingertips calling on the back of my spine

rearrange (cott 2011)

Magic from your fingers tingles down my spine

this is most likely not a reference but i like the parallels

the wonder (omb 2023)

Seeping on my wishing list, momentary bliss

momentary bliss - gorillaz (2020)

We could do so much better than this, mausoleum faces and momentary bliss

and of course telling the future

adios ta ra ta ra (cts 2022)

one man band - to be released... (2023)

also this is quite dubious but i found it funny so...

adios ta ra ta ra (cts 2022)

hot n cold - katy perry (2008)

special mention to telepathy (not necessarily a song referenced) (cott 2011)

i love the reference to the little flames <3

[booksandchainmail]

My Hugo Award thoughts:

Best Novel: Nettle and Bone

this makes sense to me! It was my second choice (and my first choice, Nona the Ninth, is a controversial entry in controverial series) (controversial in that people tend to either love or hate them). I think I've made it clear that I think this year's Novel nominees were weak: while this was at the top of the nominees it is nowhere near the best sff novel of last year.

Best Novella: Where the Drowned Girls Go

this one confuses me. I very much like Seanan McGuire's Wayward Children series, but I don't think this was one of the best of that series, and it is heavily context dependent. It's a good novella! But the novella category was so strong this year that I don't know why it won. This was actually my lowest ranked novella. My first choice was Ogres, with Into the Riverlands as a close second.

Best Novelette: The Space-Time Painter

Confession time: I did not read this or include it in my rankings. There was no English translation provided, and I was running low on time and energy and didn't machine-translate it myself. Sorry. That said, I've heard good things about it elsewhere, and it is of course nice to have a work from the host country/language win. My vote was for Murder by Pixel, and in general I thought this was a good category.

Best Short Story: Rabbit Test

yeah this was always going to win. Excellent short story, well written and topical, it was my top vote. I'm interested to see how the voting metrics break down: this category was a mix of chinese and english entries, and I'm curious as to how that impacted results.

Best Series: Children of Time

YES! YESSSSS! This category was incredible this year, six well-deserving nominees, very hard for me to choose between them. But this was my top vote (a hard decision), and I'm delighted it won. Three hefty volumes of the best kind of drawn out philosophical science fiction, deeply moving, with incredible worldbuilding and alien minds. This was absolutely the highlight of works I read because they were nominated.

Best Related Work: Terry Pratchett: A Life With Footnotes

No surprise here, Terry Pratchett is beloved and this book was well written. This was in my top three, which I had a very hard time choosing between and all I would have been happy to see win. My own top vote ended up going to Chinese Science Fiction, an Oral History, which was also the only work I couldn't read, aside from the translated introduction and table of contents. I voted for it on the grounds that what was translated made an excellent case for it being an important work, not just a good one, digging into the history of science fiction in China in a way that had never been done before, and I felt that nonfiction about a specific person or movie, no matter how well-written or informative, couldn't compete with that scope.

Professional Artist: Enzhe Zhao and Fan Artist: Richard Man

this is fine! Neither was my top pick, but both were near the top, and I will freely admit I know little about art.

Lodestar (Not a Hugo): Akata Woman

Not my top pick, but a perfectly good winner. I suspect my ranking of it suffered from a) being in a reading slump that made me have to push to get through it and b) this being the conclusion of a trilogy I last read six years ago, and remember very little of. There were a lot of moments of resolving emotional conflicts that I had no context for, which left the book a little flat. My top vote was for The Golden Enclaves, which I think was by far the best nominee, but also dubiously qualified (while the books, especially the earlier ones, certainly feel like YA, and center around teenagers in a magical high school, they are published as adult fantasy). My runner up was Into the Serpent's Wake, the sequel to Tess of the Road, a book I am still bitter did not win in the first year of the Lodestars.

Astounding (Not a Hugo): Travis Baldree

... ok. I do not get the hype for Legends & Lattes, and by extension Travis Baldree. The book was delightful! But it was also fluff, not something that provoked any strong thought or emotion, not any great work of prose, not innovative or creative in any new way that would mark a rising new author. This was my lowest ranked nominee (leaving out Weimu Xin, whose work did not have an english translation). This would be less disappointing, given I found most of the nominees so-so, were it not for Isabel J. Kim, whose short stories were miles above any of the other nominees.

Other Awards:

I didn't vote in the other categories, or read/watch/listen to their nominees. Nothing in their results jumps out at me, though I'm happy EEAAO won.

