#diplomatic fragmentation.

[aishuglb12]

G20’s Future Relevance in an Era of Polarized Diplomacy

Diplomacy is evolving, and the G20 faces unprecedented challenges in a world increasingly defined by polarization and division. He understands that navigating this landscape requires not only strategic thinking but also strong collaboration and adaptability. She recognizes the necessity of finding common ground amidst clashing ideologies, while they explore ways to harness the G20’s potential to foster dialogue and cooperation. In this post, he will outline necessary strategies for maintaining the G20’s significance in a tumultuous global environment.

Table of Contents

Reassessing Diplomacy: The Power Dynamics of the G20

Navigating Competing Interests: The Challenges for Consensus

The G20’s Potential as a Platform for Innovation

Bridging Divides: Strategies for Reinventing Dialogue

Anticipating Future Trends: The Road Ahead for the G20

Summing up

Reassessing Diplomacy: The Power Dynamics of the G20

Shifts in Global Influence and Authority

They see a notable shift in the balance of power within the G20, as traditional dominant economies find their influence challenged by emerging markets. Countries like India and Brazil have increasingly leveraged their demographic advantages and growing GDPs to demand a seat at the table. This shift is not merely about numbers; it’s a transition characterized by a re-evaluation of authority, as decisions that once relied on consensus among a few are now influenced by a diverse coalition of nations. Data shows that the collective GDP of G20 emerging economies is now close to 60% of the world’s total, underscoring their potential clout in global governance.

As power dynamics evolve, established nations cannot afford to ignore the perspectives and concerns of their counterparts from the Global South. A prime example is the G20’s handling of climate change, where emerging economies argue for balanced financial support and technological access instead of shifting the burden solely to them. This interplay of negotiation and authority redefines how the G20 operates, making it necessary for all members to engage collaboratively.

The Role of Emerging Economies in Shaping Policy

Emerging economies are no longer passive participants; they actively shape the policy narrative within the G20. With their voices amplified, these countries are advocating for a more equitable global economic framework, pushing for agendas that prioritize development, sustainability, and inclusive growth. For instance, during recent summits, nations such as South Africa and Indonesia have introduced pivotal discussions on digital economy regulations and the importance of food security, reflecting their regional priorities and experiences. This engagement signals a growing recognition that diverse perspectives lead to more robust outcomes.

Diversifying power dynamics results in policy formulation that encompasses a wider range of socioeconomic realities. Emerging economies, equipped with their unique challenges and aspirations, drive the G20’s agenda toward more inclusive discussions on health, climate, and economic recovery. Their contributions redefine norms within international discussions, allowing for policy that resonates with a broader spectrum of nations, thereby solidifying their role as necessary voices on the global stage.

Navigating Competing Interests: The Challenges for Consensus

Heard in the corridors of international summits, debates swirl around the reality that a unified stance among G20 nations is increasingly elusive. Each member state, driven by unique domestic agendas and priorities, often pushes national interests to the forefront. Striking a balance becomes a formidable task, as leaders grapple with their respective constituencies while trying to maintain a collaborative approach. The once-promising concept of multilateralism now faces significant hurdles, as stark differences over issues like climate change, economic equity, and health policies breed discord rather than cooperation. Consensus has become a tricky tightrope for nations to walk, with many leaders fearing the backlash from their home populations for sacrificing domestic needs for the sake of global agreements.

The standoff between progressive and conservative camps within the G20 further complicates reaching consensus. Each faction raises its flag, rallying support around antagonistic narratives that often drown out the voices advocating for compromise. Trade policies become battlegrounds where nations contend for leverage, driven by shifting political landscapes. For instance, countries like the United States and China not only find themselves locked in a bitter trade rivalry but also remain at odds regarding technological advancements that could dictate future economic performance. As such, the G20’s ability to forge meaningful agreements may wane unless these competing interests can be navigated with finesse and forethought.

The Impact of Nationalism on Multilateral Agreements

In an age marked by rising nationalism, global cooperation suffers significant setbacks. Nationalist sentiments propel leaders to prioritize robust domestic policies over collaborative global initiatives. She sees countries retreating to their economic silos, frequently bypassing agreements that demand mutual concession. This shift manifests in protectionist policies, alarming trade barriers, and reluctance to engage in joint efforts addressing transnational threats such as climate change and pandemics. Strong examples include instances like the United Kingdom’s withdrawal from the European Union, which sent ripples through multilateral negotiations, shaking the foundations of previously unassailable alliances.

As national leaders cater to the voices of their constituents, they often sacrifice the broader goals that multilateral agreements aim to achieve. The insistence on homegrown solutions highlights the inherent struggle within multilateral forums like the G20. They often find themselves facing severe pushback when attempting to embrace collective commitments. Without addressing the surge of nationalism, the G20 risks becoming an echo chamber of competing agendas, where substantive action becomes a distant dream.

Addressing the Repercussions of Trade Wars

The stakes surrounding trade wars escalate, exacerbating tensions between nations involved in the G20. They witness trade policies that fuel economic uncertainty, and retaliatory tariffs become the chosen weapon of politicians aiming to appease discontented voters. The conflict between the U.S. and China, characterized by heavy tariffs and strained supply chains, is a prime example. A significant drop in exports and rising inflation rates have left many nations grappling with the fallout, leaving the G20 to contend with the urgent need for solutions while facing the reality of opposing national interests. Countries that rely heavily on exports find themselves in precarious positions as the winds of trade wars threaten their economies.

Addressing these repercussions requires a paradigm shift among G20 nations. Cooperation on trade policies must be prioritized to stabilize economies and re-establish trust among leaders. Initiatives aimed at reducing trade barriers, increasing transparency in negotiations, and promoting fair competition are vital for the G20’s survival. By fostering open dialogue and forging connections between competing national interests, there is hope for formulating actionable agreements. A newfound spirit of collaboration could be the lifeline the G20 needs to rise above the turmoil wrought by trade disputes and nationalism, restoring its relevance in an increasingly fragmented world.

The G20’s Potential as a Platform for Innovation

Leveraging Technology to Drive Global Solutions

The G20 can act as a vibrant hub for technological advancement by uniting innovation-driven countries to address pressing global challenges. Notably, the advent of digital currencies, fintech, and AI-driven technologies has already begun to reshape the economic landscape. By harnessing the collective intellect of member nations, the G20 can facilitate the creation of frameworks that enable innovation while ensuring compliance with ethical standards and privacy protections. For instance, the collaborative efforts to develop ethical AI guidelines reflect a shared commitment to not only fostering innovation but also protecting individual rights and freedoms.

Member nations can benefit from establishing tech incubators that promote collaboration between startups and established companies across borders. Countries like Singapore and Germany have already embraced initiatives that bolster their ecosystems, proving that the G20 can spearhead similar efforts globally. By implementing strategies that prioritize knowledge sharing and resource allocation, the G20 can elevate emerging markets, allowing them to leapfrog into the digital economy and ultimately bolster global resilience against crises.

The Interplay of Climate Change and Economic Policy

Economic policy and climate action are deeply intertwined, and the G20 possesses a unique opportunity to address both divides through innovative solutions. As nations face increasing pressure to meet climate commitments, they must simultaneously navigate the economic ramifications of transitioning to greener infrastructures. Funding for renewable energy projects, sustainable agricultural practices, and efforts to reduce carbon footprints require significant investments and cooperation between G20 countries. Initiatives to align green funding with economic growth policies can also foster unprecedented collaboration among member states.

The G20’s role is pivotal in shaping global economic frameworks that factor in climate resilience. For example, she can draw from success stories like Denmark’s extensive wind energy program, which has propelled its economy while ensuring a significant reduction in emissions. Additionally, financial instruments such as green bonds are gaining traction, exemplifying how economic prosperity and environmental stewardship can coexist. By championing comprehensive strategies that integrate climate initiatives with economic recovery plans, the G20 can ensure a sustainable future for generations to come.

As she analyzes further, the interplay between climate policy and economic strategy in the context of the G20 signifies a broader understanding of sustainable development. Countries grappling with the aftermath of climate-induced disasters can benefit tremendously from economic models designed around resilience. For instance, investing in disaster-preparedness infrastructure not only mitigates future risks but also creates jobs and stimulates economic activity. By leading the charge for climate-smart economic policies, the G20 can transition towards a new paradigm that prioritizes sustainability as a foundation for growth.

Bridging Divides: Strategies for Reinventing Dialogue

Cultivating a Culture of Cooperation in Hostile Environments

Creating a cooperative atmosphere in hostile environments requires intentional efforts to build trust. They must prioritize open communication, where different nations can express their concerns freely without fear of retribution. For instance, the recent efforts to engage North Korea in dialogue after years of isolation serve as a prime example. Through carefully crafted back-channel communications, leaders demonstrated a commitment to understanding each other’s perspectives, despite deep-rooted animosities. Such acknowledgment paves the way for greater collaboration on shared challenges, like climate change or global health crises, that affect both sides.

Involving international mediators can amplify these efforts significantly. By introducing neutral parties that share no vested interests in the outcome, they can help de-escalate tensions and facilitate discussions. Their role often includes establishing ground rules that maintain respect and consideration, laying down a blueprint for how contentious issues can be navigated. This framework encourages nations to look beyond short-term conflicts and focus on long-term benefits that stem from cooperative relationships, ultimately fostering a more stable global environment.

Best Practices from Successful Diplomatic Engagements

Successful diplomatic engagements often reveal a series of best practices that can be replicated in various contexts. Countries like Norway have excelled in mediating peace negotiations, focusing on building personal relationships amongst delegates. To boost the effectiveness of discussions, they emphasize informal gatherings that foster a sense of camaraderie among conflicting parties. Such an environment leads to more genuine discussions and, more importantly, breaks down barriers. Their success in the Colombian peace process serves as a model, showcasing how diplomacy can transform adversarial relationships into partnerships for peace.

Lessons learned from these engagements underscore the importance of patience. Diplomacy is often a slow burn where immediate results aren’t the goal. Engaging in consistent dialogue, rather than one-off meetings, allows for the gradual establishment of trust. Creating opportunities for smaller, less threatening topics can act as a warm-up to tackle larger issues. Additionally, empowering grassroots organizations to facilitate dialogue can lead to sustainable peace efforts, as they often reflect on the ground realities that high-level diplomats may overlook. Through these tried-and-tested practices, countries can navigate polarized environments more effectively, encouraging diverse nations to collaborate in harmony.

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[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: fic has been posted here <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe. 

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess. 

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company. 

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will. 

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts. 

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering. 

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one. 

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar. 

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both. 

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos. 

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor. 

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria. 

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs. 

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze. 

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace. 

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor. 

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room. 

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything. 

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read. 

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

✏️ Writing Dialogue That Sounds Like Real People, Not Theater Kids on Red Bull

(a crash course in vibes, verbal economy, and making your characters shut up already)

Okay. We need to talk about dialogue. Specifically: why everyone in your draft sounds like they’re in a high school improv group doing a dramatic reading of Riverdale fanfiction.

