#stem ambassador

[mokamara-blog1]

STEM

STEM is simply a way of reaching out to the younger generation and giving back to the sys-STEM.

Every year I ask my siblings what they’d like to do when they leave school, and every year their answers are different from the previous year. It shows how it’s okay not to know what you want, but with some guidance from STEM, it makes a difference. Being a STEM ambassador enables me to contribute to the community and help younger generation realise the hundreds of options out there.  It is also…

[milliesfishes]

Hi, lovie! I’ve been so obsessed with your blog and the way you write Coryo 🤌 I was wondering if I could request like an arranged marriage trope with Coryo and reader where their in an arranged marriage and Coryo is kind of stoic and hasn’t shown any particular interest in his wife but at a gala someone tries to flirt with her and gets touchy with her and Coryo is like “get your hands off my wife” and it ends with Coryo confessing that he’s actually fallen for his wife :3 you don’t have to write it if seems too much! But keep up your good work 💕❤️

thank you bb!! <3

𝜗𝜚𐙚𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓼 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓯𝓵𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮𝜗𝜚 ࣪𐙚

Every day Coriolanus laid his eyes upon you was another day you were forced to count yourself as lucky.

Though you wore his ring on your finger, he was your ghost, barely occupying the corners of your life. You felt like a shadow in the halls of his mansion, a fixture no better than the paintings on the walls.

It was lonely there, stuck like a jewel in his crown, arm decor only useful for appearances. The worst part was almost that nothing was truly wrong. You were fed and dressed well, your cage gilded. It wasn't a house of horrors; it was a house of honors. You were perched at the highest position in the land, the queen to his king, the flower to his thorn.

So it made you feel all the more guilty when you had even a single thought of complaint.

The truth was, even though you were practically sold into marriage, you had hoped for a better outcome. In your childhood you'd dreamt of a tall, handsome man to sweep you off your feet and kiss you senseless. Instead you got a man who, while tall and handsome, barely bid you goodnight as he shut the door to his separate bedroom.

More hurtful then all the rest of it was how much you'd wanted to know him. You could see there was a truth of him underneath the shell he hid himself in. For months now you'd attempted to engage him in conversation as you sat with him at dinner, or passed him in the hallway. On good days you'd receive a response and a smile. On bad days a simple, "Pardon me, darling. Busy day."

Now as you were sitting at your vanity, supposedly getting ready for a gala, all you could see in your reflection was disappointment. The gown you wore was beautiful, your hair perfect. All in all, you would say you looked pretty. But what was the use if he didn't care?

All your life you'd been prepared to cater to a husband but Coriolanus didn't allow himself to be catered to. He was stoic and unmoving, a rock in the sea of the Capitol.

Your heels clicked on the marble floor as you headed downstairs, only half smiling when he obligatorily told you how beautiful you were. Of course he was perfect, in a red suit that matched your dress to a T. It was infuriating how perfect you looked together.

Before you could turn and head to the car, he stopped you, taking your wrist. Of course. You'd forgotten. He pulled a white rose from nowhere, snapping the stem and tucking it into your hair. The one fastened to his suit jacket was the same hue. Infuriating.

Entering the gala, you plastered on a bright smile, greeting all those who approached you with sweet words. It was a part you played, and you did it well, clinging to your husband's arm and pressing a dutiful kiss to his cheek, trying not to seem so eager to touch him. He smiled at the gesture and for a brief moment you could have sworn there was a flicker of something real in his gaze.

Separating, the two of you made your rounds individually, playing ambassador to all you met. It was your position as First Lady to make him look good. A woman's touch did wonders in politics.

It had hurt you the first few times this happened, as you were dismayed that he wanted to spend more of the party without you than with. Even now after you should have been used to it, your heart gave a little pang as he separated from you.

Finishing speaking with the wife of a senator, you took in a breath, going to find champagne. It was that hour of the night when Coriolanus would expect you back at his side, and you needed a drink before donning the mask again.

Before you could take a flute off a nearby waiter's tray, however, a man's arm grasped your elbow. You turned your head to see the husband of the woman with whom you'd just been conversing, a prominent senator who happened to work closer with Coriolanus than most.

Giving him a polite smile, you greeted him. "Good evening."

"You look ravishing tonight," he said in an inappropriate tone, not shy about looking your body fully up and down.

"Thank...you..." you said hesitantly, unsure if that had really even happened. When your brain caught up, you stood up straighter. "Excuse me."

"Come on, can'tcha have a little fun?" he slurred, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath. "There's hardly anyone around."

It was true, the two of you were backed into a little corner and nobody seemed to be watching. You drew back form the senator, trying to pull your arm away. "I really must be going-"

"You bitch," he spat, wrenching you closer. "Askin' for it...in that tight dress...I could just..." his free hand reached around and he pinched your ass, making you gasp-

"Hands off my wife senator."

Both your heads turned to see Coriolanus standing there, arms folded, figure imposing. A wave of relief crashed over you, and you pulled yourself free, finally, heart racing. The moment played in your head over and over, and your chest heaved, your soul spiraling for comfort.

Without thinking, you ran to your husband, your only lifeline, arms coming around his middle, face buried into his shoulder. Expecting him to push you away, you were shocked when his arms slid around you, hand holding the back of your head. Your senses were muffled, and you felt a vibration in his chest as he spoke, numb to make out the words.

Before you knew it, you were swept away, coming to in the hallway outside the party. He held you to him until you started to draw back, but even then he kept his arms loosely twined around you.

In a low voice, he questioned, "Are you alright, darling?"

You breathed in softly, finally somewhat back to normal. "Yes."

"That...bastard," he bit, turning his head to look at the door. Sounds of the party slipped past the lightened crack and echoed in the hallway. "Who does he think he is, putting his hands on you like that?"

"I was scared," you murmured, instantly regretting it. You'd never shown even a modicum of emotion around him other than a picture of the contented wife.

Coriolanus surprised you once more, pulling you back into his arms and burying a kiss in your hair and your heart fluttered. "Of course you were, darling. I'm so sorry." He smoothed your hair, hand lingering there. "I'll keep a closer eye on you from now on. And he'll be taken care of, naturally."

You ignored the purposeful ambiguity of the last statement, instead focusing on the first. "You...care?"

He chuckled lightly, adjusting the rose in your hair. "Of course. You're my wife. Besides that, you're a sweetheart. I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't care."

Now you were confused. "But..." you inhaled softly, the vulnerability of the situation seeming to open you up. "You never speak to me. Or acknowledge me except for..." you gestured vaguely to the party still roaring on inside.

Coriolanus' expression grew solemn. He nodded once. "I apologize for that."

You could only breathe a single word, chin tilted up to look at him. "Why?"

The two of you stared at each other for a moment. His icy blue eyes seemed to have melted into pools of ambiguity. You had nearly given up on understanding him, your expression growing somber, when something seemed to soften in him.

He inhaled and exhaled softly, seemingly studying your face. "I...the first time I met you. You remember, of course?"

Nodding, you waited for him to go on. Coriolanus thumbed your cheek softly. "You were...beautiful. And sweet. And charming and everything I had wanted in a partner. But..."

"But what?" you asked, unable to help the panic seeping into your voice.

There was a beat of silence. And then he breathed. "You were perfect. And I knew I wasn't."

The only sounds now were coming from the party. You could feel your heartbeat in your ears. President Coriolanus Snow, the most powerful man in the country, was scared he wasn't good enough for you?"

Slightly shaking your head, you whispered, "That's why you've kept your distance?"

"You...captivated me. From our first meeting," he said quietly, and you felt out of sorts watching him confess. Caressing your cheek, he asked, "Why else would I give you my roses to wear?"

Automatically your hand reached up to touch the pale flower, realization dawning over you. He hadn't been trying to be cruel. Not at all.

"I've done things that nobody should ever do," he said firmly, a stark contrast to the gentle way he touched your cheek. "But you...you sway the complete opposite direction from all of it. I told myself I would not let it ruin you."