[ticklishshenanigansau]

Day 19. Pedicure Sans was running completely on autopilot as he pushed open the bathroom door, resulting in a startled grunt as he nearly stumbled over Frisk. The girl squeaked from her position on the floor, bent over a small assortment of objects next to a wide open drawer. "O-oh! Hi, Sans...!" Sans took a moment to get his skull back into working order, processing the scene before him, grin stretching slow and casual. "woah, kiddo. i know you've always been kinda nosy, but raiding tori's bathroom supplies is kinda scandalous, don'cha think?" He grabbed his toothbrush and a tube of minty paste. Without missing a beat, he added, "so, what did'ja find?" Recovering with an embarrassed giggle, Frisk started cleaning up the small mess of toiletries. "Not too much, but, I did find this cool rock. I'm not sure why it was in there." She held it up. "Do you?" "le's'see." Starting to scrub his teeth with one hand, Sans took the rock in the other. It was lightweight and incredibly porous; a bit rough — much like his own fingers. Humming, he rinsed off his toothbrush and grabbed a towel to wipe his face before declaring, "no idea. but you can have it back for five g." "Saaaaans!" Frisk whined at him in playful annoyance. "No fair!" "pay up, kiddo." "Give it back!" "nuh-uh." "Give it!" "Give what, may I ask?" Toriel's amused voice rang out from the other side of the door, the boss monster peeking inside. Frisk and Sans both jumped, sheepishly turning to Toriel as she came inside. "uh ... jus' this," Sans admitted after a moment's hesitation, extending his hand to show her the rock. "...found it in your drawer, so, uh, i'll just put it back." "Oh, did you now," Toriel replied dubiously, swiping the object from his hand. "This is my pumice stone." "What's that?" Frisk asked curiously. "What's it for?" "Well, I would give you a little demonstration, but it is not good practice to share pumice stones for hygiene precautions." Turning on the faucet, she began soaking the stone. "However, as Sans is physiologically resistant to those very precautions, I will instead demonstrate on him." "h-hey! when did i sign up for this?..." Sans asked with a hint of a flustered pout, taking a step back. "When you lied, trying to cover for Frisk just now," Toriel answered with a giggle. Picking up the apprehensive skeleton, she placed him on the counter, pleased to see his feet were already bare. Kneeling down on the floor, she gripped one of his ankles and very gently placed the wet stone against his foot, starting to rub in slow circles. "A pumice stone is a tool used to exfoliate and soften skin. Since Sans is lacking in skin, I am being extra careful with him, hmhm." The skeleton huffed and started to squirm, the texture strangely triggering his reflexes. "no way...." It was a bit reminiscent of a scratchy tongue, or perhaps his brother's bony knuckles — but still, "you are not t-tickling me with a rock rih-rihight now...!" "Oh, I am not? I suppose you will not mind if I continue then." Frisk giggled at Toriel's playful smirk and Sans's exasperated eyeroll. "You see, sometimes, when we perform repetitive tasks or otherwise repeatedly irritate the skin, our bodies will adapt and start to thicken and harden, so, if you prefer your skin to stay soft, you must use a method such as this to maintain it the way that you like. It is also important not to exfoliate too much at once, or you may end up hurting yourself. Balance is key." "ghh~hk—! nnnmh...!" Sans couldn't sit still, hands creeping up his arms until he was outright hugging himself. "In Sans's case, however, it looks like it's just stirring up his magical nerves to the surface." She smiled jovially, setting the pumice stone aside and gingerly scrabbled her filed claws against his now-glowing sole. "Which I am certain he finds just as beneficial...."

Arching with a squeal, Sans yanked on his ankle until Toriel mercifully released him. "ohokay, okay! show's over! nhnn—!" He quickly scooted down off the counter, wincing and whining when his sensitized foot met the threads of the rug. Trying to avoid putting too much pressure in his steps, he hobbled his way out of the bathroom to the couch to calm down, cheeks bright and blue. "Thanks for the demonstration, hehe!" Frisk called after him, sharing a bubbly giggle fit with the boss monster.

[magical-grrrl-mavis]

Idk what my simultaneous interest in earnest and hopeful magical girl stories about love and friendship, and cynical cyberpunk stories about lethal capitalism and the dubiousness of human nature says about me but it says something

[nerdlydelicious]

An itch he can scratch chapter 1: Nero/Secre

Secre frowned and scratched at the base of her horns. Again. The skin around them was particularly itchy today, to the point that it was annoying.

The main room of the Black Bulls hideout was empty, a rare occurrence. Everyone else was out on missions or training (or in the restroom in Captain Yami’s case), and Secre had sought to take the opportunity to relax and get some reading in.

Her horns had other ideas, apparently. The normally taciturn girl scowled and scratched harder, though she knew that would only make it worse. Maybe if she could actually see what she was doing…

As though by divine providence, the front door opened. Secre snatched her hand down and went back to her book, trying to look casual.

“Phew! That a was a good work out!” Asta said at his usual volume as he strolled inside, wiping a bare forearm over his brow. “I’m starving! Wonder if Charmy left anything out to eat.”

The energetic magic knight caught sight of Secre and smiled. “Hey Nero! Whatcha up to?”

“Reading,” she said simply, hoping he’d get the hint she didn’t want to talk and leave her to tend to her itch in a private.

Of course, Asta had never been the best at picking up subtle hints.

“That’s cool,” he said with his usual big smile. “What’s it about?”

Secre frowned as the itching around her horns grew worse. “It’s just a history book. I doubt you’d find much interest in it.”