Before you panic, this is normal. Early dialogue is almost always too much. Too polished. Too "scripted." So if yours feels off? You’re not failing. You’re just doing Draft Zero Dialogue, and it’s time to revise it like a boss.

Here’s how to fix it.

─────── ✦ ───────

🎭 STEP ONE: DETOX THEATER ENERGY I say this with love: your characters are not all quippy geniuses. They do not need to deliver emotional monologues at every plot beat. They can just say things. Weird, half-finished, awkward things.

Real people:

interrupt each other

trail off mid-thought

dodge questions

contradict themselves

repeat stuff

change the subject randomly

Let your characters sound messy. Not every line needs to sparkle. In fact, the more effort you put into making dialogue ✨perfect✨, the more fake it sounds. Cut 30% of your clever lines and see what happens.

─────── ✦ ───────

🎤 STEP TWO: GIVE EACH CHARACTER A VERBAL FINGERPRINT The fastest way to make dialogue feel alive? Make everyone speak differently. Think rhythm, grammar, vocabulary, tone.

Some dials you can twist:

Long-winded vs. clipped

Formal vs. casual

Emojis of speech: sarcasm, filler words, expletives, slang

Sentence structure: do they talk in fragments? Run-ons? Spirals?

Emotion control: are they blunt, diplomatic, avoidant, performative?

Here’s a shortcut: imagine what your character sounds like over text. Are they the “lol okay” type or the “okie dokie artichokie 🌈✨” one? Now translate that into speech.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 STEP THREE: FUNCTION > FILLER Every line of dialogue should do something. Reveal something. Move something. Change something.

Ask:

Does this line push the plot forward?

Does it show character motivation/conflict/dynamic?

Does it create tension, add context, or raise a question?

If it’s just noise? It’s dead air. Cut it. Replace it with a glance. A gesture. A silence that says more.

TIP: look at a dialogue scene and remove every third line. Does the scene still work? Probably better.

─────── ✦ ───────

💥 STEP FOUR: REACTIVITY IS THE GOLD STANDARD Characters don’t talk into a void. They respond. And how they respond = the real juice.

Don’t just write back-and-forth ping pong. Write conflict, dodge, misunderstanding. If one character says something vulnerable, the other might joke. Or ignore it. Or say something cruel. That’s tension.

Dialogue is not just information exchange. It’s emotional strategy.

Try this exercise: A says something revealing. B lies. A notices, but pretends they don’t. B changes the subject. Now you’ve got a real scene.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔍 STEP FIVE: PAY ATTENTION TO POWER Every convo has a power dynamic, even if it’s tiny. Who’s steering? Who’s withholding? Who’s deflecting, chasing, challenging?

Power can shift line to line. That shift = tension. And tension = narrative fuel.

Write conversations like chess matches, not ping pong.

─────── ✦ ───────

✂️ STEP SIX: SCISSORS ARE YOUR BEST FRIEND The best dialogue is often the second draft. Or third. Or fourth. First drafts are just you figuring out what everyone wants to say. Later drafts figure out what they actually would say.

Things to cut:

Greetings/closings ("Hi!" "Bye!"--skip it unless it serves tone)

Exposition disguised as chat

Obvious thoughts spoken aloud

Explaining jokes

Repeating what we already know

Readers are smart. Let them fill in blanks.

─────── ✦ ───────

🎧 STEP SEVEN: READ IT OUT LOUD (YES, REALLY) If you hate this step: too bad. It works. Read it. Mumbling is fine. Cringe is part of the ritual.

Ask yourself:

Would someone actually say this?

Does this sound like one person speaking, or a puppet show with one hand?

Where does the rhythm trip? Where’s the breath?

If you can’t say it out loud without wincing, the reader won’t make it either. Respect the vibe.

─────── ✦ ───────

🏁 TL;DR: If you want your dialogue to sound like real people, let your characters be real. Messy. Annoying. Human. Let them interrupt and lie and joke badly and say the wrong thing at the worst time.

Cut the improv class energy. Kill the urge to be ✨brilliant✨. And listen to how people talk when they’re scared, tired, pissed off, in love, or trying not to say what they mean.

That’s where the good stuff is.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // official advocate of awkward silences and one-word replies

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[aventurineswife]

May I please request a reverse of the little shrunken reader with characters: Ayato, Sunday, and Kaeya?

That drabble with a little shrunken character is so cute. I enjoyed it a ton, snd I'm so curious how you'd write it if it were reversed, and reader was tiny and shrunk. I imagine some panic, some teasing, and some really cute moments. ^^

Held Between Heartbeats

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Kaeya x Reader, Ayato x Reader, Shrunken!Reader, Size Difference, Comfort & Fluff, Gentle Giant Dynamics, Protective Behavior, Soft Romance, Slight Angst (Sunday), Teasing & Banter (Kaeya), Elegant Caretaking (Ayato), Platonic/Pre-Romantic Feel (can be read as romantic or not).

Warnings: Mild existential/philosophical themes (Mentions of guilt, trauma, and introspection), Non-graphic panic reaction (Reader is surprised by their transformation, mild stress implied), Emotional vulnerability and introspection, Mentions of past trauma, Mild swearing or sarcasm.

A/N: I'm so glad you enjoyed that one!! :DD

When Ayato first sees you curled up in his tea cup—his tea cup, of all places—his hand pauses mid-reach, eyes widening just a fraction. For anyone else, that look might seem placid, unreadable. But for those who know him well, the slight parting of his lips and the stillness of his breath speak volumes.

He sets the cup down gently.

"Ah… I see. You've taken the phrase 'small presence' rather literally today."

You squawk at him, trying to stand up with your arms flailing—only to slip on a porcelain groove and land on your back. He chuckles, but it's soft, careful not to startle you.

"Forgive me. That was unkind of me," Ayato says, extending his gloved hand with the grace of a practiced dancer. His fingers hover near you, palm open, waiting for your consent.

The moment you're nestled in his hand, he lifts you with a reverence most reserve for relics or flowers, eyes glittering with fascination.

"I’ll have Thoma check the estate for any mysterious substances or artifacts. Though… this might be your doing, hmm? Some kind of experiment gone adorably wrong?"

You pout, crossing your arms.

Ayato smiles. "Don't worry, little one. Until you're restored, you’ll be my most important guest. I’ll ensure you have all the luxury of a full-sized diplomat—miniature meals included."

And he does. From custom-made cushions to a teacup hot spring, Ayato turns your misfortune into a carefully crafted sanctuary. But sometimes, you catch him watching you with an unreadable look—half playful, half wistful—as if wondering how something so small could matter so much.

Sunday finds you when he’s alone in the Astral Express observatory, the golden glow of his halo faint as he reads an old book of dream symbols. A flicker of movement near his scarf draws his attention—and then his breath stills.

You're curled against the fabric, smaller than his palm.

For a full minute, he says nothing.

Only after confirming you're alive—your tiny chest rising and falling—does he speak. “A dream, then… no. You’re real. And small. How… curious.”

He cups you carefully in both gloved hands, his wings flicking in concern.

“This… wasn’t your intention, was it?” His voice is soft, but you hear the turbulence in it. Worry, guilt, perhaps even self-blame. “Another punishment for chasing paradise too eagerly? Or have I brought this upon you… again?”

You squeak, shaking your head—trying to assure him it’s not his fault. He watches you for a long time, eyes glinting with sorrow and awe.

“You're even more fragile like this,” Sunday murmurs, brushing a single silver-blue strand from his brow. “And yet… you trust me. Still.”

He builds you a safe nest of fabric and memory foam, using one of his scarves as a canopy. At night, you sometimes wake to find him watching you, whispering fragments of old lullabies in Halovian tongue, as though protecting you from nightmares.

Yet in moments of quiet, he also speaks to you—not as protector, but as man.

“You remind me of what’s worth saving,” he admits once, when he thinks you’re asleep. “Even in a world that’s too large. Too cruel.”

And you know, then, you’re not just a burden. You’re a tether—to hope, to healing, to the parts of Sunday that still dare to believe in dreams.

When Kaeya opens his drawer expecting reports and finds you—tiny, flustered, and clearly panicking—he almost drops the stack of papers.

“Oh. Well. I didn't expect you to be this small... but you're still just as cute.”

You're too stunned to react, and he’s already gently scooping you up with one hand, holding you up to eye level with a lazy grin.

“Did Albedo do this to you? A. experiment gone wrong? Or perhaps you're just trying to get out of sparring duty,” he teases, thumb brushing lightly across your back.

You kick at him—not that it does anything. “Kaeya!”

He chuckles, warm and amused. “Okay, okay. Sorry, tiny terror.”

But you can see it—just a flicker—in his eye. That concern buried beneath the charm.

“I’ll get you help. But until then…” He places you inside his coat pocket, the warm fur lining becoming your snug haven. “You’ll be safe with me. Promise.”

And so you spend your days nestled against Kaeya’s chest, enduring endless teasing and affectionate pokes. He offers you crumbs of cake like feasts, lets you sleep in his scarf, and even tries (badly) to sing you lullabies.

But sometimes, when he thinks you're dozing, he whispers things he’d never say otherwise.

“I know I joke a lot… but seeing you like this?” His voice lowers, suddenly serious. “Makes me realize just how much I want to protect you. No matter the size.”

You stir, and he smooths a finger gently over your head.

“Don’t worry, snowflake. We’ll fix this. But, uh… don’t grow back until I finish building your miniature wine glass. I think you’ll love it.”

[buckyseternaldoll]

What We Never Said

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You weren’t lovers. Not really friends either. Just two people who found something sacred in the silence between them—until he left.

Disclaimer: Emotional angst, mutual pining, this story stretches between multiple MCU timeline, canon-divergent, past suicidal ideation (non-graphic), unresolved tension, heartbreak, self-worth struggles, soft reunion, slow-burn emotional resolution, gentle romance, happy ending

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: Based on this ask by @currentfacination 💜 I hope I managed to meet your expectation!

You hadn’t planned on surviving that night.

The city had been beautiful—lights like fireflies, air thick with the earthy scent of warm dust and distant spices. It was supposed to be a vacation, a distraction, a last-ditch effort to salvage whatever was left between you and the man who’d already made you feel small for months. He brought you to a city neighboring Wakanda—borderline tourism, he’d called it. A break from reality.

But by midnight, he was gone.

He left you in the middle of a dark, unfamiliar street with nothing but your passport and a half-broken phone. No money. No directions. Just a sneer and the cold slam of a car door. “Figure it out,” he said before driving off. “Maybe you’ll finally learn not to depend on anyone.”

You walked. Then ran. Then wandered until your feet ached and the cold crept through your skin like something alive. You hadn’t cried. Not until your legs gave out somewhere in the shadows of an unlit hill, and the weight of it all dragged you to your knees.

You remembered the rocks beneath your palms. The sharpness. The way the moonlight trembled over the trees.

You remembered the exact thought that struck you before you stood by the edge of that cliff:

No one is coming. No one ever comes.

But someone did.

Wakandan guards had spotted you—unknown, injured, emotionally unwell—and escorted you inside their borders with quiet, efficient urgency. You barely understood what was happening. You only remembered the soft hum of their aircraft, the cool press of water to your lips, the way they never asked you to explain anything until you could breathe again.