"Coriolanus," you sighed softly, leaning back into him. Your arms found their way around him again. "Oh..." Looking up at him still nestled in his arms, you whispered, "I don't care about what you've done. All I ever wanted was to fall in love with you."

It was almost like he didn't believe it was real. There was a beat and then he was holding you tightly to him, a fierce but gentle determination in his touch. Your heart warmed and your mind eased. You were getting a real husband after all.

"My sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in and nudging his nose to yours. "You can have whatever you want, you know that?"

You reached up to kiss him in response, and he returned the favor, lips moving like they were starving, like they'd been yearning for a taste of you since creation. His kiss was possessive, and you didn't mind one bit.

The rose in your hair began to slip and he caught it, smoothing the stem back into your hair as he slotted his lips over yours.

Finally, he had swept you off your feet.

[piastri]

episode 1 season 1 and the first driver we get introduced to is daniel ricciardo the ‘car mechanic’ we watch his narrative throughout the season and there’s no denying it he is the main character. he’s the guy who introduced f1 to a whole host of people. people who never would’ve been interested in cars going around in circles but get drawn in by the personalities. and netflix knows this and there’s no bigger personality than that ‘good looking guy from australia’ with the big ass smile. we get introduced to him and then to his family and he offers us access and insight like not a lot of other drivers are used to doing at that point. we follow his highs and lows throughout the seasons and can’t help but root for him. he goes on to promote the sport on jimmy kimmel, the late show, the daily show, makes an appearance at the met gala. other than lewis, no one else has had that much reach and he's been one of the best ambassadors for the sport. his impact can't be quantified but a huge chunk of the sport's popularity stems from him. he showed that it was okay to have a laugh off track and still get the work done on it. and you're not gonna know what you've lost till it's gone.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

My central thesis has always been that the Harkles wanted everything the Wales have and more. I know I remember reading that she cried after hearing William was made Prince of Wales. Right from the get go, her PR was all "Meghan is way better suited to be royal". Then there were all the Commonwealth flowers on her bridal veil and their insistence that they move into Windsor Castle. Now I don't believe everthing Neil Sean says, but his latest video mentions that Megxit was an ultimatum to get Windsor. As that is the traditional home of the Monarch, I feel as though they were attempting a coup.

Then there is the thought that Harry believes that the Dutchy of Cornwall should be split and he should eventually be made co-King or King of the Commonwealth. Let the Wales have that tiny island while they are jetted and feted around the world.

Here's my question for you. Did Meghan and Sparry REALLY believe they could leapfrog over the Wales??? I know her jealousy and envy of Catherine is bunny boiler level and he absolutely eviscerated his brother in Waagh. Has this been their plan all along?? Death by a thousand cuts for the Wales to force them to resign their place in the LOS or that they could somehow convince Charles to make Harry the heir??

I'd like to know where you think the delusions stem from. It wouldn't be the first time in history that younger brother has attempted to remove old brother from the throne.

Sincerely appreciate your blog and all the work you put into it. I'm always learning something new.

I'm pretty sure that was exactly their plan: they wanted to use their popularity to force The Queen to name them as her successors. I don't remember where I read this or when, but allegedly Harry sent "documentation" to someone - to whom specifically I can't recall, but options are The Queen, Charles, William, and/or grey suits - providing evidence for claims that he and Meghan were more popular than any of the others and deserved more than what they were getting.

And if they couldn't get the actual crown, they were going to do their damnedest to try and get a co-kingship with William. That's where Meghan's obsession with the Commonwealth came from; she had been told (again, I don't know by whom - all signs point to Harry exaggerating to keep her interested or maybe Charles spitballing ideas during his 'Magnificent Six' planning circa 2012) that William would rule Britannia and Harry would rule the Commonwealth.

I think that's why Meghan went all in on 'racist Kate.' Not only did she want to knock Kate out of the spotlight, she wanted to do enough damage that Commonwealth/realm nations would threaten to quit and The Queen would capitulate by offering to install Harry and Meghan as new leaders. This actually had a chance of working; it's been said quite often during her last years and since her passing that The Queen saw the Commonwealth as her greatest legacy and there was speculation that she would have done anything she could have to keep it in tact. And had Meghan played her cards right, she and Harry probably could have ended up becoming the main ambassadors of and for the Commonwealth, like a Commonwealth version of the UN Secretary-General.

But where the plan failed, obviously, was that it required blaming Kate for problems and issues that don't exist. Because remember, in 2021 when Meghan was making these claims, we'd just gone through the huge global reckoning that was Black Lives Matter and the agreement during/after BLM was "call racist people out on their BS. Put them on blast. Don't let them get away with it anymore." So not only would Meghan have been perfectly justified to name names, cite events, bring receipits, air the real dirty laundry and everyone would've been so much more supportive of it. But she didn't. Instead she played coy and said something like "I'm protecting them even though they don't deserve it."

Girl, please. That was Meghan's one chance to go justifiably scorched earth and air out all the dirty laundry and she fumbled hard.

Anyway. Let's get this train back on track. Where do the delusions come from? Traumatic childhoods courtesy of Mommies Dearest.

We all know Harry's story with Diana. She was a young, fun, free spirited loving mom larger than life with a neediness that she depended on her children to fill, rather than her own husband or other adults her age, so Harry grew to find satisfaction in supporting and providing her what she needed. He probably saw, and understood, the way Diana received what she wanted by exaggerating what she needed and following it up with excluding or isolating herself until whoever came chasing after her to give her what she wanted. And ultimately this led her (and Harry) down a path that ended up killing her; she exaggerated the relationship with Dodi to get attention from Hasnat or the BRF, then isolated herself in France to force whoever (Hasnat? Charles Wales? Charles Spencer?) to come chase after her. We know how that ends.

That's where Harry's delusions, IMO, come from. He saw how it well it worked (mostly) for Diana - exaggerate her needs/wants, then run and hide until she gets it - so he does it too. He probably started doing it right after she died, when no one knew what to do or how to handle him so they kept indulging in everything he wanted, so those wants kept manifesting bigger and bigger. And I think the way we see the BRF treating Harry is what would have happened to Diana had she lived; eventually the public would sour on her (this was already happening, by the way), which would then enable the BRF to grey rock her, devenomizing her in effect, and move on without Diana having too much of an influence on their day-to-day.

It's sort of similar for Meghan. We don't know specifically what happened (the way we do with Harry and Diana), but we know that Doria was a young, fun, free-spirited mother herself married to an older husband who had other priorities (eg kids from his first marriage). Unlike Diana, Doria probably didn't want the responsibilities of motherhood (which is the vibe Meghan and Thomas have given about Doria during Meghan's childhood) and left. And like the BRF, Thomas may have also overcompensated Doria's absence in Meghan's life by giving her everything she asked for, which made her asks get bigger and bigger and when Thomas couldn't deliver, she threatened to leave him...like Doria did and Thomas, erstwhile girldad he was, just kept throwing more and more at Meghan to keep her happy. Her delusions come from preying on other individuals' trauma to ensure she gets what she wants. The bigger her wants (ie the more grandiose her delusions), the harder she manipulates other people's trauma to make sure she gets what she wants. Which is kinda the opposite of Harry and Diana; they create the trauma to get people to do what they want, whereas Meghan exploits it to get people to do what she wants. Both are skills they learned after being abandoned (metaphorically and literally) by their mothers.

And all of Meghan's PR about "young mother," I think it's more insidious than that. Yes, it's a very overt evocation of Diana's narrative. Yes, it's a judgement against Kate. But it is also digs at Doria. "See? Motherhood is hard but I'm prioritizing my kid. How dare you to have left me" kind of spiteful digs meant to shame her for whatever happened that caused her to disappear. Meghan is the kind of person who must always have the last word, so I wouldn't be surprised if she's been targeting or belitting Doria about not knowing certain things about Archie/Lili because she wasn't around when Meghan was that age.