“Probably,” Asta agreed with a laugh. “Hey, do you know if Charmy left any food out? I’m starving.”

“No,” Secre said a bit quicker than she intended. “You should go find her. I’m sure she’ll make you something to eat.”

The young man thumped a fist into his palm. “Good idea! Thanks Nero, you’re the best!” He turned and ran back out, shutting the door behind himself.

As soon as he was gone Secre’s hands shot up and started scratching away at her scalp. “Stupid horns,” she grumbled, eyes screwed shut as she fought a losing battle against discomfort.

And then the door slammed back open. “Thing is, I actually don’t know where Charmy is! Can you point- uh…”

The sealing mage’s eyes snapped open and locked with Asta’s as he stared at her. More specifically at her hands currently buried in her scalp. “Nero? Are you okay?”

She scowled and didn’t bother retracing her hands. She was caught in the act anyway, there was no point in pretending otherwise. “My scalp is itchy,” she grumbled. “Specifically around my horns. This happens from time to time, but it’s been particularly irritable today.”

Asta frowned. “Sounds really annoying. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Unless you’ve suddenly obtained mana and have anti-itch magic, I doubt it,” she replied testily, with a bit more force than she intended.

The swordsman didn’t let it phase him, if he registered it at all. Instead his face twisted in concentration. Then his eyes lit up. “Actually, I may have something! Be right back!” He darted out of the room and down the hall at a dead sprint. He returned a couple minutes later, holding a small clay jar. “This might help!”

“What is it?” Secre questioned, eyeing the jar dubiously.

“It’s muscle relaxant cream. Mimosa gave it to me awhile back, said it would help me recover after training.”

“And you’ve used it before?”

Asta had the good grace to look awkward. “Not really,” he admitted. “I don’t take it on missions cause I don’t want to lose or break it, and when I’m done training I’m so tired I forget about it until I’ve already recovered.”

“So you have no idea if it will actually work or not,” Secre said flatly.

“Come on Nero!” Asta begged. “Mimosa gave it to me and she knows all about healing someone and making them feel better. If she says it works, then it works!”

“I have an itch,” she reminded the dunce icily, still scratching away. “Not a muscle ache.”

“Well it can’t hurt to try! I’ll even apply it for you! Please? Pleeeease?” He stared at her with wide pleading eyes, not unlike a dog begging for food at the dinner table.

Secre huffed and relented. Asta’s desire to help others was superseded only by his muleheaded stubbornness. He wouldn’t drop it until she accepted. And it wasn’t like he could make it any worse at this point. At least she hoped not.

“Fine.”

Asta grinned from ear to ear and opened the jar, scooping out a healthy amount of cream on two fingers and rubbing it into his hands. “Don’t wanna make your hair all goopy, so I’ll coat my hands in it and rub it in. Wow, this stuff feels nice.” He flexed his hands. “A little warm, but not uncomfortable.”

“Just hurry up,” Secre grumbled as she folded her hands on her lap, fighting the urge to scratch.

“Leave it to me!” He stepped behind her chair and wiggled his fingers. Secre closed her eyes and tensed, ready to pull away if he was too rough.

Asta placed a single finger at the base of her left horn and started gently rubbing in little circles around it.

Maybe it was the cream, or the fact that he was rubbing instead of scratching, but the itching began to fade almost immediately. Secre let out an involuntary gasp at the pleasant sensation, her shoulders relaxing.

“How is it?” Asta asked, placing another finger at the base of her other horn and repeating his motions.

“Very nice,” Secre said softly, leaning back into the chair. “You’re… very good at this.”

“Heh, thanks. So, why do you itch around your horns anyway?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I would guess it’s a side effect of the curse. Since my horns aren’t a natural part of my body, the skin around them sometimes has an unpleasant reaction to their presence.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Asta replied as he traced circles around her horns. His fingers practically danced over her skin, leaving blissful warmth in their “Does it feel better now?”

It did feel much better now, Secre had to admit, but she worried that if she said that he’d stop, and she wasn’t ready for this to end. “It’s… better,” she said. “But now the rest of my scalp is itchy. Could you…?”

“Sure!” Asta’s fingers retracted from around her horns, but before Secre could complain he sunk all ten fingers into her hair and started working them across her scalp.

The sealing mage practically melted into a puddle. For someone with no mana, Asta’s calloused fingers felt like magic as they danced across her head, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. He worked them back and forth, thoroughly rubbing and stroking every spot under her hair, banishing aches she hadn’t even known she’d had. When his fingers dipped lower and started stroking across her forehead and cheeks Secre didn’t even consider questioning it. She tilted her head back and let out a breath as Asta traced her jawline with a finger before working his way back up to her scalp. When he retracted his hands from her she whined plaintively. “Why’d you stop?”

“Sorry, need to apply more cream.” Moments later his hands were back on her, and Secre was in bliss once again as Asta unleashed a skill she’d never known he had on her.

This was easily the most relaxed she’d felt in centuries.