And then, there was Shuri.

She didn’t pry. She just sat beside you. Her presence—sharp and warm and quietly reassuring—was the first human comfort you’d felt in weeks. You told her everything in fragments: the manipulation, the loneliness, the cruelty of someone who had held your heart like it was disposable.

And she listened. God, she listened.

It wasn’t long before she asked you to stay. Just until you got back on your feet.

She gave you a quiet room in the science compound that overlooked the golden plains. She gave you time. You often spent the mornings watching the clouds curl above the mountains, a cup of sweet-spiced Wakandan tea in hand. The silence wasn’t so frightening anymore. Not with her.

You slowly helped in small ways—observing lab work, organizing inventory, even translating diplomatic notes from time to time. You weren’t a genius, not like her, but you were steady. Present. Trying.

When you laughed again for the first time, Shuri smiled and told you it suited you.

—

Then came him.

Bucky Barnes was a ghost when they brought him in. Tense shoulders, eyes like winter steel, breath always held too long—like he hadn’t decided whether he deserved to exhale.

You didn’t meet him at first. Shuri warned you that he didn’t trust easily. He didn’t want healers. He didn’t want psychologists. The few they sent in, he shut out. Too polished, too clinical. “They speak like they’re rehearsing something,” he’d said. “Like I’m just another case file.”

Still, Shuri saw something in both of you. And when she quietly suggested he try speaking to you instead, you nearly declined. What if he didn’t want that either?

Your first conversation was barely more than a shared silence. He sat at the edge of the outdoor bench beneath the acacia trees, arms crossed tight, left leg bouncing restlessly. You handed him tea and didn’t speak. He glanced at it, then at you.

You shrugged. “You don’t have to talk. I’m not going to fix you.”

He studied you with those guarded, worn-out eyes for a beat too long. Then took the cup.

It became a ritual. You met in that same spot every few days—sometimes talking, sometimes not. You never asked about the arm. He never asked about the scar on your wrist. But the understanding between you grew in the cracks of quiet.

He found out about your past when you told him—calmly, without drama. Just facts. Just history.

“I was ready to end it. I thought no one would notice.”

“They did,” he said. “That matters.”

When he told you about Hydra, about how pieces of him still didn’t feel like his, your heart didn’t recoil. You reached out and touched his shoulder—softly. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“You’re not what they made you,” you whispered. “And I’m not what he broke.”

He didn’t say anything. But he stayed.

—

Weeks bled into months.

He taught you how to spot storm clouds in his mood before they hit. You showed him how to stretch pasta by hand, how to make the perfect cup of tea that you liked. He let you see his laugh—rare and surprised, like it shocked even him.

You told him once that being around him didn’t feel like healing.

“It feels like… remembering how to feel safe.”

He blinked hard. Then nodded.

“Same.”

—

Then you planned to leave.

Not out of spite. Not to run.

You had healed—slowly, honestly—and Shuri encouraged you to return to the world you’d left behind. To rebuild something for yourself. You didn’t want to go far. But you also didn’t want to stay frozen in place.

You hesitated when you told Bucky. He was sitting on the windowsill in the corridor, metal hand gripping his knee. You could tell he already knew.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” you said quietly.

He met your gaze. “I know.”

“Come with me, then.”

He didn’t answer right away. But a week later, when your flight was confirmed and your bags were packed, he asked you if you’d want a roommate.

You tried not to smile too hard.

—

You agreed, of course. In your defense, it sounded like a great offer—logical even. You’d gotten used to having him around. His quiet presence, the subtle glances, the unexpected humor that crept in when his guard dropped. Living together might just add a little more spark, a little more comfort. Something to hold onto.

He flew to the U.S. with you, barely carrying more than a single bag and a book he didn’t read on the plane. The apartment you picked wasn’t fancy, but it was enough—a two-bedroom walk-up tucked in the outskirts of New York, where traffic didn’t echo and no one asked too many questions. Quiet. Livable. A little empty at first.

But over time, you made it feel like a home.

A rug here. Plants that almost died but didn’t. Candles you forgot to blow out more than once. You painted the living room together on a weekend afternoon, your playlist humming low from a Bluetooth speaker while paint splattered your forearms. He didn’t complain about your color choices, not even once. In fact, he helped mix the tones with care—sage green and soft grey.

You’d said the green reminded you of yourself—growing, healing. The grey was him, steady and familiar.

“We’re like an old couple,” you joked as you dipped the brush into the tray again.

“Minus the cute banters,” he replied without missing a beat.

You’d both laughed at that, but it stuck with you.

Living together was easy in ways you didn’t expect. You weren’t lovers. You weren’t just friends. But the line between those two kept blurring, kept tugging you closer to something unnamed.

He noticed when you weren’t okay—like the nights when your head stayed low too long or your eyes didn’t quite focus.

“Chamomile?” he’d offer, already steeping the tea. Always with honey.

And when he wasn’t okay—when his nightmares clawed him awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, chest heaving—you didn’t hesitate. You climbed into his bed without a word, pulled him into your arms, and rubbed slow circles into his back until his breathing evened out.

You never talked about those nights in the morning. But he always looked at you like he wanted to.

You started to feel things.

Maybe you had for a while.

You clung to the connection between you like it was sacred, like it was too precious to name out loud. It wasn’t love. Not officially. But some days, it felt like it—quiet, soft, blooming in the spaces where neither of you dared to speak.

Sometimes, it showed.

Like during movie nights—when your fingers brushed his as you both reached for the popcorn bucket at the same time. He didn’t pull away. In fact, he held your hand. Gently. Just for a second too long, like maybe he meant to.

Or the morning you woke up from a panic attack, chest tight and lungs refusing to work. He’d pulled you against him in one movement, holding you so close, so steady, you almost cried. He didn’t let go, not even after you calmed. And when you fell back asleep in his arms, he stayed awake until sunrise—just to make sure you didn’t fall apart again.

There were moments.

Almosts.

And they confused you.

Blurred the lines between what-if and reality.

You were starting to wonder if maybe—just maybe—he felt it too.

—

Everything changed the day Steve died.

Bucky stopped being Bucky. It was like watching someone slowly slip beneath the surface—there, but unreachable. His movements dulled, his eyes emptied out, and whatever light used to live behind them dimmed to something barely breathing. He didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. He didn’t say much at all.

He just… stopped.

Stopped texting Sam back. Stopped answering when you called his name from the kitchen. He didn’t touch the food you made—just moved it around his plate until you eventually cleared it away in silence. The routines you’d built, the soft rhythm of your life together—it all unraveled.

Even Mr. Lim noticed. The old man at the corner store mentioned it with a frown when you came by alone one day to buy tangerines.

“Haven’t seen your quiet soldier lately.”

You forced a smile. “He’s just been… tired.”

Still, tired didn’t cover it.

He was hollow.

The nightmares got worse—violent, guttural, shaking him down to the core. You’d wake to the sound of him gasping for air, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, clutching at his chest like he couldn’t bear being alive in his own skin.

Still, you stayed.

You held his hand through every night he thrashed against invisible ghosts. You whispered through his silence, even when he barely looked at you. You made black coffee—bitter just the way he liked it, and left it by his door. You sat on the edge of the couch, brushing your fingertips lightly over his metal arm—not asking for anything. Just letting him know you were still here.

“He loved you, Bucky,” you told him one night. Your voice was soft. Careful. “Steve believed in you. Always.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.

And then, finally, he spoke—quietly, brokenly:

“How do I keep living… when the only person from my past who saw me as more than a weapon is gone?”

“The only one who believed in me. Who never gave up on me—not once.”

You swallowed hard. That should’ve been a comfort to hear, but the way he said it—it hit different. Like a farewell. Like you had never even been part of the equation.

Your heart splintered.

Still, you managed to whisper, “You have me…”

He turned to look at you then—really looked. But it wasn’t the gaze you knew. His eyes were flat, empty, like he didn’t know what he was seeing.

“Maybe you’re next,” he said quietly. “You’ll leave me too. Die before I do. Or worse—realize I’m not worth your time and walk away like everyone else.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t say it like a plea. He said it like a certainty.

But behind his eyes, the truth twisted deep. You could feel it, even if he didn’t speak it aloud:

Can’t stop the voices in my mind.

Didn’t mean to hurt you, but I do it anyway.

You closed the space between you and him, placing a hand on his arm—flesh, not metal. Grounding. Present.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, steady and low. “Not now. Not when it hurts. Not ever.”

He didn’t move.

“You’re not alone in this,” you added. “Even if you push, I’ll keep pulling. I’ll be here, Bucky. With you. Not without.”

Still, silence.

But you stayed there beside him, even when he didn’t answer. Even when it felt like your words sank into nothing.

You stayed.

Because love isn’t just about being heard.

Sometimes, it’s about being there—unshaken, unmovable—when the person you love forgets they’re worth staying for.

—

The morning air felt wrong.

You woke up slowly at first—sunlight leaking between the blinds, warming the room in pale gold. The usual hush of early morning lingered in the space, but something about it… felt off. Too still. Too empty.

No kettle whistling from the kitchen. No soft thud of his boots by the door. No sound of him flipping through pages of the same damn newspaper he barely read.

Just silence.

Heavy. Final.

You sat up, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name yet. And then you moved—fast. Rushing across the hall to his room, barefoot against cool wood floors. You knocked once. Twice.

No answer.

You turned the knob.

The door swung open with a soft creak, and your heart dropped.

His room was empty.

Not messy. Not abandoned.

Just… cleared out.

The bed was stripped. The closet hangers bare. No duffel bag. No boots. No sketchbook left behind. Not even the little photo you knew he kept tucked between the pages of that worn paperback—gone.

You walked through the house like a ghost—checking the kitchen, the bathroom, even the tiny balcony where he used to stand at night, pretending not to smoke. Every drawer, every quiet corner whispered the same truth:

Bucky was gone.

No note. No explanation. No goodbye.

You called him immediately, fingers trembling as you held the phone to your ear. It rang. And rang. Until the line broke into voicemail.

“It’s me. Bucky. Leave something.”

You called again. And again. Voicemail.

You sent a text. Then another. Dozens. You begged, you pleaded, you asked why—but none of them delivered anything back. No read receipt. No dots. No closure.

You tried emailing.

Nothing.

You reached out to Shuri, desperately, hoping maybe he’d gone back to Wakanda. But her reply came back almost immediately.

“I haven’t heard from him either. I’m so sorry. Please take care of yourself.”

But the question hung there, unanswered: how?

How could you take care of yourself when every part of you felt like it had been ripped out in the middle of the night?

You sat on the couch—the one you picked out together, the one where he used to fall asleep during movie nights—and tried to breathe. But all you could do was sit there, phone in hand, silence screaming louder than grief ever could.

You spiraled. Of course you did.

Because you thought it mattered. What you had with him. The quiet mornings. The comfort. The way he used to watch you laugh like it was something rare.

You thought he was healing—not alone, but with you.

You thought you were walking side by side, not carrying him on your own.

And you started wondering if any of it had ever been real. If the soft things he’d said—like how he liked when you scrunched your nose because it made you look like a bunny—were just… words. Passing thoughts. Distractions from the war in his head.