So...yeah.

I've realized now that this is the third or fourth Wednesday in a row that I write these super long analytical/in this essay I will posts. I guess Wednesdays are my thinking days...

[tw1nkitty]

to the people who say barbie promotes 'anti feminism'...

DID YA'LL HOES HIT UR HEAD OR SOMETHING??? DID U GET DROPPED ON THE SIDEWALK AS A CHILD? THIS QUEEN HAS OVER TWO HUNDRED CAREERS, INCLUDING STEM FIELDS– SHES BEEN A GODDAMN UNICEF AMBASSADOR (you can look it up in the wiki if you don't BELIEVE ME DINGUS) barbie is NOT get her degree and become a college graduate for you ungrateful GOLBINS TO SHIT ON HER CAREER.

[blorb-el]

[in the style of the Finding Nemo seagulls] Id fic? Id fic? Id fic? Id fic?

ok id fic!!

the backstory is over the weekend i needed a break from editing wsbf, and i found a prompt on the dc kinkmeme, along the lines of: omega bruce foils an assassination attempt on kryptonian ambassador kal. this is probably a one off thing in this verse, it is not a story it's just a little. warmup

1.5k, gen, superbat, omegaverse, i was gonna leave this completely unedited but @januariat as usual saved my life

So this is it, Kal thinks, gasping for breath as he presses vainly at the side of his robes, trying to stem the blood. Krypton’s last hope, Krypton’s only hope, and he’s failed. Around him there’s noise, chaos, as Mala and Tor race after the assassin, as the humans’ voices rise in alarm. There’s another being next to him. Kal flinches as the black-garbed one presses primitive bandages to his side. There’s nothing he can do but wait for his skilorrosh, the death vision Telle grants as Flamebird frees his soul from his body and bears it home on her wings to Rao.

Can Flamebird even find him here, on this strange world? Is he doomed to be lost to Kythona’s darkness? It seems like it; there’s no warming red glow the poets of the brain-vaults had described, only cold and darkness and pain pressing in on his vision. Kal closes his eyes. Mother. Father. I’m sorry.

And then - radiant gold, beyond anything he’s ever imagined possible.

When Kal had been a young child, perhaps five or so, he had snuck into his father’s lab and found himself floating. Antigravity was nothing new to him - Jor had discovered the principle years before his birth - but his father had been experimenting with augmenting the machine, passing the energy through different wavelengths of light. Kal’s whole body had felt, for a brief moment, as though Rao himself had taken hold of it, like he was stronger than a drang, faster than a photon. And then he had gone out like a light, along with the power supply of half the city of Kryptahnugrhahs.

This overpowering, blinding sensation is the only thing that has ever felt close. His blood is made of lightning, his nerves fire. The scents and sounds of the room explode into infinite detail, and he jerks his hands to his ears instinctively, accidentally shattering the rock hall of the floor. He curls tighter, helpless against the smell of blood and panic in the air, Tor and Mala’s Beta and Omega scents united in fury, the mass of human scents impenetrable and alien. There’s one close to him, the one that’d been helping, pressure against his side, a little stronger. Kal curls into it, instinctively reaching for the wrist.

Something feels wrong with the glove as he touches it, though. It bends, and then the pressure’s gone, the hand withdrawn. Kal - had he hurt them? He curls tighter, distressed, an almost childlike whine escaping. He doesn’t want to hurt- 

“Just breathe,” a low voice murmurs near him. There’s something touching his face. Kal turns his hand into it blindly. The sounds around him - they’re fading a little. But so is the pain. Kal frowns and moves a hand back to his torso, where the bullets had gone in. His tabard is still slick with blood, his body’s…

It hurts. But it’s a lot better.

That low comforting voice starts to count, and Kal does his best to time his breathing to it. The noise and chaos is more distant now. Kal opens his eyes. It’s one of Earth’s protectors kneeling above him, the mysterious one in the mask. The Batman. The opaque, unnerving white lenses of his mask have been retracted, and his eyes are fixed on Kal’s.

“That’s it,” the man says reassuringly, and there’s a hint of a rumbling purr to the words. Kal blinks, the uproar of talking and breathing and heartbeats easier to filter out in favor of the man before him. There is something strange - the briefings had said that the planet still practices caste-based discrimination, and yet - this man has the alien but unmistakable richness to his scent, concealed though it is under neutralizers, the reassuring timbre to his voice common to the human Omegas of Earth.  

Omegas, on this backwards planet, would not be first responders, would not be public servants. Would not be what the briefings had called ‘super-heroes.’ And yet this man is an Omega.

He’s staring up into the man’s silvery-gray eyes, washed out like the color of rain, when the noise takes a sharp upturn. Batman looks away. Kal smells his fellow ambassador’s scents before he hears their voices. Mala is first to reach them, pushing through the crowd, fury roiling in her scent. “You animals,” she snarls, and Kal notes with alarm that she’s pulled the concealed raygun General Zod had insisted they carry. He pushes himself upright.

“Stand down, Mala Ro-Zan,” Kal growls, or tries to growl, anyway.

“We will not stand down,” Tor growls back to him Lurvish, teeth bared at the humans surrounding them. His diplomat’s staff has reformed into a vikhirn, its three points gleaming in the dim red light. “The outsiders shot to kill you, moliom! We came to them on our knees begging for help and the savages-”

The vikhirn’s deadly points of light focus on Batman’s cowl as Tor levels the weapon at the Omega, and something inside Kal snaps. “Stand down,” he roars, Alpha markings burning gold-bright across his skin. There’s a reddish haze across his vision, and he distantly realizes that he’s a few inches off the ground. Mala bares her teeth, furious, but centuries of civilization fold beneath millenia of evolution and her claws slide back beneath her skin. Tor, as a Beta, is less affected; he stops in his tracks, low challenge-growl beginning in his chest, but when Kal stalks towards him he ducks his head.

The hall’s fallen silent. Kal takes the vikhirn from Tor and inputs the dissolution override; the sunstone crumbles to sparkling dust. He holds his hand out to Mala for her raygun.

“No, moliom,” Mala rumbles. “I will not leave us defenseless in this - khaovrrosh.” She leaves the insult in Lurvish, the older language impenetrable to Lantern translation, but with the open disdain in her eyes as she looks at the assembled humans, Kal doubts that the insult will be lost on them. His Alpha hindbrain has retreated but it’s close under his skin, tense with the danger of the situation. Later that night, writing his report, Kal will look back on his loss of composure with some embarrassment. But in the moment it was the only thing he could have done, with the lightning still racing through his veins and the knowledge that Krypton is doomed if the mission fails. The last of the surge of power fades, and he drops to the ground, trying not to stagger. Mala moves in to support him, albeit begrudgingly. 

“A human has tried to kill our ambassador Kal-El-jran,” Tor says to the crowd of diplomats, tense. “Your kind has-”

“Stop, Tor,” Kal says. With the all-consuming radiance and the adrenaline of nearly dying gone, he feels exhausted and drained, his side throbbing with pain. But if he doesn’t take back control of the negotiation, Tor will continue with the formal withdrawal. For Rao’s sake, it seems like he’s the only one who remembers what’s at stake here. Kal straightens, leaning on Mala, and looks Tor directly in the eye. “Unless I’m much mistaken, a human also saved my life.” Kal nods to Batman, who’s retreated back into the stone impassiveness he’d greeted the ambassadors with. Kal looks at him a moment too long. His head is starting to ache, and he’s distantly aware of swaying a little on his feet, of Mala moving closer to brace him. “I - move to - let Rao set on the proceedings for today, and - convene tomorrow under a fresh sky.” The formal words are hard to remember.

Wonder Woman, the lead negotiator for the humans, frowns in soft concern. It’s a stark contrast to her warrior’s garb and poise. “Of course. Kal-El-jran, may we offer any medical assistance?”