Secre let out a content moan, not caring how it might sound. “Oh, Asta…”

*****

Noelle Silva stretched her arms over her head with a groan as she approached the entrance to the Black Bulls hideout. Like the rest of the squad Noelle had been working herself to the bone in preparation for the inevitable confrontation with the Spade Kingdom. Her control over her magic was improving steadily, but the noble knew she had a long way to go yet.

Of course, as hard as she had been training, Asta had been training even harder. He’d always pushed himself, but now he worked himself to exhaustion everyday, then woke up the next morning to do it all over again. If it were anyone else, it would be sheer insanity.

But in Asta’s case, it was just who he was.

Noelle flushed pink. Not that she was impressed by him or anything, that would be ridiculous! A royal such as herself would never let a commoner like him leave her awestruck, even if he did have muscular arms, powerful legs, and perfectly built abs that looked like they belonged on a marble sculp-

She shook her head frantically, derailing that train of thought. “No no no no no! I’m not enamored by some filthy commoner, I simply can’t be!”

It was all the training, that had to be it. She was so tired that she was nearly delirious with fatigue! Obviously she needed to take a break and cool off. Then she’d be fine.

Noelle reached for the door handle, ready to get a cold glass of water, find the comfiest chair in the main room, and relax until she banished all thoughts of-

“Oh, Asta…”

The water mage froze, hand hovering over the door handle.

That… that sounded like-

“Does it feel good Nero?”

Noelle’s heart slammed against her rib cage. There was no mistaking whose voice that was.

“It feels wonderful. Have you done this before?” Secre’s voice was breathy and serene, almost like she was… she was…

“No, this is my first time. Am I doing a good job?”

“You’re doing an amazing job, Asta.” Noelle’s already red face turned purple as the black haired girl moaned throatily. “Can we… do this again?”

“We can do this whenever you like Nero. All you have to do is ask.”

Something snapped in Noelle’s head.

Screaming, the royal kicked open the doors to the hide out, wand in hand and gathering mana for her most powerful spell. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY ASTA YOU BIRD BRAINED HUSSY!!!!”

Noelle had been ready for many lewd and debauched sights to await her innocent eyes on the other side of that door.

But she wasn’t ready for the reality of it.

There was no carnal act taking place in the main room of the hideout. Instead Asta stood behind Nero, who was sat in a chair with her hands folded in her lap and shooting Noelle the world’s coldest side eye, while his hands were buried in her Raven black hair.

“Noelle?!” Asta leapt back hands raised. “What the heck was that for?!”

“Astaaa,” Nero whined in a very un-Nero like way as she tilted her head back to look at him with her vibrant ruby eyes. “Come back…”

Noelle’s jaw almost hit the floor. The normally taciturn girl was pouting.

“Oh, s-sorry Nero.” He stepped back behind her and rested his hands on her head. Immediately Nero relaxed, humming contently as his fingers started to dance through her hair.

“W-what…” Noelle stared, at a loss for words. “What are you doing?”

“Nero’s head is itchy, so I’m giving her a massage to help. Why were you kicking in the front door?”

“I thought you were- i-it sounded like…”

“Like… what?” Nero’s glare could have snuffed out a fire. “What did it sound like Noelle?”

The silver haired girl swallowed hard. “Uh… it didn’t sound like… anything worth noting.”

Nero closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “That’s what I thought.”

Noelle watched awkwardly as Asta massaged away, hands dancing over Nero’s head with a tenderness she wouldn’t have expected him to posses. She looked more relaxed right in that moment than Noelle had ever seen before, not that she’d known her as a human for that long. But for someone like Nero to be making the sounds that Noelle had heard…

Asta’s hands must have felt divine.

“You okay Noelle?”

Asta’s voice woke Noelle from her thoughts. “W-what?!” She squeaked, red in the face. “I’m perfectly fine Dorksta! W-why on earth wouldn’t I be?!”

“Well you’re just… standing there. Watching me. It’s kinda creeping me out if I’m being honest.”

Noelle blushed, embarrassed. “You should be honored that I’m gracing your lowly commoner form with my gaze Dorksta! There’s nothing ‘creepy’ about it! I’m just… observing your technique is all.”

“If you like I can do you after I’m done doing Nero.”

“Please don’t phrase it like that,” both girls said simultaneously, blushing.

Asta tilted his head, confused. “Like what?”

“N-nevermind. Besides, if I want a head massage then I don’t need your grubby commoner hands in my perfect hair! You’ll probably give me lice!”

“Noelle, that’s mean!” Asta whined. “You know I bathe! C’mon, Nero thinks I’m doing good! I’m sure you’ve got an itch somewhere that I can scratch!”

“I’m sure you’ve got an itch somewhere that I can scratch!”

-“got an itch somewhere that I can scratch…”

The words entered Noelle’s mind and twisted round her thoughts, tying them up and bending them into a more pleasing form.