Was any of it real?

Or were you just a temporary balm? Something warm to cling to while he held himself together?

You wanted to believe in the quiet touches, the lingering glances, the way he always made your tea just right—but now, all of it felt like a dream you’d woken up from far too late.

And you?

You felt hollow.

Like he’d taken something when he left. A huge, unspoken, unfillable part of you. A part you didn’t even know was his until it was already gone.

And now, you sat in the place you once called home—surrounded by the ghost of him—and wondered how you were supposed to go on living like nothing had happened.

—

He’d thrown the phone out on the second day.

Not because he was angry. Not because he wanted to forget. But because every time the screen lit up, he thought it might be you. And he couldn’t bear the weight of knowing it probably was.

He stayed off the grid after that. Remote towns. No names. No noise. A worn-out truck and a room above a hardware store with flickering lights and walls thin enough to hear the wind whistling through the seams.

It was better this way.

Or at least that’s what he told himself.

You need someone your age, he repeated.

Someone who smiles easy. Someone who’s not haunted every time the sun goes down. Someone who’s not made of fragments stitched together by other people’s regrets.

Someone whole.

Not a man rebuilt from blood and steel and frostbite. Not someone who still hears screams in German when he closes his eyes.

Not him.

He sat alone most nights, back pressed against a cold wall, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was loud—louder than gunfire, louder than any war. It carried your voice in it. Your laugh. The soft way you used to call him—

“Bucks Bunny,”

—with your nose all scrunched up, that ridiculous smile stretched across your face like you had no idea how deeply he loved you in that exact moment.

He’d smile back when he saw it in his head. But when he blinked, it was gone. Just bare walls and a crooked chair in the corner of a room that didn’t even have a clock.

He tried to imagine you happy. Moving on. Living somewhere bright. Somewhere warm. He liked the idea of you wearing light colors, surrounded by people who didn’t look at you like you were about to unravel.

But then the doubt crept in.

What if you hadn’t moved on?

What if you were still hurting? Still waiting?

What if walking away hadn’t saved you—just shattered you, the same way he’d shattered everything else he ever touched?

And that’s what gutted him the most.

Because he knew what you gave. What you sacrificed to stay with him. And he walked away anyway.

“I tried to let it go,” he whispered, voice hoarse from hours without speaking.

“But it’s eating me alive.”

He reached for the notebook tucked in his duffel, the one he barely wrote in anymore. Not since the lists stopped. Not since he stopped believing he was capable of making amends that actually mattered.

Inside it—tucked between two pages worn soft from touching—was the photo.

Shuri had taken it back in Wakanda. You were laughing at something he said, head tilted toward him like you couldn’t be anywhere else. His arm was slung behind you, relaxed. He hadn’t even known he was smiling until he saw the picture.

Now, the edges were frayed. The center had a faint crease, like he’d folded it too many times, taken it out too often just to look. It still smelled faintly of that herbal compound you used to keep in your room.

He brushed his thumb over your face in the photo.

“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath, barely audible.

“God, I’m so sorry.”

The picture didn’t answer. Of course it didn’t.

And neither did you.

—

Florence, 2025

You hadn’t meant to fall in love with the city.

It was just supposed to be work. A preservation site conference, assigned last-minute when your manager realized you hadn’t taken a single vacation in over two years—not even for sick days. He’d practically shoved the ticket into your hand and told you to rest, to go and “experience life under the excuse of networking.”

You’d laughed then. And now, walking through the soft burn of golden hour near Piazza della Signoria, you realized maybe he was right.

The square was still alive with tourists and locals blending into the buzz of early evening. Artists sketched under awnings, performers strummed soft chords on the edge of the fountains, and sunlight spilled across stone like something sacred.

Your conference had ended that afternoon, and you were scheduled to fly back in the morning. So you wandered. Took your time. Let yourself exist without urgency.

Then you saw him.

Or at least, the shape of him.

Across the plaza—taller now, more broad at the shoulders, darker in his clothes. His hair was a little shorter, salt and peppered. He moved slower, more grounded. But it was him. The weight of his presence was unmistakable, like your soul knew it before your eyes did.

You froze mid-step.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Or so you thought.

Until he turned.

His eyes met yours—and suddenly, the world narrowed.

For one heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe.

And then he moved.

“Hey—hey!”

He was already walking toward you, fast, almost a jog.

“Is that really—? God, it’s you!”

Your name fell from his mouth like it had never left his lips. Like it belonged to him, like it was sacred.

You barely managed to speak.

“Bucky…”

When he reached you, he stopped short, just an arm’s length away. His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes darting across your face like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Then he smiled. Soft and warm and unguarded.

“You look better,” he said, voice low. “Glowier.”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly bashful.

“I mean—you look… good. Really good.”

You smiled, heart hammering. “So do you.”

“Yeah?” he said, almost like he didn’t believe it. “Guess Florence is kind to broken people.”

There was a silence then. Not cold. Not tense. Just full—full of things you never got to say. Regret. Hope. Familiarity.

Time.

“So…” he asked quietly, “how long are you in town?”

You glanced down at your feet. “I leave tomorrow morning.”

His face flickered—something unreadable shifting in his expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

You watched as he brought it to his ear.

“Sam,” he said, turning slightly away but still within reach. “Yeah. I’m gonna stay behind a couple days. Something’s come up.”

A pause.

“No, I’m fine. Just—something I need to sort out.”

He ended the call, slid the phone back into his jacket, and looked at you.

No excuses. No overexplanations.

Just truth.

“I want to talk. If you’ll let me.”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth tugging upward, your throat thick with something almost too much to bear.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.”

And maybe—just maybe—fate had finally decided it was time.

—

The café was tucked away on a narrow side street, shaded by creeping vines and half-silent bells ringing from the nearby cathedral tower. It was small—only four tables inside—but the kind of quiet that felt earned. Safe. Bucky gestured for you to take the corner seat near the window while he went to order.

You sat slowly, your fingers brushing over the grain of the worn wood table as you tried to keep your heart from racing. He still moved with that soft confidence, like his body had been trained for chaos, but now preferred gentleness.

When he returned, he carried a small tray—two steaming drinks and a plate of rustic pastries, flaky and golden, nothing too fancy.

He stood at the edge of the table for a moment, tray in hand, and hesitated.

You watched as his eyes flicked between the two cups—tea and black coffee—before he slowly picked up the coffee and hovered, uncertain.

It was such a small thing. But it felt important somehow.

“I… actually drink black coffee now,” you blurted, voice a little too fast, a little too soft.

Then you stopped yourself, realizing how it sounded.

Like you hadn’t just changed your drink.

Like you’d been holding on to a piece of him all this time, sipping memory in silence.

Bucky chuckled. Something tender shifted in his expression as he placed the coffee in front of you and sat down, curling his fingers around the tea.

“Funny enough,” he murmured, “I can only drink this tea now.”

Your heart squeezed.

Because somehow, without trying, you had become part of each other’s quiet routines—even after all the distance, even after all the years.

You sipped. So did he. And the silence between you wasn’t cold—it was charged. A humming space where every word felt too fragile, too sacred, to break first.

You fiddled with your fingers beneath the table, looking for courage, then finally let your voice cut the stillness.

“You look better too.”

“Shorter hair. Softer stubble.”

“Did you… meet someone? Someone who helped you heal?”

He didn’t even flinch.

He just chuckled, low and warm.

“Never met one.”

“No one’s ever been good enough to replace you.”

The air thickened with the weight of it.

He looked at you then, fully—like he was memorizing you all over again.

“I’ve carried the guilt for years,” he admitted quietly. “For leaving. For not staying. I thought it was what you needed. That I was protecting you.”

He looked down at his cup for a moment, then exhaled slowly.

“But even now—after everything—I still don’t think I know how to stay.”

“Not because I don’t want to. But because… I never learned how. Not with what I lost. Not with all the years that were stolen.”

You could feel the truth in every word.

“I went looking for you,” he continued. “Months after I left. The old place was gone. Demolished. No trace. I called Sam. Shuri. No one knew where you’d gone.”

“It felt like I’d become the ghost… but this time, you disappeared.”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening.

“So I told myself you moved on. That maybe that was good. Maybe I had finally done something right by letting you go.”

He paused, just long enough for the sadness to settle between you.

“But I never loved anyone else.”

“I couldn’t. It’s always been you.”

His hand moved slowly toward his coat pocket. He pulled out a familiar object—his old notebook, but more worn than you remembered. The leather was faded, the spine loose. He flipped carefully to a page halfway through and removed something tucked between the fold.

A photo.

The one Shuri had taken in Wakanda.

You, laughing—eyes closed, head tilted toward him. His arm behind you. His mouth caught in a rare smile. You’d barely even remembered the camera. He hadn’t smiled like that for anyone else.

You blinked at the photo, throat thick.

It was creased. The corners torn and softened. The ink slightly faded. You could tell he’d held it too many times. Folded it. Unfolded it. Looked at it again. And again. And again.

“You still keep this?” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“Every night. I… couldn’t let it go.”

And there it was—the proof you’d both needed.

That no matter how far the silence stretched, no matter how lost you became to each other—

You were never forgotten.

—

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, side by side in that tiny café tucked in the heart of Florence. The drinks had cooled. The pastries sat mostly untouched. The sun had begun to dip, casting golden light through the stained glass window beside you, catching the soft curve of Bucky’s jaw, the way his eyes looked just a little too full.

He was still holding the photo.

Still tracing his thumb over the image of you, years younger, smiling without knowing he was looking.

You finally broke the quiet.

“You know… I could never really erase you.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours. You could see the weight in them—hope, guilt, something fragile he didn’t know how to name.

“When you left, it felt like you took this huge piece of me with you,” you continued, voice low. “I didn’t know how to move forward for a while. I felt hollow. Angry. But…”

You paused, steadying your breath.

“I kept thinking about how you made it through everything. Hydra. The pain. The guilt. You kept going, even when you didn’t think you deserved to. Even when you were alone.”

You looked down, then back up at him, and there was something shining in your expression now—something soft and clear.

“So I followed you, in a way. I took it day by day. I learned how to live again. Not because it stopped hurting, but because I remembered you kept trying.”

Your hand drifted over your chest, almost absentmindedly.

“But I never forgot you. Not the way you held me. Not your voice. Not your arms around me when I needed them most. I could still feel you.”

He looked at you like you’d just split the sky in half.

You smiled, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as you leaned forward just slightly, scrunching your nose.

“Bucks Bunny,” you said playfully, tenderly—his name softened by time and love.

The sound cracked something open in him.

You held out your hand, palm up, between you on the table.

“Maybe we can stop running away this time?”

“Let’s start making amends with each other.”

He stared at your hand for a long second, lips parted like he was trying to hold back emotion. Then—without hesitation—he reached across and took it.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. Familiar. He wrapped them gently around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he smiled. Fully. Finally.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Let’s.”

***

[EPILOGUE]

It was night now. The city had quieted into a gentle hush, the kind that only old places seemed to carry—ancient stone still holding the warmth of the sun, lanterns flickering on cobbled streets, casting long shadows between the alleys.