“Your kind has done quite enough,” Mala snaps, her claws briefly poking into Kal’s side before she retracts them swiftly. Kal can’t quite bring himself to care. Dizziness is beginning to overcome him; he closes his eyes but that makes the swaying worse. Tor says something about having medical facilities on their ship, and there’s another arm around him, steadying him.

“Just promise me we’ll still be on this planet when I wake up,” Kal mumbles to Mala. “Swear it.”

Mala breathes out sharply in frustration.

Kal stops moving. He’ll collapse on the damn floor if he has to, damn Kryptonian pride.

“We will be,” Mala says. “Come on, Kal-El.”

There’s something still worrying him, though. “Did they catch them?” Is there any danger to his fellow Kryptonians, to this tense, frayed distal pack they’ve cobbled together?

“Yes,” Tor says, steadying him up the ramp. The serenity of Kryptonian architecture soothes the ragged edge of his Alpha a little, his instincts recognizing it as safety, even as the throbbing in his side is growing. Kelexo are hovering by the doors, and move in to support him.

“Good,” he tells the ceiling, as a Kelex rolls up his sleeve and injects his arm with medication. “I think - I think I’m going to pass out now.”

[corner-stories]

this time of night

Annie Leonhardt. Armin Arlert. Pieck Finger. Silk Bedding. Games of Chess. Teasing. Post-Canon. 1607 words. (ao3.)

Almost everything in Historia’s palace has been crafted with luxury and enjoyment in mind, yet the texture of the silk bedding and the ornate trim above the doors feels foreign to her. It’s hard to tell where her discomfort stems from — her upbringing and the scratchy blankets of her childhood home, or the fact that she’s been traveling for diplomatic reasons for the past three years and that the accommodations for people in her position tend to be rudimentary at best. Even the borrowed robe feels unfamiliar on her skin, the smoothness of the fibers are meant to keep her at ease, yet the longer she wears them she gets filled with a sinking feeling that something’s not right. 

But there aren’t many places on the island for ambassadors to stay, that is if they want to avoid the anger that can be roused by seeing those who betrayed Paradis. The bright side is that Annie cannot imagine what Yeagerist would be so blinded by revenge that they attacked the heavily guarded home of their Queen, so at least their safety is guaranteed. Hopefully. Only the next two weeks of peace talks could tell. 

At least Pieck’s presence makes parts of the palace more palatable. Annie sits across from her comrade, her elbow propped on the table as her chin rests in her hand. At this time of night she’s so fatigued from the endless stream of meetings that she lacks the energy for anything else. Her eyes end up affixed to a nearby window, where Historia’s royal garden is cloaked in nothing but darkness. 

In contrast Pieck is focused on the chess board between them, putting a lot more thought into her moves than Annie can bother. After a minute of thinking she grabs her rook and moves it to the other side of the board, placing it in the perfect position to take out Annie’s king. 

“Check.” 

Annie sighs in both defeat and exhaustion. “Alright, you win.” She pulls her eyes from the window and looks back to Pieck, who’s usually relaxed disposition is beginning to look rather annoyed. 

“No, I don’t win,” Pieck reminds in a fairly low tone of voice. It seems that if she is to completely dominate Annie in the art of chess, then she will only do so by following the rules. “I win when I get a checkmate, not a check. Make your move.”

Annie rolls her eyes before grabbing her king and purposely moving it in front of Pieck’s rook, making sure it’s in a position where it has been doomed to a grizzly fate with no hope of survival. 

“Checkmate. I lose.”

Pieck rolls her eyes. “You’re boring when you’re tired.” 

Annie huffs as Pieck begins resetting the board, though at this ungodly hour she’s contemplating the consequences of kicking her comrade out of the room. Literally. 

But before the night can take an amusingly violent turn, the door opens.

Armin enters the space still clad in his day clothes, though his necktie has been loosened and his jacket has been shed, the garment remaining clutched in his hand. On a similar note he looks exhausted, though slightly less so than the brooding blonde near the window. 

“Hey, Annie,” Armin greets in his usual friendly tone, though said tone is tinged with the slightest bits of fatigue. He musters up enough energy to eye the other lady in the room. “Pieck.” 

“Evening,” Pieck says just as she finishes resetting the chess board. “I should probably get going before tonight gets…” She eyes Annie knowingly. “... too crazy.” 

Annie glares as Pieck smirks. 

“You probably should,” the blonde agrees. She even stands up and doesn’t even need to gesture before Pieck follows. 

Armin nods along and walks past the two, slowly pulling off his tie and tossing it onto the nearby dresser. He doesn’t catch the playful look in Pieck’s eyes and the annoyed glare in Annie’s, though perhaps that’s a blessing in disguise. He slips into the bathroom connected to the bedroom just as the ladies approach the exit. 

“I’ll see you lovebirds in the morning,” Pieck teases, and to that Annie rolls her eyes as she opens the door. 

Pieck steps out of the room, but not without stopping and turning around to say one more thing. 

“Oh, and make sure you use protec-”

Annie slams the door in Pieck’s face, which is certainly not the first time she had done so and will certainly not be the last. She turns around to see Armin emerging from the bathroom, thankfully ignorant to Pieck’s very peculiar form of teasing. 

Annie goes to the bed and slips off the silken robe off her shoulders — her linen nightgown might be the only thing in this palace that makes her feel comfortable. As she lies down on the intricately embroidered bedspread she watches Armin going to the dresser, looking very respectfully as he changes into his sleepwear. 

“How is she?” Annie asks. She figures that she might as well bring up the question, as there may never be a world where Armin doesn’t care about Mikasa. 

With her also staying in the palace as a similar safety precaution, it’s only natural that Armin takes the opportunity to catch up with his cherished friend. And it’s certainly much easier to have a chat with a loved one without wondering if an enraged Yeagerist planted a bomb underneath his chair. 

“She’s… she’s hanging in there,” Armin soon answers. He pulls his nightshirt onto his slender torso as he walks to the bed. “I think she’s just glad to see us again.” 

“Don’t you mean you?” Annie brings up. “And Jean? And Connie?”

She can’t help but be blunt, to speak what she perceives as the truth. It’s been barely a day since Mikasa showed the ambassadors the grave by the tree, and during that time she held herself with a distinct air of melancholy. It was difficult to deny her familiarity with the comrades she spent years fighting alongside, and not the ones that formed an alliance just before the final dance. Even their days as trainees feels like an echo from the distant past. 

And to think that Mikasa’s spent the last three years living in some cottage just outside of Shiganshina — residing near a place that changes every day, all while the concept of peace begins to feel more foreign as time goes by. Annie can relate to the need to distance oneself from the chaos, but to do it all alone feels like another beast entirely. 

Even her idea of living quietly involves some sort of person, a companion by her side to make the days feel more bearable. 

“No, I do mean all of us,” Armin soon says, breaking Annie out of her inner musings. “But I don’t blame you for inferring… that.” 

He joins her on the bed and they move like clockwork. Armin barely buttons up his nightshirt before lying on his back, then Annie does what she always does and rests her head on his chest, her preferred place to be. 

It’s their usual position during the night, though for once they have room to spare. For all the complaints she has about the excessive opulence of the palace, Annie does appreciate the spaciousness of the bed. After months of traveling by train or ship, vessels that have very good reasons to be constrictive and tight, the extra expanse feels like a blessing. 

No wonder Pieck teased her and Armin when they arrived at the place, suggestively insinuating that the lovebirds make use of all the space they now have. 

On most nights Armin will read a book as Annie sleeps in his arms, but for now he seems content by just holding her, his hand soon finding the small of her back.

“You know, funny story…” he begins. “After we all chatted, Jean offered to walk Mikasa to her room and she accepted. I… I don’t know why I think she wouldn’t have.”