She was lying on her bed, Asta kneeling over her, bare chested with his hands resting on the mattress to either side of her face. His broad, calloused hand cups her soft pale cheek as he lowers his face to hers, lips threatening to brush across her own and bless them with his taste.

“I’m sure you’ve got an itch somewhere that I can scratch,” he growls throatily, holding her in place with an intense stare that bores into her very soul.

Noelle’s shriek filled the entire hide out and threatened to blow out the windows in the main room. Running on autopilot, she aimed her wand at Asta and unleashed a wall of water that lifted him off his feet and blasted through the wall. The blast continued on into the forest, and took a confused and wailing Asta with it.

Panting, Noelle lowered her wand. She was trembling like a leaf, legs wobbling as they gave out and she sank to her knees. Excess mana bled off of her as steam curling up from her head. “S-stupid perverted Dorksta…” she whispered, blushing across her entire body as she fought to get her mind back under control.

“What the hell is going on in here?!” Yami rushed into the main room, fastening his belt. “Can’t a man take a dump in peace and quiet in his own damn hideout?! And who blew a hole in my wall?!”

“S-sorry Captain,” Noelle stammered, trying and failing to get her legs under her. “Won’t happen again.”

“It better not, or I’ll kill you,” he grumbled as he turned about and made his way back to the commode.

Noelle let out a sigh of relief and tried to push herself up.

Only to find that she was stuck. As though her legs were glued to the ground. “What the-“

“That massage was beyond blissful,” Nero said in a voice like ice from behind Noelle. “And you’ve interrupted it with your childish overreaction.”

Noelle didn’t dare to look back. “I-I’m sorry…”

“Which is why you’re going to remain right there until Asta finishes what he started. Only then will I end the sealing spell keeping you on the floor. And if you interrupt us again, I’ll stick you to the ceiling for an entire day.”

Noelle wilted. “Yes ma’am…”

Nero returned to her chair and crossed her hands on her lap, waiting for Asta to return. “If you wanted a massage too, you could just ask him,” she said without looking at her captive.

Noelle huffed and crossed her arms. “Like I’d ever want his grubby hands on me! As if!”

“Very well then. I’ll just keep him for myself.”

The silver haired royal blanched. “W-what?”

“You heard me,” Nero said calmly. She didn’t even spare Noelle a glance. “I’ll keep him for myself. His grubby commoner hands feel very nice when they’re stroking my hair.”

As Noelle burst into protestations over Nero ‘keeping’ Asta, followed immediately by assurances that Noelle didn’t actually care if she did or not, the sealing mage smiled to herself. Maybe this would be the push Noelle needed to be more open about her feelings for Asta.

Or maybe this too would end in colossal and comedic failure.

Nero’s money was on the latter.

[inuhodo]

friend hawke's inventory! or an approximation of the important items. also an excuse to have her sitting gayly

explanations under the cut!

the hawke's key: we love a dubiously cursed blood magic staff in this house. her primary weapon (has enough buffs on it to kill the maker i think thank you exploits) that also doubles as a really REALLY shitty walking stick

talisman of saarebas: she got it from ketojan; another dubiously cursed item. she doesnt really know why she kept it on her, but she tries to wear it as much as possible. its a bit comforting

isabela's note: she was really SUPER normal about isabela bouncing after finding the tome, coming back, and then leaving without saying goodbye so she kept the letter and read and reread it over and over again. the paper is frayed and the writing is nearly illegible

good-luck charm: from sweet merrill, because friend's life is a circus of misery. friend likes to think the charm works, but she knows it doesn't. still, its the thought that counts

ring of study: after becoming champion, it was insisted that she, an apostate, undergo the harrowing as soon as she could (that would be when she could walk without passing out from her arishok duel injuries). she passed, of course, and keeps the ring

hunting knife: malcolm never took her hunting, but gave her the knife when she professed she wanted to learn how to not rely on her magic. it definitely gets a lot more use when she's a blood mage

caprice coins: they remind her of leandra, and are fun to flip around. they were stolen from chateau haine

treat for the comte: you have to reward a good girl for biting your enemies, and comte sniffeur de naughty is a very good girl

[doppel-drop-distance]

The Dubiously Needed, Unnecessarily Extensive Magia Record Stat Sheet Guide (Masterpost)

Many of you know that I adore OCs. I have made plenty myself and adore seeing those from others. Yes, even the self-inserts. All of them are good. Yes. If it makes you happy, it is good!

One of my favorite activities with Madoka OCs in particular is to envision them as characters in Magia Record. There’s an immersive quality to it that I simply can’t get enough of.

However…you can’t deny that getting the information for these “stat sheets” is difficult. Even the English patches of Magia Record keep the gameplay untranslated, so it’s easy to get mixed up on mechanics, status effects...names. Like, do you guys remember when Darkness was called “Blind”? Man I miss NA…

Because of this, I wanted to create a guide! This guide is for those who want to make stat sheets for their Madoka OCs as if they were Magia Record characters. This is not going to give any hard rules - no “you MUST do this”. I’m simply going to tell you what I know, and what patterns I see in the gameplay. What advice you take and what you interpret is completely up to you! After all, the fun part of making OCs is putting your own spin on things. 