You hadn’t meant to stay out this late.

But after the café, neither of you wanted to say goodbye. So you walked. Nowhere specific. Past bridges and gardens, through quiet squares and narrow streets with laundry still hanging from windows. You filled each other in on life, on little things—jobs, books, memories, movies missed and people changed.

It felt like no time had passed.

But the streets were nearly empty now, shutters drawn, windows glowing faintly with the hush of bedtime.

When you reached your hotel, Bucky lingered behind you in the hallway, hands in his pockets, eyes warm beneath the soft golden light. You didn’t speak as you slid the keycard into the lock. The door clicked open.

And as soon as it shut behind you—

He pulled you in.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other curled gently around your waist as he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft and reverent, but hungry with years of restraint finally unraveling.

“Had been holding on for too long, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, voice husky.

“I’ve been dreaming about this.”

You deepened the kiss, fingers fisting in the collar of his jacket, and he groaned softly at the contact. There was no desperation—only love. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind that doesn’t ask anymore. That knows.

This was the end of yearning.

The end of waiting.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath came uneven, but his voice was steady.

“I love you,” he said softly. “So much. Too much.”

“I think even the other versions of me in alternate universes would probably love the other versions of you, too.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your eyes bright.

“Are you sure though?”

He smiled, thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned in again.

“Very sure.”

***

[federfinger]

¡   WATCH   OUT   FOR   𝐓   𝐇   𝐈   𝐄   𝐕   𝐄   𝐒    —   nasty   ,   slippery   𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧.

They   say   a   good   thief   is   a   shadow   in   the   night   ,   a   whisper   among   the   crowd   .   But   𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑   is   more   than   just   a   shadow   —   he's   an   enigma   .   A   master   of   his   craft   ,   with   a   presence   that   vanishes   asㅤ   quickly   as   it   arrives   ,   leaving   only   the   𝐞   𝐜   𝐡   𝐨   of   a   flawless   heist   behind   . 

*  ㅤBorn in the quiet corners of a Japanese orphanage , Lucien's beginnings are shrouded in mystery . The whispers of his origins are few — just fragments of a forgotten past and the barest hint of 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 coursing through his veins . He grew up among strangers , learning early that trust was a luxury , and 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 was an art . The orphanage taught him discipline , patience , and the importance of staying unnoticed — but it never told him who his family was or why he'd been left to fend for himself . He isn't a lone wolf by choice , but rather by necessity . He 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐰 , if any , and operates primarily alone . However , when the job requires it , he can slip into a different role — a charming accomplice , an enigmatic benefactor , a diplomat — whatever mask he needs to wear to blend in and pull off the impossible.

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍 : a 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 no one ever sees coming , a plan in 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 , broken trust and every heist being a step 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 into the unknown .

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐝.

[aokayo]

the alchemy of how people learn, retain, and internalize information through Mercury (how we think/process) and the Moon (how we absorb/respond emotionally).

Mercury is your cognitive function, your inner narrator.

The Moon is your emotional sponge, the gut-feel learning—what seeps in without you even trying.

🔥ARIES

Mercury: Quick, reactive, blunt. Learns by doing. Trial-by-fire cognition.

Moon: Instinctive absorber. Needs excitement to retain.

Style: Will bulldoze through a new subject like a dare. Retains best when emotionally activated (competitive, inspired, pissed off).

Downfall: Impatient with nuance; skims.

🐂 TAURUS

Mercury: Steady, sensual, grounded.

Moon: Absorbs through repetition and comfort.

Style: Needs to feel safe and unhurried. Learns through embodiment—touch, taste, texture. They may memorize the feel of information.

Downfall: Resistant to changing their mind once it’s set.

👯‍♀️ GEMINI

Mercury: Supreme here. Fast, curious, networked.

Moon: Absorbs fragments and associations. Emotionally calmed by variety.

Style: Learns through dialogue, memes, movement, and mental stimulation. Can master surface-level fast—deep study needs emotional commitment.

Downfall: Scattered. Needs focus anchors.

🌊 CANCER

Mercury: Nurturing, nostalgic, intuitive.

Moon: Deep sponge. Holds memories like amniotic fluid.

Style: Learns best when emotionally connected—if it feels important, it stays. Memory driven by safety and sentiment.

Downfall: Can become too attached to information that feels true over what is true.

👑 LEO

Mercury: Expressive, theatrical, fixed.

Moon: Absorbs through self-identification.

Style: Needs to perform the knowledge or own it to integrate. Learn by telling it, not just hearing it. Absorbs best through praise or personal relevance.

Downfall: May resist learning things that don’t center them.

📚 VIRGO

Mercury: Rulership. Detailed, precise, system-based.

Moon: Absorbs through anxiety, service, and subtlety.

Style: Masters data through structure. Notices what others miss. Emotional memory clings to flaws or errors, which fuels constant improvement.

Downfall: Perfectionism can block fluid learning. Needs to feel “useful” for full retention.

⚖️ LIBRA

Mercury: Diplomatic, comparative, dual-thinking.

Moon: Absorbs moods and social cues.

Style: Learns through mirroring and discussion. Retains better when knowledge is beautiful, balanced, or relatable. Learns what others expect of them.

Downfall: Can get caught in indecision or external validation loops.

🦂 SCORPIO

Mercury: Penetrating, investigative, layered.

Moon: Soaks up emotional undercurrents. Remembers what it feels unsafe to forget.

Style: Obsessed learner. Masters knowledge through intensity and secrecy. Needs privacy, obsession, or psychological depth. Doesn’t forget betrayal—or truth.

Downfall: Suspicious of surface info; slow to trust new data unless it passes their inner lie detector.

🔥 SAGITTARIUS

Mercury: Expansive, visionary, philosophical.

Moon: Absorbs big ideas—wants meaning, not minutiae.

Style: Learns through experience and stories. Needs mental freedom. Prefers conceptual frameworks and truth over facts.

Downfall: May gloss over details or resist structured systems.

🧊 CAPRICORN

Mercury: Calculated, measured, logical.

Moon: Absorbs only what’s useful. Practical emotional filter.

Style: Learns like it’s a job. Master of the long game. Needs a goal to retain. Emotionally invested in knowledge that increases status or security.

Downfall: Can shut out creative or emotional learning modes.

🧠 AQUARIUS

Mercury: Abstract, inventive, outsider logic.

Moon: Absorbs through detachment, vision, and mental rebellion.

Style: Learns through debate, contradiction, and innovation. Absorbs like a satellite—strange frequencies, avant-garde concepts, pattern-breaking truths.

Downfall: May resist emotional resonance or traditional methods.

🐚 PISCES

Mercury: Diffuse, dreamy, poetic.

Moon: Psychic sponge. No filter between feelings and information.

Style: Learns through osmosis, dreams, music, mood. Imagery locks in facts. Spiritual and emotional truths anchor memory stronger than logic.

Downfall: Disorganized. Facts dissolve without emotional color.

[whencyclopedia]

This map illustrates the four major khanates that emerged from the Mongol Empire in the early 14th century, following the fragmentation of the vast domain once ruled by Genghis Khan (circa 1162 to 1227, reign 1206 to 1227). Although no longer unified under a single ruler, these successor states remained loosely connected through shared lineage, diplomatic ties, and occasional rivalry. Each khanate...

[sabrinasopposite]

drinks or coffee?

college!charlie baker x photographer!reader

I'm feeling so good At a bad party We don't have to talk I know that you want me Gotta keep it nice We cannot be naughty We can get drinks Or we could get coffee

summary: y/n is stuck in this lame, boring and bad college party, yet she starts to find more reasons to stay there as she was talking to her crush, charlie baker.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her vintage camera, letting the weight of it steady her. She stood in the corner of the crowded apartment, where strings of fairy lights stretched across the ceiling, casting warm, uneven glows on the peeling walls. The party was alive, pulsing with music and laughter, but Y/N felt like she was outside looking in, a ghost in a room of vibrant, living people.

She raised her camera, the familiar click and hum of the focus grounding her. Through the lens, the world always made sense: fragmented, composed, controllable. She scanned the room, her eye catching on flashes of movement and laughter, on the way the light hit someone’s cheekbone just right. But when her camera landed on him, she froze.

Charlie Baker.

He was leaning against the worn-out bookshelf on the other side of the room, casually laughing at something one of his friends said. He had that effortless charisma Y/N couldn’t look away from.

His dark curls fell perfectly messy over his forehead, and his faded denim jacket looked like it had seen its fair share of oil changes and late-night drives. He was all sharp angles and soft smiles, an easy magnetism that made everyone around him feel seen.

Charlie wasn’t like the others on campus who dressed to impress or strutted their way into conversations. He was real, grounded in a way that felt rare. Y/N had heard bits and pieces about him—how he grew up in a big, chaotic family, how he used to be the star of the football team but decided to trade that life for working with his hands.

Word was he wanted to drop out of college altogether and become a car mechanic, though most people couldn’t understand why someone who looked like that wouldn’t want to be famous instead.

Through the lens, Y/N could admire him without fear. She could notice the little things: the way his hands moved when he talked, rough and calloused but deliberate, or the faint grease stains on his jacket cuffs. He had a habit of glancing down when he laughed, like he didn’t realize how captivating he was.

Her heart tugged, a quiet ache she wasn’t sure what to do with. She lowered the camera and sighed.

“Still hiding behind that thing?”

Her breath hitched. She turned to find Charlie standing beside her, a crooked grin on his face. How did he move so quietly?

“Still asking obvious questions?” she shot back, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

Charlie chuckled, a low, warm sound that made the noise of the party blur into static. His smile was lopsided, like he wasn’t sure it belonged to him. “Touché,” he said. “So, what’s the verdict? Getting any good shots, or is this place a creative wasteland?”

Y/N shrugged, her pulse racing. “It’s... lively.”

“Diplomatic answer.” He tilted his head, studying her the way he might study a car engine that wouldn’t start, his brown eyes sharp and curious. “What are you really thinking?”

She tightened her grip on the camera strap. You’re making it impossible to think. Instead, she said, “I’m thinking that not every party needs to be immortalized.”

“Maybe not,” he said, leaning a little closer. “But I’m betting you’ve already found something worth keeping.”

Charlie was the kind of guy who could make anyone feel at ease. He had this way of giving people his full attention, like whatever they were saying was the most important thing in the world. Tonight, though, it felt like his focus was entirely on her, and Y/N didn’t know what to do with it.

He asked her about her photography, genuinely curious, and she found herself talking more than she expected—about her gallery submission, her love for capturing fleeting moments, how the camera helped her make sense of the world.

“You must have the patience of a saint,” he said, his voice low and warm.

“Not really.” She smiled, feeling her cheeks heat. “I just know what I’m looking for.”

His gaze lingered on her, a beat too long. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I can see that.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped, and she quickly looked away, pretending to adjust her camera.

It wasn’t fair, the way Charlie existed. He was every bit the campus heartthrob, but there was nothing flashy about him. He didn’t chase attention—it just followed him, like moths to a flame. He continued to carry the conversation as he told her about his love for cars, how he’d spend hours in the garage back home with his dad, rebuilding engines and making junkers run like new. “It’s honest work,” he said, his voice tinged with longing. “There’s something satisfying about fixing something with your hands, you know?”