Annie hums to show that she’s listening, though only partially so. His voice — a vessel that can often be so intense, so passionate — only ever soothes her at this time of night. There’s a softness to it, a sweetness, something that helps lull Annie to sleep whether they are on a ship during a storm, a moving train, or on a mattress with smooth silk bedding.  

“Don’t tell me you’re gossiping, Armin,” Annie manages to say. 

It’s certainly a bold thing coming from him, especially since he very urgently asked Pieck to not spill a word regarding their current sleeping arrangements. To even approach the horizon of a potential rumor mill strikes Annie as some flavor of hypocritical.

“I’m not, I just…” Armin insists. “...I noticed the way he was smiling at her.” 

Annie manages a scoff. “Jean doesn’t smile, he smirks. Like a cocky bastard.” 

Armin lets out a chuckle as he begins playing with her hair, feeling the strands between his fingers. “You’re not wrong there.”

From that point on Armin keeps talking as Annie gets closer to the realm of sleep — feeling more and more at ease as she remains in his embrace. The last thing she hears is Armin telling her to rest well, as they have a long day of meetings tomorrow and for the next two weeks, and the last sensation she feels is him pressing his lips to the crown of her head. 

Perhaps there’s something sweet about the fact that in such a decadent, lucious space the most comfort that Annie will ever find in the entire palace will be in her lover’s arms. 

[whitherwanderer]

5 // stamp

// 670 words. Nathalie thinks in flowers.

She seals every letter with a pressed flower and green wax. Both a message in themselves; a token of feelings. And always, always stamped with her signet ring. To say that decoration was her favorite part of letter writing was an understatement. Such care was taken to consider what was in bloom, what would carry her message with just a flower or two. Moons of gathering and pressing and flipping through each page of unread tomes to examine her catalogue for the perfect ambassador.

This moon: A stem of bluebells.

Mother, Father, and my dearest sisters,

I miss you all, as I’ve admitted time and time again. Is everyone well? Did you like the tea I blended? Maybe I will send along a package of goods from the city. Sweets and toys for the little ones, dyes and fine tools for the rest. If I can provide anything, you need but ask.

Nathalie delivers her letter by hand. Most of the way, at least. She might as well if she’ll be in the area rooting through the brush and picking around the rivers. Buscarron always receives it with the utmost care, sliding it atop a stack and promising her that it’ll be picked up in due time—the others always are.

Letters home, she explained to him once. His was the only establishment that wouldn’t chase them off, and it was blessedly close. When asked why she didn’t simply deliver them then, her smile grows tired, her eyes drift away.

She asked him, sheepishly, if he could recall ever once receiving a letter addressed to her. He couldn’t apologize profusely enough.

I think of you often, and fondly. I think of the milestones I’ve missed. The celebrations and the hardships that I cannot share with you. I keep space for them in my heart, and I can but hope that you spare a place for me in yours, however small.

Perhaps, for the next moon, it will be oxeye daisies. Maybe yew. Was that a bit dramatic?

It’s only when Rakaso parrots back, “A bit dramatic?” that she realizes perhaps she’s thinking about this too hard, and when she should be focused on work, no less. Maybe Rakaso would enjoy the frivolity of receiving such a letter? She’d no doubt find it trite—they work together. What’s left to be said that would be worth writing?

And yet Nathalie cannot help but imagine blue periwinkle under a gold seal.

If you worry for me at all, I pray you find solace in the fact that I am cared for. I live well. I still practice all you have taught and it helps people that pass through our clinic. Some cannot find it in themselves to be grateful to my kin, just as you warned me. But many—most, in fact—stop me to speak as friends.

I still want to visit, if you’ll allow it. I’d have you here in a heartbeat if I didn’t know I’d be asking the star of you all. But I reserve my right to hope, and yours to surprise me.

Buscarron flags her down from across the Druthers in a mad excitement, and for a moment, Nathalie assumes something might be wrong. He tells her to wait there at the bar while he shuffles back to his office, producing a letter with its own seal. Red wax, a solitary V pressed into its center.

Nathalie quakes with it in her hands all the way back to the privacy of her small apartment.

She opens to find more pressed plants, and not a word on the page that encloses them. Last year’s fading, purple columbine and the brittle yellow of autumn aspen leaves. It’s all she can do not to throw herself out the door, pacing in a daze until she arrives at Rakaso’s with little more than apologies and a manic need to be somewhere, anywhere louder than her own mind.

And yet, with every step beyond her door, she thought of snowdrop.

Patiently I remain, N.V.

[kataraslove]

I just stumbled across your acc and I gotta say, I agree with alotta ur takes

Ur sooo well spoken and I really enjoy reading your thoughts and opinions

Katara is one of my favorite characters and it makes me really happy to see someone appreciate her and her writing

Ngl a lot of atla fans r lowkey braindead so ur acc is pretty refreshing

Thanks for posting!! 🩷

thank you! 🩷 your words are too kind. i appreciate it.

i did mention this before, but this blog stemmed kind of entirely out of spite. i was sick and tired of fandom on here telling me that there was only one way to interpret and enjoy my favourite character, dictating who i could or could not ship her with and how much of a stan that made me. it’s not an experience just unique to the atla fandom, of course. it’s becoming something more apparent nowadays especially, the ways in which multiple readings and interpretations of a character is heavily discouraged by fandom in favour of just one.

it’s baffling how, for so many years, there was a strict binaric interpretation of katara’s character, with 0 being non-canon and 1 being completely in favour of all things canon. either you had to vehemently agree with everything that bryke wrote for katara’s within atla and post-canon, to the point where i have seen people defend the lack of statues of her as “oh, she probably didn’t want one anyway,” (NO!!) or you had to have deep-rooted anger and rejection for all things that were done to her story, in the guise of katara deserving better.

katara does deserve better narratively, but NOT in the ways that the tumblr fandom thinks she should have. not in the ways that she should be ambassador to the fire nation, or become firelady (a racist depiction in fanon and nothing but a decorative title in canon) and live out the rest of her life by zuko’s side, serving and prioritizing zuko’s nation.

“but wouldn’t it be empowering if katara sat on the throne of her oppressors and got to dictate - “ no. it’s not. stop advocating for that type of ending for women from oppressed and marganized groups. stop acting like that is the ideal future that katara wanted this whole time, that ruling as part of a foreign monarchy that decimated your people and your culture is the ultimate threshold for liberation.

i’ve seen people who claim to take a doylist perspective for critique of atla (read: kataang)’s writing completely lose all comprehension when it comes to critically assessing post-canon zutara. by that i mean, if we continue with the writing direction that we saw for all of the female atla characters in the sequel series, a zutara endgame would position katara in a worse outcome than she got narratively. but you tell anyone that and it’s an instant “zuko would have given her 10 statues!!”

but most importantly, nothing has radicalized me more over this year than seeing the “katara deserves better (in the form of zuko)” crowd, the same crowd who is currently dreading any form of fixing or retcons from avatar studios in upcoming content, defend the hell out of natla katara’s writing. the very same people who were praising katara’s arc to the stars, stating that it was nearly complete until the two grown men decided to pair her up with aang and ruined all at the end.

well, what about the group of zutara shippers in the natla writer’s room who handed her everything in the narrative, who removed her flaws, her anger, her compassion, who stripped her down to everything except hope, all in the name so that she wouldn’t appear unlikable to audiences. i mean, that tremendously backfired for them, because now the young actress who plays katara is getting hate spewed at her for failing to portray katara interestingly, when the problem has always been the shit writing.

anyway, i appreciate this message! glad i could be of service and it’s nice that you’re a zuko fan who ships kataang! lots of people who love zuko do.

“a lot of atla fans are braindead” LMAO you can say that again!!!