I will be writing this as if you know how to play Magia Record already. I won’t be explaining every single term. If you need further guidance, I would highly recommend the Magia Record English Wiki. I referenced their definitions and percentages for most of this guide. It’s a helpful resource for understanding the game mechanics. 

To keep this from breaking the word limit, I’m going to split this guide into a multi-post series. Each post will explain one factor of this stat sheet, with examples and such. This will be the masterpost. All future posts will be linked below!

(Note: I’m going to be using “magical girl” as an umbrella term in this guide, since it’s the same term used in the anime and game. However, nothing here is specifically gender-exclusive. I couldn’t find a gender-neutral term I was happy with, so if you have any suggestions, let me know and I’ll make an edit in post.

Also, please do not hesitate to correct me if anything in this guide is incorrect. I cannot read Japanese and am mostly using the English Wiki and prior game knowledge as my resource...so I would honestly not be surprised if I got something wrong. I'll try to keep this guide updated with any corrections.)

With that said, enjoy and happy creating! :)

Rarity

Attribute

Type

Growth Type

Discs

Stats

Connect

Magia/Doppel

EX Skill

Spirit Enhancement

Personal Memoria (TBA)

Enhancement Materials (TBA)

Quotes (TBA)

Alts (TBA)

Final Template (TBA)

[dracotheocracy]

Bond. James Bond.

Plz give me all the info you've got on hand!

i am so glad you asked. fair warning: i will have nothing good to say about james bond.

now this wouldn't be a mars ask if i didn't set up dubiously necessary context before getting into it: i have a relatively well-documented history of being hooked into medias that are like watching car crashes (e.g., the irregular at magic high school, white collar). as it tends to happen in trash fire fiction i have seen some really problematic shit- irregular's main ship, for example, is an incest ship that's pushed by the narrative to the point where i think it isn't inaccurate to call its narrative somewhat pro-incest, and white collar is a police drama produced in 2010 which i think tells you most of what you need to know about the narrative it pushes about justice. all this, especially when compounded by some legitimately terrible writing, scratches a certain itch in the part of my brain that likes to tear shit apart.

the james bond novels will quickly become my latest victim, as i have to read From Russia, with Love for a course on spy fiction i'm taking this semester. i will likely have this tumblr post pulled up during the discussion we have about it in about 9 hours as what's under the cut is essentially a close-ish reading of the first 10 chapters of the novel.

tw misogyny, queerphobia, racism, sexual violence, demonization of mental illness

i have watched my fair share of james bond movies. they do not fucking prepare you for how bad the novels are. i am 10 out of 38 chapters into this novel (one of 14 novels!) and i have developed something of a hatred for ian fleming.

in 10 chapters the plot is only just beginning to get rolling, so in terms of actual writing quality i can give no judgements beyond "well i can sort of tell that by the end i am going to think 'hm this was not that good.'" now the bond franchise was never meant to be a literary masterpiece so it doesn't actually have to be all that good, it just has to be entertaining, and because my idea of entertainment is looking on in horror as some aspect of the writing finds a way to get worse somehow, by god has it been delivering thus far

what i CAN tell you is that ian fleming is teaching a masterclass on how to write with the male gaze. three female characters have been introduced in these first 10 chapters- a nameless masseuse who's really just there to make sure the opening of the novel is suitably erotic, rosa klebb, and tatiana romanov.

he has made a point of mentioning all of their breasts within give or take 3 paragraphs of their introductions, dear lord i might even be giving him too much credit. the nameless masseuse took her shirt off and was just tits out for most of the scene she was in actually, but that didn't really matter as much relative to the other glaring issue with that scene that i will be getting to later. he's also referred to his female characters as women as opposed to calling them girls maybe, once per character, so far. maybe that's a quirk of british english in the 1950s that nobody would think anything of, but it's something that adds up to the point that it's very much worth noticing to me- all of these women are grown adults and while i find myself unable to articulate exactly why it feels wrong to me that they're repeatedly called girls. it could be because i find it infantilizing, maybe, i feel like the word usage here diminishes their agency

the nameless masseuse doesn't really get a lot dedicated to her appearance relative to the named women, and the opening scene happens mostly in her point of view. there is also a man in this scene who i will be getting to in full later, but for now i will point your attention towards two quotes:

"[S]he wondered why she loathed this splendid body, and once again she vaguely tried to analyse her revulsion. Perhaps this time she would get rid of feelings which she felt guiltily certain were much more unprofessional than the sexual desire some of her patients awoke in her." "Now was the time when many of her patients, particularly the young ones on the football team, would start joking with her. Then, if she was not very careful, the suggestions would come. Sometimes she could silence these by digging sharply down towards the sciatic nerve. At other times, and particularly if she found the man attractive, there would be giggling arguments, a brief wrestling-match and a quick, delicious surrender."

