#uk and london home base

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[allthecanadianpolitics]

Canada’s Conservative party has deleted a social media campaign video with a heavily nationalist message after much of the video featured scenes from other countries, including Ukrainian farmers, Slovenian homes, London’s Richmond Park and a pair of Russian fighter jets. The video, titled “Canada. Our Home” was initially posted to X on Saturday, with various scenes overlaid by a speech from the party leader, Pierre Poilievre. The Conservatives, who lead the governing Liberals in the polls, are preparing for what is widely expected to be a bitterly contested federal election. Soon after the video was posted online, viewers pointed out much of the footage depicted as “Canadian” was easily traced to places outside the country. A thread on X by the Calgary-based user @disorderedyyc compiled at least 13 inconsistencies, adding: “If you’re making a video about the Canada ‘we know and love’, you should be using actual Canadian footage.”

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Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[diejager]

Crow

Pairing: Monster TF 141 + Horangi & König x Eldritch horror!reader

Cw: blood, gore, canon-typical violence, injury, mutilation, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.9k

They hadn’t expected to have another specialist join them, none of them even knew what Price had in mind when he brought you in. You were normal in every way - as normal as a soldier could be - and unassuming under your dark clothes and gear. You smiled and waved when greeted, you took orders well and you spoke when spoken. You were like a ghost, there but also not there, invincible unless you made a sound or movement. Excluding all they saw in you, you were simply uncanny, with weird mannerisms and habits that made you seem inhuman - as inhuman as you could be to hybrids. 

The only words Price had given them before you landed were: “They’re good at what they do, just don’t cause any trouble, understood?”

They were vague and as unassuming as you first seemed, like any warning for any person that could easily become annoyed or mad. Ghost certainly hadn’t put much thought into it as he should. Gaz had elbowed Soap in an attempt at reminding the werewolf to heed their captain’s words. Rudy and Alejandro wouldn’t have to worry, they knew and learned the limits of any man’s patience, smart and intuitive. Horangi was as weary as he would with any new addition, eyes narrowed in annoyance and curiosity. Unlike any of them, König hid any emotions from his stoic face, shoulders broad and back ramrod that emphasised his height and broadness, he couldn’t be sure if you would be easy to ignore or irritable.

Granted, they all had expectations for you since Price seemed so proud and confident when you first joined them, acting like a child given his dream, famished to have you by his side as professionals as possible. Yet here you were, normal looking, of average height and average weight, and simply there. Although there wasn’t anything inherently abnormal to you, the simple presence of your being made their hair stand on end. There wasn’t any reason to be so frightened or chilled about you, you hadn’t done anything deserving of such fear and suspicion, and Price trusted you with his life. If he trusted you, then the rest could, no? After all, dragons are the most protective of monsters. 

As Price promised, you were good at what you did, never a flinch, never any hesitation, never a moment of weakness. You were too normal and good to be a human, especially not with the way corvids flocked to you. Ravens, crows, magpies and jackdaws followed you everywhere you went, simply standing or cawing around you as if you were a memener of their murder. Going to London would be dreadful with how many corvids called the British Isles their home, which - coincidentally - was where you lived. 

All but Price had a hard time forming a bond with you, your eerie presence made it difficult to relax, and apparently, you knew it as well, since they had an equally difficult time finding you on the base. If you weren’t beating a sand-filled punching bag, you would be at the shooting range, and if you weren’t there, then you’d be somewhere on the roof of a structure, taking in the cool, stormy air of the UK with your bird friends. 

You only smiled when they all blew up in cackles and jokes, never laughing with them or cracking your own jokes. Your voice never raised over a certain point, a murmur or a raspy growl. It was either human or inhuman to you. If Soap, Gaz and Rudy were having a hard time making you open up to them, then the rest would have an even harder time doing so. They were failing miserably. 

That was until Soap caught an airy chuckle from you when he passed Price’s office, the older man having probably said something amusing to you which had you laughing. And as loud and rowdy the werewolf was, he couldn’t stop himself from telling the others, his excitement and enthusiasm bleeding into the rest. It had somehow made them more determined to bond with you, you were, after months of work, a permanent member of Task Force 141. 