[ingravinoveritas]

Have you seen his latest tweet? He’s having one of his moments and is blocking people left and right. I got myself blocked for commenting on a comment… TF is this poop? 😒

@phantomstars24 Okay, so...I have seen what's been going on on Twitter with Michael and there is...obviously a lot going on. Let me first put up the screenshots of his other tweets, which followed the initial one in @ourtubahero-blog's screenshot (the first one is most recent):

I think there are a few things (well, a lot of things) that are getting missed in all this, specifically the context for why Michael wrote the original tweet in the first place. It appears that it was meant to be a reaction to this incident, which just occurred today in the UK:

The wording of Michael's tweet was not clear, and I also don't think anyone outside of the UK would readily know what he was reacting to, so straightaway this seemed to lead to a lot of misunderstanding. A large portion of the criticism of that tweet stemmed from people thinking Michael was taking a neutral stance on the situation in Gaza/Israel, which is what then led to him making a clarifying tweet in that regard. For my part, I did not interpret Michael's original tweet as neutral, but rather that he is and does stand with innocent people of every stripe, and wishes for there to be no more bloodshed or further loss of life.

Michael's subsequent tweets only seem to have compounded the problem, as they appear to have been made out of an emotional response on his part, which is not a good thing when it comes across as defensive. Emotions are running incredibly high right now, and sadly that is the time when misunderstandings are most likely to occur. In the interest of clarity, in his second tweet, Michael did not say that he had no time to do research, but rather that he "has no time for people telling him to do research." What I took this to mean is that he already has done research and thought very carefully about this entire situation, and therefore felt slighted at people implying that he had not.

The problem inherent in all of this, however, is that this is an extremely difficult subject to have nuanced conversation about, particularly on social media and especially on Twitter. This then leads us to the issue of blocking. I think what Michael was attempting to say (again, badly worded) in his tweet about blocking people was that he was blocking people due to what he perceived as personal attacks. This would explain people being blocked for saying apparently innocuous things, as Michael was on the defensive and does not really have that button in his brain telling him to stop or back off once he gets going.

It goes without saying that Michael seemingly blocking people indiscriminately is definitely not a good look (though it is not without precedent, as I remember well him doing the exact same thing four years ago, albeit under different circumstances). But what is also not acceptable is people sending him death threats, or tweets such as this falsely accusing him of horrific things. In this instance, it is more than understandable that he would have a strong reaction to being dogpiled and block someone, because no one should have to accept threats to their person on their own social media page.

I think what is also happening is that a lot of fans (not either of you who sent in these asks, for the record) are correlating online activism to activism in real life. Michael has always been about walking the walk and not just talking the talk, to where we know he donated almost all of his money to the Homeless World Cup in 2019. He is also a UNICEF UK ambassador and has visited Lebanon, Chad, and Guatemala to meet and help refugee children. All this to say that we have no idea what he has done outside of social media to assist refugees and victims, or if/how much he has donated to Palestinian charities or other relief funds for victims and their families. And for my part, I would rather Michael be clumsy with his wording on social media (again, not defending the indiscriminate blocking) and taking tangible action in real life than engaging in performative Internet activism that ultimately goes nowhere.

(Also, I cannot help but facepalm at people asking Anna to weigh in, under the assumption that a) She would even care about this; and b) She has any influence whatsoever on Michael's behavior, which it is abundantly clear she does not or else he would have stopped flirting with David years ago. I just really hope people do not tag her or expect her to have the ability to somehow "rein him in," because they will be very disappointed...)

So yes, I think what made Michael make a statement tonight after all this time was the above-mentioned MP. I think his intentions were likely good and that his heart was in the right place--as are all of ours, in wanting to protect innocent civilians and stop the horrific violence that is happening. But I also think that if Michael wasn't prepared to handle certain types of criticism, then it probably would have been better for him to say nothing at all, or at least certainly to not escalate things by continuously tweeting. I am also sorry for the fans who were hurt by his actions, because I know fans who have been there before, and it really sucks.

I am hopeful, however, that we can all step back and breathe once emotions are no longer so heightened and try to find a way to listen to each other and engage meaningfully. Because it is truly disheartening to see how things escalated so quickly tonight, and I want to believe that we as a fandom and as human beings can do so much better. I suppose only time will tell...

[isadomna]

Princess Mary and Francis I of France

It seems almost unbelievable that Henry VIII seriously considered giving his daughter to the French King. She was only eleven years old, and when the French ambassadors saw her in the spring of 1527, they concluded that she was “so thin, spare and small as to make it impossible for her to be married for the next three years”. Louise of Savoy, sensing that the marriage proposal might have been a trap to keep Francis out of the imperial alliance, suggested a solution that even the English ambassadors found shocking. If anyone believed that Princess Mary was too young to be married to the man twenty-two years her senior, Louise saw no danger because “she herself was married at eleven”. She suggested that Francis I and Henry VIII should meet in Calais, where the marriage between her son and the English King’s daughter should be solemnized. After the ceremony, Francis and Mary should consummate their match to ensure its validity; it didn’t have to be a long consummation, it sufficed that Francis might “abide himself for an hour or less with the princess”. Louise assured that her son was “a man of honour and discretion and would use no violence”. This, Louise claimed, would be means of assuring that Francis was legally married to the English princess and Henry VIII could take her back to England “unto such time as she should be thought more able”. The English ambassadors thought the proposal “very strange” and, indeed, such proceedings were unheard of even in the sixteenth century.

Princess Mary, small and undeveloped for her age, was probably not menstruating and thus wasn’t a fully grown woman in the eyes of her contemporaries. Although girls were allowed to marry at the age of twelve, sexual intercourse was advised to take place when a girl reached her sixteenth birthday. It stemmed from the belief that between twelve and sixteen, a girl was too young and too fragile to survive the perils of pregnancy and childbirth. Henry VIII’s grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, was the best example of what happened to a girl when her marriage was consummated too early. She gave birth when she was only thirteen years old, and this traumatic experience left her damaged and unable to have more children by her successive husbands. Bishop Fisher, Margaret’s friend and admirer, marvelled: “It seemed a miracle that of so little a personage anyone should have been born at all”. Margaret had certainly believed so as well because many years later she ensured that her young and fragile granddaughter, Margaret Tudor, was not sent to be married to the King of Scotland too early, lest her much older husband would not wait for her to mature “but injure her, and endanger her health”. She would have certainly felt the same way about Princess Mary, who, like her grandmother and aunt, was small for her age.

Princess Mary would have reached her twelfth birthday (the age of consent) on 18 February 1528, more than a year after the proposed consummation, and even this would not mean that she was able to have intercourse. Indeed, the English ambassadors who thought this proposal was outrageous were loath even to put it in writing. Needless to say that Henry VIII rejected it immediately, arguing that his daughter “was of tender age and there was plenty of time to talk about marrying her”.

Sylvia Barbara Soberton, Golden Age Ladies: Women Who Shaped the Courts of Henry VIII and Francis I

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Edith M. Lederer at AP, via HuffPost:

UNITED NATIONS (AP) — The International Criminal Court’s prosecutor faced demands Tuesday for speedy action against Israeli leaders and a blistering Russian attack over the ICC’s arrest warrant for President Vladimir Putin stemming from Moscow’s invasion of Ukraine.

Karim Khan responded by telling the U.N. Security Council that he will not be swayed or intimidated as his team investigates possible war crimes or crimes against humanity in Gaza and the Palestinian territories as well as in Ukraine. Libya’s U.N. ambassador, Taher El-Sonni, told Khan that if the Libyan cases the ICC is investigating are so complex that they won’t be completed until the end of 2025, he should allocate the court’s efforts to the war in Gaza. El-Sonni claimed genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity are being perpetrated by Israeli forces. The world expects the ICC “to be courageous and to issue arrest warrants against officials of the Israeli regime who have repeated again and again that they want to commit genocidal actions against Palestinians,” El-Sonni said. “What are you waiting for, Mr. Khan?,” he added. “Don’t you see the threats against civilians, the potential threats against civilians in Rafah and the massacre that would happen at any time?”

[...] Last week, two Republican congressmen introduced the “Illegitimate Court Counteraction Act” to impose sanctions on ICC officials that go after the United States or its allies including Israel.