this scene is written from her perspective and it's here to introduce the male character in it. but who cares about that, what is it telling us about the masseuse? well. she thinks her patients are hot and has sex with them sometimes. that's really about it, i think her portrayal in the scene as a whole would indicate that she's plain or a little dumb but there isn't much character to discern because ian is far more concerned with talking about the man in this scene in a way that's pretty sexually charged while also establishing the first bits of information you get about him as the reader. the only purpose of a female POV in this scene is to make it more erotic, i think it's pretty clear he doesn't really care about this character's anything beyond the inherent sex appeal she gets by being female and the ability to write a somewhat erotic description of a male character without it coming off as weird and homosexual.

our next female character is rosa klebb. i will be getting back to something more important about her later, for now i'd like to focus on how fleming, from a male character's perspective, describes her.

"She was short, about five foot four, and squat, and her dumpy arms and short neck, and the calves of the thick legs in the drab khaki stockings, were very strong for a woman. The devil knows, thought Kronsteen, what her breasts were like, but the bulge of uniform that rested on the table-top looked like a badly packed sandbag, and in general her figure, with its big pear-shaped hips, could only be likened to a 'cello."

i'll be honest this is an excuse to show off one of the titty quotes and rosa klebb is a pretty big offender. a lot of the impression we get of her in the beginning is done less to give us an impression of her and more to establish the kind of character our current POV man, kronsteen, has. kronsteen is an emotionally detached, manipulative, and insightful (in the dnd insight skill way) chess master who works for the MGB. he's the criminal mastermind smart guy who makes all the plans. now i suspect the purpose of rosa's physical description doesn't have much to do with showing anything particularly notable about kronsteen's character, there's a paragraph dedicated to the rules he uses to read/judge people that tells you far more about him than this does even if you try to analyze it, mostly because this is also how ian talks about women in the absence of a POV character

which brings us to tatiana romanov! who has her physical appearance described in a scene that is set in her POV:

"One of her early boy-friends had said she looked like the young Greta Garbo. What nonsense! And yet tonight she did look rather well. ... She smiled at herself in the mirror. Yes, it was wide; but then so had Garbo's been. At least the lips were full and finely etched. There was the hint of a smile at the corners. No one could say it was a cold mouth! And the oval of her face. Was that too long? Was her chin a shade too sharp? She swung her head sideways to see it in profile. The heavy curtain of hair swung forward and across her right eye so that she had to brush it back. Well, the chin was pointed, but at least it wasn't sharp."

"In fact Corporal Tatiana Romanova was a very beautiful girl indeed. Apart from her face, the tall, firm body moved particularly well. ... Her arms and breasts were faultless. A purist would have disapproved of her behind. Its muscles were so hardened with exercise that it had lost the smooth downward feminine sweep, and now, round at the back and flat and hard at the sides, it jutted like a man's."

wild guess. shot in the dark. she's this novel's bond girl. ian gives a glowing description of her features during which he establishes that she thinks a lot about her appearance and is perhaps somewhat insecure about it, but still believes herself to be beautiful. the stuff i took out and replaced with the ellipsis is really much of the same as what follows the ellipsis. the second quote is switching briefly from romanova's POV to that of the narrator, and of course it ends on a description of her tits and ass because, well, why not. now i will give some amount of grace in that romanova does have, like, a personality, but much like the masseuse she's, bland might not be the correct way to describe it, but she has this very gentle, [in a sarcastic tone of voice] divine feminine quality to her. to quote the next chapter, "This was a beautiful, guileless, innocent girl." i admit reluctantly that ian did a decent job of showing us this before telling us- her demeanor when she gets a call from a superior officer in the MGB betrays as much with her immediate panic over what she might've done to get a call at unusual hours from her superiors and pretty meek acceptance of what she probably sees as certain death, and her concern with her appearance in the parts i quote might come across as a bit superficial but the insecurity, the way she appraises herself, paints her less as vain and more as a shy beauty (to be conquered by bond later of course)

we return back to the scene with the masseuse, this time to talk about donovan grant, or granitsky. he is a major villain.

"Donovan Grant was the result of a midnight union between a German professional weight-lifter and a Southern Irish waitress. The union lasted for a quarter of an hour on the damp grass behind a circus tent outside Belfast."

i am genuinely curious why ian thought it necessary to mention that his parents fucked for 15 minutes in the sex that conceived him. we must note the nationalities of his parents because with the prior james bond knowledge that dr. no, a major villain from earlier in the bond timeline, has a german father and a chinese mother, makes me suspect there might be a pattern in what heritages ian likes to give his antagonists. (READ: GERMAN AND [INSERT OPPRESSED NATIONALITY HERE]). it should be noted that granitsky's father immediately fucks right off and he's raised in southern ireland. dr. no, i'm fairly certain, was also raised in china as his father was a german missionary if memory serves. ian throughout the first couple chapters establishes that communist spies are pretty culturally and racially diverse, which would be cool i guess if the communists weren't evil in this setting. later in his exposition about granitsky's backstory he describes the spy school he attended in leningrad, specifically its makeup: "Germans, Czechs, Poles, Balts, Chinese and Negroes..." (about the use of the word Negro, the bond novels were written in the 50s. for clarity). there's a mention in a later chapter of a particularly accomplished black soviet agent. i will update this post if there's any racial diversity on the MI6 side of things but... somehow i doubt it...... anyway, i point this out just to make a note that the side we're rooting for here is the side of the white englishman where his villains tend to come from less privileged cultural backgrounds

i'm not done with donovan. he gets worse. his character says a lot about society and particularly how little ian fleming thinks about like, anything. donovan grant is a high ranking assassin in the MGB. he's a boxer that defected from british armed forces oh also he's a serial killer