Y/N nodded, though she didn’t fully understand. What she did understand was the way his face lit up when he talked about it, like it was more than a job—it was who he was. She found herself noticing everything about him: the way his hair caught the light, the faint smudge of grease on his forearm, the way his voice softened when he talked about home. She wanted to capture it all, not with her camera, but just for herself.

As the party wound down, Charlie stayed, lingering in her orbit like a half-finished thought. Someone called him away, and she thought the moment was over. But later, as she stood on the balcony, trying to let the cold air clear her mind, he appeared again. “Thinking about calling it a night?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Maybe.”

He hesitated, then smiled, something shy in the curve of it. “I was thinking of getting coffee. You know, to detox from all... this.” He gestured vaguely toward the party behind them.

Her heart raced, but she shrugged, keeping her face neutral. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

When she finally decided to leave, he was waiting by the door.

“Still up for coffee?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitated, a thousand thoughts colliding in her mind. But then she nodded. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

They walked through the quiet streets, the tension between them humming like the low purr of an engine. At the café, under the golden glow of the lights, Charlie leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his cup.

“You know,” he said, his voice soft, “I wasn’t really thinking about the party tonight. I was thinking about you.”

Y/N’s breath caught, her fingers tightening around her own cup.

“I’ve been seeing you in a different light,” he admitted. “And I don’t know if I’m reading this wrong, but...”

She met his gaze, the courage rising unbidden. “You’re not.”

His smile widened, slow and warm, and suddenly, the weight of unspoken words lifted. The night stretched ahead of them, full of possibility, and for the first time, Y/N felt like she didn’t need her camera to hold on to it.

🥡 taglist: @blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @tvdelrey @angelsgalore @callicela @seulgi-burgundy

pt 2 is out !

[thesummerestsolstice]

I've already shared several of my Elrond in Valinor headcanons, but here's another one: by the beginning of the Fourth Age, so many fragmented stories about Elrond have made their way to Valinor that no one is sure what's real and what's fake.

Some people insist that he speaks Quenya with a decidedly Feanorian accent, while others are sure that he was taught Quenya by Gil-Galad after leaving the Feanorians' custody, and speaks with the same, somewhat nondescript accent instead. Galdor absolutely insists that Elrond spoke Quenya just like Turgon– with an accent that was traditional, but very much not Feanorian.

On the topic of Gil-Galad, some insist that they were friends, but others say they were uneasy allies– partners in crime, says Oropher, but no one listens to him. Gil-Galad made Elrond his herald because he didn't trust Elrond with a higher position– or because he trusted Elrond so much that he refused to let anyone else speak for him on diplomatic matters. Maybe they hated each other. Maybe they loved each other. At least one elf insists that they were, in fact, the same person. (no one puts much stock in that last theory, but still!)

Elrond is a healer, that's clear, but how he heals is a matter of fierce contention. People say he uses healing songs, but if he does, they aren't normal songs of power– none of the Valinorian healers seem to be able to use his songs for healing, and some of them aren't even in an elvish language. Then there are the stories about "healing the wounds of the fea," something that most people say must be some latent Maia power, but when this healing is described, it seems to be mostly just... talking? And medicine, sometimes, but no one can imagine how those things might heal a soul. At least one elf claims to have had her leg sewn back on by Elrond, and most think she's just exaggerating, but so many strange, seemingly-impossible stories about Elrond's healing powers have been told that no one's really sure anymore. (Also, apparently he's also a warrior too? Doesn't fighting usually mess with healing powers??)

Also, several elves have been very clear that Elrond is, in fact, nearly indistiguishable from any other elf, aside from slightly rounder ears. But no, others are absolutely certain that there is something distinctly mannish, in his face, in his body, in the way he moves. And that's not even getting into all the stories of his strange, Ainuric power, or the moments when he seems to be something else entirely. He's a very normal Peredhel, or sometimes he has wings, or you'd think he was any other Sindar, or stars glimmer in his hair, or he looks so Noldor that no one could ignore it. Or the fact that no one can agree on who it is he most looks like– Luthien, Turgon, Earendil, Elwing, Tuor, Melian.

So by the time Elrond shows up in Valinor, you'd best believe that everyone is waiting at the docks, mostly to find out what this "Elrond Peredhel" is actually like, and how many of the rumors they've heard about him are true.

(They all then get ambushed by Bilbo Baggins while Elrond goes to find a nice valley to build a new homely house in.)

[stalarys]

Martyn's Post Wild Life Lore Dump: live report!

dear lord what a bombshell of a stream

this is regarding Martyn's personal interpretation/AU of the life series, the Eyes and Ears AU that focuses on a conflict between entities known as Watchers and Listeners. Some other creators are involved and follow it, and it makes its way into videos sometimes, but this isn't Big Big canon to every creator.

Talks a lot about the Watchers and the Council so everything is below the spoiler!

Wild Life + Series in general:

Canonizing Scar being trapped in Secret Life after his win as the only who didn't die; plucked away for Wild Life and returned afterwards.

Zombie!Martyn in finale: Doesn't recognize Ren or have that level of conciousness. No thoughts head empty thrall, in a primal headspace.

Because Martyn died earlier than most, his emotions were stripped away in the feeding, and then sent back in for one last cruel trick, hence the barebones conciousness.

leaving Martren to Ren's lore/decisions; "Mutant Class WL8" according to ren's message revealing it to Martyn; follows Ren's naming conventions used in Hermitcraft (HC8, etc)

Suggesting the Martren fusion as a method of Watcher torment; purposefully leaving Ren with remnants of what he held close, and leaving Ren in an internal struggle of his mind and Martyn's mingling. eg, situations that Ren would flee or be diplomatic where Martyn would fight and be aggressive, and this torture persists in even the most mundane actions. Mentioned to potentially be a 'test' of shared conciousness.

Martyn's gained scar/fragment from Wild Life: a triangle piece from the top of his ear, based on the prominence of the coincidence of his superpower.

Wild Life's mechanics is essentially a compilation of prior seasons (out of thousands of games that took place but had the memory stripped from the players). Each mechanic played out in a full season, but for whatever reason, wasn't considered a good enough result. Thus, they went for a compilation season to lean into the frantic uncertainty.

Martyn's power was once of the random assignments; a happy coincidence, doesn't see a need for it to be given a lore explanation. Rather finds that it'd be perceived as a coincidence by those Perceiving it all (Grian + Listeners: damn thats ironic)

Impulse's more aggressive/wild behavior is him getting a bit desperate to win, to know what it feels like and what it entails (at least, a win that he remembers). The persistent taunting via this silver medal leads to a certain hunger + out of character aggressiveness in pursuit of victory.

All memories are stripped of the games, EXCEPT for the ones that appear as videos. However, some gut feelings remain and build up without the players knowing why.

There's nothing stopping multiple winners; in Martyn's canon, there has been plenty of repeat winners and consecutive winners, but they aren't the persistent memories; only games they remember are those we see.

Canary Curse situation: not actually a curse, but just a tool to wind jimmy up; bled that avenue dry of the canary curse actually affecting him, and so they let it go

Martyn's earlier successes and recent early losses potentially being an inversion of impulse's situation, but moreso just him winning, finding theres nothing really there, and being content in the process instead

At the end of Wild Life, activating all of the wild cards was kinda overwhelming on the Watcher's part, so they removed them in the last few minutes when it was just a few stragglers; the process of operating the games and worlds is concentration and focus, and such chaos makes it tricky.

Post-Wild Life: martyn be sleeping in the void, man's tired

For the 'persistent series', the players do remember their time as spectral ghosts after their final death, able to fly around and watch the games' ending. also canonized that they still interact with the players that are still in the game via chat, that ghost bullying in chat is also canon :]

Grian, Watchers, and The Council:

Grian's role and power within the games (and his point of resistance) is to manipulate the mechanics of the games to make them at least somewhat fun and enjoyable, rather than pure torture. Grian's abilities and power over time are growing, nearing the point of equivalent power with the Watchers running the game.

Coming into Wild Life, Grian is able to actually See the rules

Watchers of a higher power within their hierarchy can veil aspects of reality from those below, and see the rules, systems, and mechanics of reality that goes on. Blurring faces, manipulating perception of reality, etc.

Leaving this method of visualization up to fan interpretation; puppet strings, scrolls of knowledge, screens of code, etc.

The Watchers can't really interfere with Grian's presence as it'd break the fourth wall and shatter the reality they're in, but grian also can't tell the others because to the other players, Grian's just another player and don't really think about why they're in the games. It just... is.

Speaking of which: each player is plucked from their own worlds; undecided if its servers, worlds, planets, timelines, etc. To them, it's like a field trip; they're aware that this isn't their permanent life and that they come from Elsewhere, but don't have the memory of it. The games themselves give them a compulsion and importance to the idea of victory, so they all mutually understand the Goal of the games while they're within them and don't really question it.

Outside of the games, there is The Council; consisting of eight seats, it's a collection of individuals that are a higher level of being than players/mortals who keep the universe running. Two seats are occupied by Watchers 1 and 2, the ones who operate the death games. Two other seats are occupied by Listeners. The remaining four are occupied by other species of this higher level of existence, unknown divisions of quantities.

Watchers 1 & 2 are the youngest of the Council; the Listeners are in the middle age range. Other council seats can be potentially eons older.

Council Visuals:

A place out of time and space; set within a starless expanse of space-like void, there is a 3-quarters round table that curves around a pedestal in the center, with a Tome upon it. The table is fragmented, broken up to provide a seperate section for each Seat. Style is envisioned to be colosseum-esque, ancient architecture pulled from the mortal realm, yet clearly fragmented. It's absolutely Giant, with the space in front of each table hosting rows upon rows of seats for spectators of the Council (not really touched upon; probably non-council members but still authorities over mortal dealings). Each Council Member has a personal seat floating behind their position at the table, with each section being distinguished by their personal symbol etched into it, glowing with their species'/order's associated color (Watchers = glowing purple, Listeners = glowing gold, white, green, or whatever gets decided as canon). Behind this table is a staircase bordered by two columns, with something... unknown at the top. We're only given static.

The member species' themselves have no set visual description; they could be anything from humanoid to biblically accurate angels. At this time, we are only given the species/order names of Watchers and Listeners.

Martyn's MS Paint art below: Showing the pedestal and Tome, the table around it, the symbol etched into the table of the Watchers' (who sit on the far right side), and the staircase up to the [???] behind the Council. For a sense of scale, the hatching in front of the table section with the chair is of rows and rows of seating.

The Council's existence is spent with their Focus on the Tome, for... some reason, channelling their power through it. The Tome is of utmost importance to them, but Martyn said that whatever is on top of those stairs is far more important and carries much more weight, but this isn't known to the Council.

They operate by collectively running the universe, but they're individuals with personal motives and ideals. So long as it doesn't conflict with the order and function of the universe, they turn a blind eye to personal differences (for example, the Watchers running death games was considered just a foolish undertaking, meddling with mortals, but they're younger and less wise so whatever). However, what they wouldn't turn a blind eye to is Grian.