ICC Prosecutor Karim Khan is facing a demand to issue arrest warrants to Israeli leaders over their genocide in Gaza in a more prompt manner.

[isfjmel-phleg]

@inklings-challenge forgive me for being a day behind, but for yesterday's Chesterton Challenge prompt of "Mystery," here is an excerpt from a mystery story from the world of The Blackberry Bushes, a Morrick Hopeley story by L. D. Melbray, with annotations by Elystan Liddick. This is from the book that he annotated in the Christmas Chapter with the intention of presenting it to Levico as a gift.

(If you're unfamiliar with this, this is my fictional world's equivalent of Sherlock Holmes! So I am writing mimicking that style.)

In all my acquaintance with my friend Mr. Morrick Hopeley, I had never known him to seek out the company of a lady for any cause beyond his professional services.[1] Even his dealings with my Maira, despite the role that she played in the case of the Batsford Murders,[2] dripped with the distant courtesy of a gentleman toward a lady shopkeeper. If he ever had a mother or a sister or an aunt, he has never confided in me,[3] but I doubt not that if he did, he would regard them with his own peculiar mixture of aloofness and polite disdain. Exactly what was his reason for regarding the fair sex in this manner I cannot say with certainty;[4] it was among the unfortunate defects of my friend’s otherwise admirable character,[5] and a fault for which I have dared to rebuke him multiple times.[6] Once, when Hopeley and I shared rooms in Fisher Road, I went so far as to suggest that his aversion stemmed from a secret fear, and was rewarded with utter solitude for the rest of the evening.[7] Yet in the strange case of Miss Celeas Arkwright, which I am about to relate, Hopeley made an exception to his inexplicable rule, for indeed Miss Arkwright was an exceptional woman,[8] and it is by that designation that Hopeley has come to regard her—The Exception.

If I recall correctly, it began in the autumn of 1898.[9] Despite the moderate success of my literary career, the call of the stage once again had compelled me,[10] and I had joined the cast of a respectable, if not grand, production of The Misfortune of Mr. Naym.[11] My role was but a supporting one,[12] yet it provided enough comedic interest to keep me as diverted as our audiences for the next month. I had not seen Hopeley in weeks. If he had heeded my telegram pleading with him to attend my first night if he could, I had missed his unmistakable features among the crowd—no surprise, for my friend is a master of disguise.[13] I expected him to turn up anywhere during our run in some outlandish persona or another,[14] but on this particular night he chose, as ever, to defy my expectations and turned up in my dressing room in his own character after the end of the performance.

The expression on his face, as he leaned against my dressing table, arms crossed over his chest and long legs stretched out before him like a frog’s, plainly indicated that he relished the prospect of startling me.[15] I confess that I took some umbrage at his neglect of my first night,[16] and determined that I would not give him the satisfaction of my genuine reaction to his abrupt manifestation in my private quarters. I flatter myself that I am a creditable enough actor to maintain such a ruse.[17] Without a glance at him, I strode into the dressing room, shed the outermost layers of my costume, donned the dressing gown Maira gave me for Christmas (a quiet brown with a subtle self-stripe),[18] and seated myself at the dressing table to begin the rituals of cold cream, quite as if there were not an absurdly tall and silently perturbed man practically at my elbow.[19]

Halfway through divesting myself of greasepaint,[20] I allowed my eyes to drift in his direction and acknowledged him with a nod.

“Ah,” said I, “Hopeley. There you are, old chap. I see you have been dining with the ambassador of Faysmond—that is, when you have not been taking a lengthy stroll through the countryside near Fifield or acquiring the hobby of brass-rubbing. Between your days at the Coregean Library researching for that case with the bishop’s nephew’s dog, of course.”[21]

A proud beam brightened Hopeley’s thin face. “My dear Wystan,” said he, “you have at least learned to apply my methods. Do tell me, my boy, how you have deduced these things.”

“The answer is simplicity itself,” I remarked. “I read the newspapers.”[22]

[1] Because he has better things to do!

[2] I can’t blame Hopeley. That was the most tiresome part of that book.

[3] Based on his remarks in “The Adventure of the Baboon’s Umbrella,” I theorize that Hopeley’s mother is dead and has been dead for a long time. And if he had a sister, he would have mentioned her by now. I cannot imagine his growing up alongside anyone except Seoras. They wouldn’t hate each other so much otherwise.

[4] He—has—better—things—to—do! This isn’t a mystery.

[5] Oh, your friend has unfortunate defects, Wystan? Need I remind you of what you did when Hopeley needed you most in “The Secret of the Cursed Candlestick”?

[6] I want to read this conversation very very very very very badly. How soon can you write it, Mr. Melbray?

[7] This one too! And he’s wrong. Hopeley isn’t afraid of ladies. He isn’t afraid of anything.

[8] I rather like Miss Arkwright too. She isn’t soppy like Maira.

[9] He does not recall correctly, because in The Batsford Murders, he married Maira in December 1898, and he’s obviously already married to her in this story, which cannot take place any earlier than spring 1899. Perhaps Wystan should try keeping a diary so that he could remember dates correctly once in a while.

[10] So much for “I shall never tread the boards again. I vow it to you, Maira, my own!”

[11] I approve. That is the most amusing play I have ever seen.

[12] Why didn’t you tell us whom he played? Was it Alcidon? It has to have been Alcidon. He’s the funniest character in the whole play, and it would be a shame to waste Wystan on anyone else.

[13] No surprise, for Hopeley wouldn’t bother to disguise himself to go and see Wystan, because he knows that Wystan knows all the costuming tricks and would see straight through him.

[14] As he did in “The Mystery of the Fish-Fry Brotherhood.”

[15] I would have startled him first, but Wystan isn’t quick enough for that.

[16] For shame, Wystan, he has a perfectly good reason! He always does. Nobody cares about your first nights when there’s a case to be solved.

[17] More than creditable. I wish Wystan wouldn’t talk about himself like that; he’s brilliant. Remember “The Businessman and His Cat,” when he convinced everyone that he was the Prime Minister’s secretary?

[18] How could she have given it to him for Christmas if this took place in autumn? This is further evidence that the dating is incorrect. Also, she has hideous taste in dressing gowns.

[19] This is one of my favorite scenes. I laugh so hard that it nearly sends me into coughing fits whenever I reread it.

[20] It is even funnier when you realize that Wystan goes through this whole conversation with his face covered in cold cream.

[21] FOUR cases that you haven’t given to us! I am dying of suspense! Write more! Write faster! I can give you ideas if you want.

[22] But we all know that he could have deduced these things if he wanted to. He just wanted to annoy Hopeley.

[ddagent]

R

R is for Royal Wedding!

Prince Anthony Crowley stood at the altar, swathed in black with a crown of flowers resting atop the waves of his crimson hair, awaiting his future husband. The assembled guests were small in number; the bigger, more lavish ceremony would take place in his new husband's country. Thousands seated for dinner, doves flying over head as they took their first kiss as a married couple. It would be a historic day; a day he would remember for the rest of his life.

Only, Crowley wasn't looking forward to that part. Not when he knew that he wouldn't be waiting for him.

The door to the gardens opened; light poured in. And there he was: Aziraphale Fell, ambassador, emissary - the most gorgeous thing Crowley had ever seen. He wore his customary beige suit; the tartan bowtie matched the colour of the flowers in Crowley's hair. If he were Crowley's husband to be, he'd slip a long stemmed flower behind Aziraphale's ear, brushing those pale blond curls. But Aziraphale was just the messenger, the stand-in. He wasn't signing his name on the register. Not pressing his lips to Crowley's mouth.

Fuck. A wedding was supposed to be a happy occasion. Crowley wasn't supposed to be so bloody miserable.