"It was about this time that his body began to feel strange and violent compulsions around the time of the full moon. When, in October of his sixteenth year, he first got 'The Feelings' as he called them to himself, he went out and strangled a cat. This made him 'feel better' for a whole month. ... Often he had to go very far to find what he wanted and, after two months of having to satisfy himself with geese and chickens, he took a chance and cut the throat of a sleeping tramp."

grant is diagnosed 2 chapters later with manic depression that flares up once a month. he has to go out and kill people or drink his urges away once a month because he has manic depression that is explicitly stated. it's almost 1am so i'm not going to dignify this with an especially winded explanation of what's wrong with this scene. that's a wildly inaccurate portrayal of what we now understand as bipolar depressive disorder and a demonizing one at that, because, you know, evidently manic episodes make you go out and kill people right that's definitely accurate and based in verifiable fact right. he was diagnosed as a narcissist also while we're on the topic of demonizing portrayals of already very stigmatized mental illnesses

"When he killed the occasional girl he did not 'interfere' with her in any way. That side of things, which he had heard talked about, was quite incomprehensible to him. It was only the wonderful act of killing that made him 'feel better'. Nothing else."

so as an aro/ace myself i dig into this one particularly hard. there is one hell of an implication here about an asexual's capacity for love, compassion, you know, emotions, the things many people argue make us human. it's just incredible to me, really, that ian decides to introduce this character's asexuality by saying "he doesn't rape the women he kills because he does not experience sexual desire." it's very, very clearly not something that's supposed to reflect positively on donovan, which is just insane because you'd figure this would be a "well at least he doesn't rape women he only kills them :|" but instead it's "he doesn't rape the women he kills how awful and weird!"

the train of logic there is relatively easy for me to piece together i think. if someone is okay with murder, that is, on the sliding scale of evil actions, generally placed above being ok with sexual violence. at least i suspect this is reliably true in the 50s when this novel was written. the intended takeaway from this as a result is probably something along the lines of, "well, this person already has something deeply wrong with him. someone who would commit such a grave sin as killing another human being shouldn't have any qualms with crimes that are of a lesser magnitude, ergo if he's killing the woman why does he not rape her as well? it must be because he has no sexuality!" which is going to be treated as a bad thing. this is james bond. this is a series that deals heavily with sexuality, the bond girl is a known staple of the series for a reason, right, and the stance ian takes is that sexual desire is part of what makes us in some respects human, and that something is wrong with you if you don't experience it.

grant is not the only queer character in From Russia, with Love, check this out:

"It was said that Rosa Klebb would let no torturing take place without her." "For, or so they whispered, she would take the camp-stool and draw it up close below the face of the man or woman that hung down over the edge of the interrogation table. Then she would squat down on the stool and look into the face and quietly say 'No1' or 'No10' or 'No25' and the inquisitors would know what she meant and they would begin. And she would watch the eyes in the face a few inches away from hers and breathe in the screams as if they were perfume."

"Rosa Klebb undoubtedly belonged to the rarest of all sexual types. She was a neuter. ... The stories of men and, yes, of women, were too circumstantial to be doubted. She might enjoy the act physically, but the instrument was of no importance. For her, sex was nothing more than an itch. And this psychological and physiological neutrality of hers at once relieved her of so many human emotions and sentiments and desires... She was a lone operator, but never a lonely one, because the warmth of company was unnecessary to her."

there is so much wrong with this. she's rumored to be a neuter i.e having non-functional sex organs in this context, i think. i do believe ian is trying to indicate that she might be intersex here. she fucks both men and women, maybe she's bisexual, and she does not get any emotional fulfillment out of relationships and sex to her is "nothing more than an itch." sex is often described as the ultimate form of intimacy and i do think there's an argument to be made for an aro/ace reading of this if what we're being told here is, essentially, that she gets no emotional fulfillment from sex and it's merely a pleasurable act. regardless there's something to be said about the only two characters thus far with unusual sexual identities being a serial killer and a torturer. they're both portrayed as incredibly cruel and incapable of forming meaningful relationships with other people and the fact it happens twice in the same book i think is indicative of a pattern in how ian (and his time period more broadly) views queer identities.

um yeah so that's my review of the first 10 chapters of From Russia, with Love by ian fleming like and subscribe for more