Watchers 1 & 2, the council members, brought Grian from a mortal player and into this new level of Being, an utmost taboo as it threatens the veil between the Council's level of existence and the player's. The Watchers, in response to the rest of the Council disapproving of this, underwent self-exile and left the council to continue their way of feeding and manipulating the mortal realm. However, the Council couldn't replace their positions, as their symbols remain scorched into the table.

The Listeners, who stand most strongly against the Watchers' actions, are those undertaking this pursuit of justice/order. It's unknown that if the Listener's "win" that the Watcher's symbols will disappear and the council can be restored.

As a Watcher (albeit not on the power/hierarchal level of the council seats), Grian feeds on emotions, but in a more neutral way; little tastes of a variety of emotions consistently, like the Watchers used to do, but they have since shifted into instant gratification and strife as their feeding method

and one last, fuck you tidbit:

"Are the Datastream lore and Eyes and Ears AU connected in any way? No comment ;)"

(Don't tag with tr@fficblr and other main tags; Martyn stated that he doesn't want it taking over the main group tags, as he doesn't want his personal AU and canon to be pushed onto the main series' followers)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Do you know how Lilia’s UM works? I thought it was just reliving moments from the past but at the end of Book 7 we saw Melanor’s(I’m definitely spelling that wrong) ghost. So is it like summoning things that are long gone? Also odd question but sense Lilia’s UM is back do you think it will be used in Book 8?

Lilia describes his UM in 7-94 and 7-95:

Far Cry Cradle essentially allows him to view the memories associated with an object. Silver describes it as “[replaying] a tiny fragment of the memories etched into objects.”

Lilia implies he may be able to filter out the memories if he can learn how to master the spell. He used his UM to help him investigate ways to hatch a dragon egg while on his worldly travels.

I’m honestly not sure how Far Cry Cradle is utilized at the end of book 7??? Like… what object is Lilia seeing the memories of? The memories of the entire castle? And this seems to imply he’s able to project his visions outward so that everyone can see what he does? It’s also unexplained why the Silver Owls and the nocturnal fae seem to be peacefully coexisting and dancing together in the memories Lilia sees…?? Including Maleanor, Leah, and the Dawn Knight?? (Is it from an era of peace between the races, before fighting broke out?? If so, it’s strange the narrative never mentioned this beforehand and that Raverene, a diplomat, isn’t present.) I feel like the ending dance party was written moreso for the happy ending of it all rather than with careful consideration for what this would say about Lilia’s UM and how it works 😭 (Malleus and Lilia do hold hands before Lilia casts his spell at the end of book 7, so... I think the implication was that Malleus was helping out or enhancing Lilia's UM somehow???)

And yeah, I’d say it’s a strong likelihood that Lilia’s UM comes into play in book 8. Other dorm members that have returned in the book after theirs also used their UMs to help out in some way, so following that pattern, so would the Diasomnia students. Lilia’s Far Cry Cradle might actually he super helpful in investigating Mickey or at least the mirror in which he appears.

[naxalbari1967]

Israel Is the Empire’s Last Fortress in the Arab World

Western powers did not fall in love with Israel because they cared about Jews, democracy, or shared values. They loved Israel because it served a purpose. From the moment of its creation, Israel offered imperialism exactly what it needed in the Middle East: a loyal outpost armed to the teeth, hostile to anti-colonial movements, plugged into global finance, and willing to do the dirty work the West did not want to be seen doing. Israel is not just a country. It is a geopolitical project. A colonial watchdog. A forward operating base. A Western aligned ethnostate sitting on top of oil routes, radical movements, and strategic chokepoints. Its job was always to break the back of Arab unity, sabotage Third World socialism, and keep the region too fragmented, too unstable, and too intimidated to ever challenge Western extraction or corporate dominance. That is why the West loves Israel. Not because it is good. Because it is useful.

From the start, Israel was a settler colonial mirror of Europe itself. It was founded not just by survivors of genocide but by ideological Zionists who believed in colonizing land with armed pioneers, displacing natives, and building a new society through force. That is the same template the British used in Kenya and Rhodesia. The same one the French used in Algeria. And Israel knew it. The first Zionist settlers studied British colonial manuals. They mimicked the language of bringing civilization to the desert, even though the land was already alive with people and history. That framework made Israel instantly legible to Western colonial elites. It looked familiar. It sounded right. It followed their logic. It was not a challenge to empire. It was the continuation of it under new branding.

When the British left Palestine, they did not destroy colonial infrastructure. They handed it over. Israel took the legal frameworks, land seizure laws, and counterinsurgency methods the British had used to crush Arab revolt in the 1930s and used them again, this time as an independent state. The Nakba was not just a spontaneous war. It was a carefully orchestrated campaign of expulsion, ethnic cleansing, and military dominance, justified through the same civilized versus savage dichotomy that Europe had been using for centuries. And when the dust settled, the Western powers recognized Israel immediately. They gave it arms, loans, and diplomatic cover. Not because they believed in Jewish safety but because they saw a strategic ally in the heart of Arab land.

The timing was not a coincidence. After World War II, the Middle East was boiling over with anti-colonial revolutions. Egypt under Nasser nationalized the Suez Canal. Iraq overthrew the British backed monarchy. Syria was wobbling between military coups and Baathist socialism. Palestine was a powder keg. Oil had turned the region from a colonial backwater into a centerpiece of global power, and Western powers had to choose. Either lose control to Arab nationalism, or insert a proxy that could tip the scales. Israel was that proxy. A garrison state armed for war. A place where white Europeans could settle, militarize, and serve as a permanent threat to any Arab regime that stepped out of line.

This is why the United States, Britain, and France did not just support Israel. They armed it. Funded it. Protected it. In 1956, Britain and France literally teamed up with Israel to attack Egypt after Nasser nationalized the canal. That war exposed the declining imperial reach of the old European powers, but it also made something else clear. Israel was not just defending itself. It was an extension of colonial power. That pattern never changed. In 1967, Israel’s preemptive strike destroyed Egypt, Jordan, and Syria’s air forces on the ground. It seized huge swaths of territory. And the West cheered it on. The United States started pumping in more aid. NATO allies opened the floodgates of weapons transfers. Israel became a cornerstone of Western military architecture in the Middle East. Just like Turkey to the north and Saudi Arabia to the east. All dictatorships. All repressive. All serving Western interests.

But Israel was not just a military asset. It became a tool of psychological warfare. Western media portrayed it as a democracy under siege surrounded by irrational, violent Arabs. That framing did two things. It erased Palestinian suffering. And it gave the West moral cover for propping up apartheid, occupation, and war crimes. The Israeli soldier became the poster child for Western civilization defending itself against the chaos of the Third World. It was imperial porn. A way for the United States and Europe to indulge their fantasies of toughness and innocence without getting their hands dirty. Every Israeli bombing raid, every checkpoint, every assassination was repackaged as self defense. As if Israel were just a small house with a big gun trying to survive in a bad neighborhood.

Meanwhile, Israel exported counterinsurgency tools around the globe. It trained Latin American death squads, helped South Africa during apartheid, sold surveillance tech to dictatorships, and advised on torture methods used in United States black sites. Mossad became a brand. Israeli weapons companies made billions selling battle tested gear. Tested, of course, on occupied Palestinians. For Western powers, this was perfect. They got to support a technologically advanced ally that could fight their enemies, experiment on colonial subjects, and sell the results back to the empire. That is not an alliance. That is subcontracted colonialism.

And let us be clear. The West never loved Israel out of guilt for the Holocaust. The same countries that claim to stand with Israel today were the ones that closed their borders to Jewish refugees in the 1930s. The United States turned away ships full of Holocaust survivors. Britain locked Jews in camps in Cyprus. After the war, Europe’s goal was not to protect Jews. It was to get rid of them. Zionism gave them an excuse. Let them go to Palestine. Let them fight Arabs instead of asking for reparations. Let them build a nationalist state far from Europe’s shattered conscience. That was not solidarity. It was strategic displacement. And when Israel started pulling its weight militarily, the West rewarded it. Not because it was moral. But because it was effective.

Israel’s role today has not changed. It is still the front line of empire. It still receives more United States military aid than any country on Earth. It still gets cover at the United Nations while it bombs refugee camps. It still licenses its security tech to every fascist regime that can afford it. It still fragments the Arab world, sucks up resources, and destabilizes any movement for regional independence. And every time the United States needs a war tested, a drone system trialed, or a resistance movement crushed, Israel is ready to perform.

The Western love for Israel is not about shared democracy, religion, or history. It is about control. It is about empire. It is about having a nuclear armed, heavily surveilled, militarized enclave sitting on top of Arab oil and resistance. Doing what Western powers used to do directly. Now outsourced to a nation that built itself in their image. Israel wins wars because it was designed to win them. And the West cheers it on because it built Israel to do exactly that.

[blackstarlineage]

The Ethiopian Empire (Abyssinia): An In-Depth Analysis of Africa’s Longest-Lasting Civilization

Introduction: Ethiopia – The Unconquered African Power

The Ethiopian Empire (Abyssinia, c. 1270 CE – 1974 CE) was one of the oldest and most powerful civilizations in African history. Unlike most African nations, Ethiopia remained unconquered during the era of European colonialism, maintaining its sovereignty and defeating European invaders in battle. Its rich history, rooted in the Axumite Kingdom, developed into a powerful empire that shaped African and world history.

From a Garveyite perspective, the Ethiopian Empire is crucial because it represents:

Black military resistance – Ethiopia defeated European colonizers and remained free from direct rule.

Black religious and cultural identity – Ethiopia was one of the first Christian nations but maintained strong African traditions.

Black governance and sovereignty – Ethiopia was an empire led by African rulers for nearly 700 years.

Ethiopia stands as a symbol of Black resilience, resistance, and self-rule, showing that African nations were never destined to be colonized.

1. The Origins of the Ethiopian Empire

A. From Axum to the Ethiopian Empire

The Ethiopian Empire was a continuation of the ancient Kingdom of Axum (100 CE – 940 CE), which was one of the most powerful African civilizations.

After the decline of Axum, Ethiopia went through periods of fragmentation until the Solomonic Dynasty (1270 CE) united the country under a single empire.

Ethiopian rulers are descent from the biblical King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, reinforcing their legitimacy and spiritual authority.

Example: Ethiopian rulers believed they were the keepers of the Ark of the Covenant, linking them to Judeo-Christian traditions.

Key Takeaway: Africa had powerful kingdoms that ruled for thousands of years, evolving into empires that resisted external domination.

B. The Role of Christianity in Ethiopian Identity

Ethiopia was one of the first Christian nations in the world, adopting Christianity as early as 330 CE, before most of Europe.

The Ethiopian Orthodox Church became a central part of the empire’s governance, culture, and resistance against Islamization and European influence.

Unlike European Christianity, Ethiopian Christianity retained African traditions, symbols, and rituals, proving that Christianity in Africa developed independently.

Example: The rock-hewn churches of Lalibela, carved from solid rock in the 12th century, symbolize Ethiopia’s unique blend of African and Christian identity.