Aziraphale caught sight of his expression as he reached the altar. He reached for Crowley's hand - a blatant disregard of protocol but, since his arrival to negotiate the wedding contract, Crowley had disregarded all sense of propriety. "Just think: in a few weeks, it will be you and Prince Gabriel standing up here together and you can begin your new, happy life."

"Oh, happy day, Angel."

His Angel looked at him strangely but, ever a slave to duty, continued on with the ceremony. Vows were offered. Rings were exchanged. Completely ceremonial - but Crowley couldn't help but dream. Dream of sliding a gold ring onto the weight of Aziraphale's finger. Of promising to have him, hold him, love him. Of cradling his face in his hands and pressing a soft kiss, full of promise, on his lips as the officiant proclaimed them joined.

"Your Highness?"

Crowley realised he had been staring at Aziraphale's mouth. His gaze now shifted, meeting the storm of Aziraphale's eyes as the emissary from his future husband's country seemed to suffer from the same sickness: longing for something that could never be. As the officiant called their ceremony to a close, Crowley took Aziraphale's hand in his and kissed the back of it. What he wouldn't give for Aziraphale to be his husband-to-be. What he wouldn't give for Aziraphale to sign his name on the register, sign his name as Crowley's in front of the powers above and below.

Fuck it. For the next sixty seconds, until Aziraphale signed Gabriel's name on the register, he was Crowley's. And Crowley took what was his and sealed their new marriage with a kiss.

Give me a letter - that’s the first letter of the AU I’ll think up for Aziraphale/Crowley and write you 200 words or more!

[livesunique]

Ms Luigia "Gina" Lollobrigida OMRI (4 July 1927 – 16 January 2023)

Destined to be called "The Most Beautiful Woman in the World", Ms Lollobrigida was the daughter of a furniture manufacturer, and grew up in the pictorial mountain village. She studied sculpture at Rome’s Academy of Fine Arts, and started her career with minor Italian film roles before coming third in 1947’s Miss Italia pageant. 

After refusing a contract with Howard Hughes to make three pictures in the United States in 1950, Ms Lollobrigida gained for starring turns in 1952’s “Fanfan la Tulipe” and 1953’s “Bread, Love and Dreams,” the latter of which netted her a BAFTA nomination for Best Foreign Actress.

Ms Lollobrigida’s first American film was “Beat the Devil,” a 1953 adventure comedy directed by John Huston that cast her opposite Humphrey Bogart. Over the course of the ’50s and ’60s, she starred in numerous French, Italian and European-shot American productions, with highlights including “Trapeze” with Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis, “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” as Esmerelda, “Solomon and Sheba” with Yul Brynner, “Never So Flew” with Frank Sinatra and Steve McQueen, “Come September” with Rock Hudson, and “Woman of Straw” with Sean Connery, and “Buona Sera, Mrs. Campbell,” with Shelley Winters.

Her roles made her a major sex symbol of Italian cinema; in 1953, she won Italy’s David di Donatello award for Best Actress for her performance in the opera star Lina Cavalieri’s biopic “Beautiful But Dangerous,” known in Italian as “The World’s Most Beautiful Woman.” 

She later won two more David di Donatello Award for “Imperial Venus” and “Buona Sera, Mrs. Campbell,” a Golden Medal of the City of Rome in 1986, a 40th Anniversary David in 1996 and a 50th Anniversary David in 2006. In 1961, she won the Golden Globes’ Henrietta Award for “World Fan Favorite,” and received nominations for “Falcon Crest” and “Buona Sera, Mrs. Campbell.”

After the ’60s, Lollobrigida’s career began to slow down, but she continued to act intermittently, including in the 1995 Agnes Varda film “Les cent et une nuits de Simon Cinéma,” and in ’80s TV shows such as CBS’ “Falcon Crest” and ABC’s “The Love Boat.” 

Ms Lollobrigida also developed a successful second career in photojournalism during the ’80s. She obtained an exclusive interview with Cuban leader Fidel Castro and also photographed many famous film stars, as well as publishing a number of books of her photographs.

In 2011 she made her final film appearance, playing herself in a cameo for the Italian parody film “Box Office 3D: The Filmest of Films.”

The screen legend sale of some of her 23 jewels from her Bulgari  collection at Sotheby’s in 2013 to help fund an international hospital for stem-cell research. 

On 16 October 1999, Lollobrigida was nominated as a Goodwill Ambassador of the UN Food and Agriculture Organization

Ms  Lollobrigida won the Berlinale Camera at the Berlin Film Festival in 1986, Karlovy Vary Film Festival special prize in 1995, and the Rome Festival’s career prize in 2008. In 2018, she received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Ciao, Gina, Riposa in Pace

(Armando Pietrangeli, “Light and Shadow,” Gina Lollobrigida,1960, Trapeze 1956, Woman Of Rome,1954, Salomon & Sheba,1959, Come September, 1961,Un Bellissimo Novembre,1968, The Hunchback of Notre Dame,1956, In London to publicise her book of photographs titled Italia Mia,1974, Fidel Castro shot by Ms Lollobrigida,1974, Gina Lollobrigida pictured on July 11, 2022 in Rome).

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

You know what would be funny? While the RDA is obsessing over Pandora's resources and providing the rich assholes with ways to extend their wrinkled existence, the rest of humanity goes “Fuck this shit! Time to fix up our planet!” Like full on terraform Earth back to its former glory.

And so, while the RDA is spending billions to send ships to terrorizing the tall, blue people, the rest of the world is having its redemption arc up until like a year after the second movie, where they’re at the point where they can go “Yoooo, wtf is the RDA doing over there? Oh, they got bored with fucking us over so they moved to alien natives? Nah, send in the Balkan people (These mfs are built different I swear, they’ll just take a breath of pandoran air and go “Umm, spicy and refreshing”). They’re sent on their way (Let’s say they arrive in 1 year flat because screw physics, this is a joke post, mf are going 4 times ftl.), beat the ever living shit out of the Ahaa cartoon villains that are the RDA personnel and teach them some, you know, human decency, queue in the best apology video of all time, leave the blue people alone, boom mission accomplished. RDA gets sued to hell and back (You know, war crimes and all of that) and even more funding goes to fixing up Earth until its basically as we know it today.

Later down the line, the na’vi need help because of some disaster, humanity sends said help, some form of actual peace is formed, Spider becomes the ambassador of human/na’vi relationships (Guy had the glow up of the century, which tends to happen when you live in a time of peace again and people actually love and care for you “ahem, Spider Sully”) Human and Na’vi truly learn about each other (Ones aren’t uncivilized savages, but people with a unique cultures and deep history. Others aren’t advanced savages with boom sticks, but, you guessed it, people with a unique cultures and deep history.) and learn from each other.

And everyone lived happily ever after.

The end

(Very unrealistic, I know)  

Ugh, my dream. The terraforming Earth part, not the humans coming back. Because the whole movie is a colonization metaphor, I'm so tentative and iffy on the Na'vi needing or wanting any help or support from humanity.

But regardless, I am obsessed with the idea of humanity healing Earth. I know that we are cynical people and are always like "This is realistic, humans are selfish and would take advantage of Pandora as we did to Earth." And I totally get that, but I also love those humans are inherently good stories. I do think the majority of people care and have empathy about other people and their situations, and the majority of problems in the world are systematic and stem from ignorance. People are uneducated or are struggling with what they have to deal with on their own, and don't have the wherewithal to care about every single other thing that is such a gigantic systematic issue. I would love for people, for everyone, to just be like yeah this isn't okay anymore lets fix it. About anything and then everything. But I digress.

I love the idea of Spider Sully and Jake being a bridge between the Na'vi and humanity. I think Jake would have to be involved as well, because honestly Spider has never been to Earth and has never been with regular humans. My man knows no human culture or traditions, really. He's like, really Na'vi biased in that way, hilariously.

Spider: Na'vi culture is better and more important, obviously.

Someone: well, what is human culture.

Spider: clearly it's test tubes, guns, air lock doors, green paper, Jesus Christ, and also tank tops.