Key Takeaway: Ethiopia’s religious history is African, not a colonial import—it was developed by Africans for Africans.

2. The Political and Military Power of Ethiopia

A. A Centralized Empire with a Strong Monarchy

Ethiopia was ruled by an absolute monarchy, with the Emperor (Negus or Negusa Nagast) holding supreme authority.The empire was divided into provinces ruled by local governors, ensuring stability across vast territories.

The Ethiopian Empire successfully resisted external invasions from Arab, Ottoman, and later European powers.

Example: The Ethiopian emperors maintained diplomatic relations with major powers, including the Byzantine Empire and later European nations.

Key Takeaway: African governance was strong and effective, contradicting colonial myths of “tribal” leadership.

B. Ethiopia’s Military Victories Against Colonial Powers

The Battle of Adwa (1896 CE): Ethiopia, led by Emperor Menelik II, defeated Italy, making it the only African nation to successfully resist European colonization.

Ethiopia maintained a strong, well-equipped army that used modern weapons, diplomacy, and strategy to protect its independence.

Even when Italy invaded again in 1935, Ethiopia led a resistance movement that inspired global anti-colonial struggles.

Example: Ethiopia’s victory at Adwa inspired Pan-African movements, proving that African nations could defeat European invaders.

Key Takeaway: Military strength is crucial for Black sovereignty—Ethiopia’s success shows that Africa was never defenseless.

3. The Economic and Cultural Power of Ethiopia

A. Control Over Trade and Resources

Ethiopia controlled key trade routes in the Red Sea, connecting Africa to Arabia, India, and the Mediterranean.

The empire was self-sufficient in agriculture, producing coffee, teff (used to make injera), and livestock.

Ethiopia developed its own currency, economy, and industries, proving that African nations did not need European intervention.

Example: Ethiopia was one of the few African states that exported its goods without European middlemen controlling the trade.

Key Takeaway: Africa’s economies were independent before colonization, and Ethiopia is proof of that self-reliance.

B. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church and African Spirituality

Ethiopia’s Orthodox Church retained many African spiritual traditions, including the use of Ge’ez (an ancient African language) in religious texts.

Unlike European Christianity, Ethiopian Christianity emphasized Black identity, African saints, and self-rule over religious matters.

The Church played a major role in unifying Ethiopia, resisting Islamic expansion and later European missionary influences.

Example: The Ethiopian Orthodox Church was never controlled by the Vatican or European churches, proving that African Christianity remained independent.

Key Takeaway: Ethiopia’s religious and cultural institutions were Black-led and remained untouched by colonialism.

4. The Impact of Ethiopia on Pan-Africanism and Black Liberation

A. Ethiopia as a Symbol of African Resistance

Ethiopia’s independence inspired Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, and other Pan-African leaders who saw it as a model for Black liberation.

The Rastafari movement emerged in Jamaica, seeing Emperor Haile Selassie I as a divine figure who represented Black strength and self-rule.

Ethiopia hosted African liberation movements, helping anti-colonial fighters across Africa gain independence.

Example: In 1963, Ethiopia hosted the formation of the Organization of African Unity (OAU), which later became the African Union (AU).

Key Takeaway: Ethiopia has been the heart of African resistance and self-determination for centuries.

B. Haile Selassie I and Modern Ethiopian Leadership

Emperor Haile Selassie I (1930–1974) was a global leader who fought against Italian fascism and called for African unity.

He advocated for Pan-Africanism, believing that African nations should work together to protect their sovereignty.

Though his reign ended in 1974, his influence on Black consciousness remains strong worldwide.

Example: Haile Selassie’s speech at the United Nations in 1963 influenced Bob Marley’s song “War”, which became a rallying cry for Black liberation.

Key Takeaway: Ethiopia was a leader in global Black liberation movements, not just an isolated African nation.

5. The Decline of the Ethiopian Empire and Its Lasting Legacy

A. The End of the Monarchy (1974)

In 1974, Haile Selassie was overthrown in a military coup, leading to Ethiopia becoming a socialist state.

The fall of the monarchy marked the end of Africa’s last major traditional empire but did not erase Ethiopia’s legacy of resistance.

Today, Ethiopia remains one of Africa’s strongest nations, maintaining a unique identity in global politics.

Example: Even after the monarchy fell, Ethiopia remained one of the few African nations never fully controlled by European powers.

Key Takeaway: Ethiopia’s legacy continues as a symbol of Black strength and self-determination.

6. The Garveyite Vision: Rebuilding Ethiopia’s Legacy

Africa must reclaim its independence, just as Ethiopia resisted colonial rule.

Black people must unite under Pan-Africanism, following Ethiopia’s leadership in African self-rule.

We must study Ethiopia’s economic and military success to rebuild strong Black nations.

We must honor Ethiopia’s spiritual traditions and reject colonial distortions of African history.

Final Thought: Will We Follow Ethiopia’s Example?

Marcus Garvey said:

“Look to Africa, where a Black king shall be crowned, for the day of deliverance is near!”

Will Black people continue to submit to colonial narratives, or reclaim their own history?

Will we remain divided, or unite under African sovereignty like Ethiopia?

The Choice is Ours. The Time is Now.

[joansiesbeloved]

The way that certain people are actively trying to tarnish the legacy of Camelot is absolutely vile. Reading the JFK Files should not be the business of anyone, but the Kennedy family, who, mind you, was most likely not given any prior recourse to them being released. I certainly will NOT be reading them.

It's like people want to portray his remembrance as Jack Kennedy, the former President who got shot in the head during a motorcade with his wife right by his side and whom also tried to pick up pieces of his fragmented skull.

JFK was more than just November 22nd, 1963. Reducing him to the final moments in Dallas is such an insult to him. And the countless conspiracies that have come out about him in recent years, which are so baseless and simply untrue.

He was a visionary leader who was way ahead of his time and inspired a whole generation. He challenged the country to reach for the stars. He launched the Apollo program which eventually put the first man on the moon. He was a champion for civil rights even when it was considered to be "politically inconvenient" for him. He was a diplomatic man who handled the Cuban Missile Crisis with a refreshing grace and manner which we can only long for to see from people in this day and age. And so much more at that...

Joan Kennedy said it best.

“I don’t think it’s fair to do to the deceased. They can’t defend themselves. I believe the Warren Commission because Senator Kennedy believed the Warren Commission. He didn’t think it did anyone any good to believe otherwise. It wouldn’t be good for The Country. It wouldn’t be good for The Kennedys."

[hard--headed--woman]

Hello and happy Pride Month everyone ! 🏳️‍🌈

As promised, I am going to talk about an important lesbian in history everyday. And this first post is about one of my favourite :

Renée Vivien !

I have seen some people talk about her here but she clearly isn’t as famous as she should be, and she deserves way more recognition!

Renée Vivien, whose birth name is Pauline Mary Tam, was a British writer poetess, who wrote her poetry (and most of her works) in french ; born in 1877, she died in 1909, at only 32 years old.

Renée was openly a lesbian, and she never tried to hide it despite the society she lived in being extremely homophobic and considering homosexuality as an illness. In her poetry, she mentions her love for women a lot, and wrote a lot of love poems for several of her lovers. This even earned her the nickname “Sappho 1900”. ("Sappho 1900, Sappho cent pour cent").

Of Sappho, she was by the way a huge fan : in 1903, she published the work "Sappho", in which the poet's Greek texts are followed by a French translation, as well as verses by Renée Vivien, which thus "completes" the remaining fragments of Sappho's writings. This collection greatly helped to anchor Sappho's work and her identity as a lesbian woman in our culture.

Her work consists of :

Twelve collections of poems, totalling more than 500 poems

Several translations of Greek poetesses (including Sappho)

Seven books of prose

Around ten novels (written under various pseudonyms)

A posthumously published collection of short Gothic tales (written in English this time)

A book about Anne Boleyn's life

It is also possible to read her diary and the letters she exchanged with her lovers, friends and other personalities of her time, including Natalie Clifford Barney, Colette, Kérimé Turkhan Pacha and others.

Pauline studied both in Paris and in London, then decided, once she came of age, to come and settle in Paris. She published her first collection,"Études et Préludes" in 1901, under the pseudonym R.Vivien. This pseudonym later became René Vivien (the male version of Renée) then Renée Vivien, the name under which she will be remembered. We can easily guess that she first chose these neutral then masculine pseudonyms to be able to write and be published despite the misogyny and homophobia of her time, especially given the themes exploited in her writings.

Sadness, death, ancient Greece, love, despair, solitude and love are the most recurrent themes in Renée's poems. There is actually a poetry prize in her name, the Prix Renée Vivien, which rewards poets whose themes and style are close to those of Renée Vivien.

Among Renée's best-known lovers is Natalie Clifford Barney, a famous writer and poet, with whom she had a relationship for several years before leaving her, tired of her infidelities. It is said that Natalie never accepted this breakup and tried until the end to get her back by all means, sending her love letters even years after.

Renée then had a relationship of more than six years with the rich Baroness Hélène de Zuylen, married and mother of two children, with whom she traveled extensively around the world and collaborated on the writing of several works (under the collective pseudonym Paule Riversdale). In a letter to her friend Jean Charles-Brun, Renée admitted that she considered herself married to Hélène.

While still living with the Baroness, she received a letter from a mysterious admirer, Kérimé Turkhan Pacha. What followed was an intense four-year epistolary relationship, interspersed with brief clandestine meetings. In 1908, however, Kérimé, the wife of a Turkish diplomat, put an end to their relationship when she had to follow her husband to St. Petersburg. This break-up probably contributed to Renée's tragic end.

The writer was in deep psychological distress, which only worsened from 1908 onwards. Alcoholic and suicidal, she began refusing to eat properly, and attempted suicide with laudanum. After this failed suicide attempt, she contracted pleurisy, which left her very weak, and then chronic gastritis due to her alcohol abuse. She gradually fell into anorexia, and, with her limbs paralyzed by multiple neuritis, she died on November 18, 1909, aged just 32. Her death was attributed to "pulmonary congestion", probably due to pneumonia complicated by alcohol and anorexia.

After her death, intellectuals, artists and newspapers, out of lesbophobia, tried to make her forgotten by the literary world, describing her as a woman of evil and damnation, perverse and cruel, going so far as to invent for her a life of crime, debauchery, orgies with married women, violence and cocaine consumption.

Today, Renée Vivien's name is no longer known to the general public, and is never mentioned alongside those of great ans famous poets such as Arthur Rimbaud or Charles Baudelaire, despite her gorgeous poetry, her immense talent and fascinating work.

She's personally my favourite, and not only because she was a lesbian. Her poetry is the most beautiful, interesting and deep poetry I have ever seen. She deserves to be as famous as Victor Hugo or Paul Eluard (and even more famous, in my opinion lol).

Here is one of her poems, with its english translation :

A link to some of her poems (in french but you can use a translator) ;

And two links with some of her poems translated into english : 1 and 2.

You should totally buy and read her books and poems, I have them and they're amazing!!! I'll post more translations of her poems in the future for those interested.

Anyway, thanks for reading and see you tomorrow for the second post!