Unfortunately, the most they got were snorts and huffs, snorts from Ghost’s dark humour and huffs from Soap and Gaz’s poorly made-up jokes, theatrical performances of failures and defeat in the face of an unflinching and unusual being. Questions started piling up on Price’s desk, wanting to know if you were human, if you were a hybrid, if you were a monster, if you were even a living being seeing as you hadn’t taken a single breath or eaten (not that they’d seen you eat.). 

“That’s classified, ” Price stopped their musing with two simple words. “Unless they tell you themselves, I don’t think it’s any of my business divulging that to anyone.”

Price’s secrecy and respect for you only sowed the seeds of curiosity and intrigue deeper. What had you hidden from them that was so classified that Price couldn’t tell them? Even Alejandro didn’t have the clearance to dive into your files - not that there were any. The question lingered in their minds, unanswered and famished for one: What were you?

Somehow they’d gotten separated from you, being caught under heavy fire from Russian ultranationalists and backed into a building with most exits blocked or surrounded by the enemy. They worried about you, being left to yourself in a situation like this one was dangerous for even the most skilled and wary soldier. Whereas they all had their backs, one watching for the other, you were alone. And whereas you had the possibility of using your powers of shifting - if you were a hybrid or monster, they still hadn’t found the answer to that question - they were in the confines of a restricted building, letting loose would either damage the already-damaged-building or become a danger to their own teammates. 

Ghost’s fog was deadly. Soap could come under fire from them shooting. Gaz couldn’t fly freely in a tight place. Price’s fire could be devastating. Rudy couldn’t risk getting tired. Alejandro could be unknowingly shot by them. König was uncontrollable and unpredictable. Horangi was a danger to himself in the secret of darkness.  

They were fucked, caught in a dire situation that could mean the end of them, but regret and panic wouldn’t be of any use to them, they had to concentrate and wait for backup. 

“Backup from what, Price?!” 

What could possibly reach them in time to support them? They were too far in for any help to arrive quickly enough. The closest naval ship was thousands of miles away, the closest ocean was hundreds of miles away and any military support even farther. What would they even be waiting for?

“Cap! We can’t-”

A scream shattered the skies, howls of pain and panic filling the once booming sound of foreign guns. The sound of bodies being broken and bones cracking brought their attention elsewhere. The Russians weren’t aiming at them anymore, shooting at something bigger and more dangerous than any of them. They were looking at a creature that picked them off one by one, the shadow of a monster covering the white snow. The fear in their eyes tainted the sky as their blood sullied the fresh snow, turning white into red and pink.

Whatever that was was dangerous. The ability to rip men apart and incite terror into well-trained and hardened soldiers was anything but amiable, safe and good. Their bodies were tense, muscles contracted to move at the flicker of movement from the monster outside the building. Their weapons aimed towards the entrance, fingers laying restlessly on the trigger and shoulder screwed with suspense as the screams and cries slowly died down to howling winds in the night. 

Price raised a hand, holding them back from firing at the entity, they lowered their guns, following the captain as he walked towards the door. He hadn’t flinched or froze when clawed fingers gripped the wide opening, a giant, black hand cloaked with feathers. Another landed on the ground farther away, letting them see the blood staining the show, seeping from its fingers and dirty feathers. With a low rumble from the beast, it lowered its head to the doorway, where Price had stopped. 

He smiled at the gigantic head of a crown, its black beak sharpened with pointed teeth, as black as its skin and feathers. An oval eye blinked at them, white as the snow and piercing as the cold. It sent chills down their spines, ready to jump away if it attacked, but Price patted the skin under its eye.

“Thank you,” Price spoke your name so reverently, thanking it - you - with a grateful smile and proud eyes.

That monster - it - was you, the unassuming, perfect and eerie human. You, who was always around corvids, were one yourself, albeit a gigantic, crooked version of a crow. You crooned at Price’s touch, soft and loving like he was. You moved away from the entrance and they left. It was as if they walked into another world, blood, bones and guts littered the ground, as if a cat had had its fun with something breakable. Ghost and König thrived in this scene, the blood and gore feeding them. Unlike the rest that either recoiled or stared off, preferring to look at your bird-like form than the ground. 

In all your glory, you stood high and mightily, toppling over the trees by hundreds of metres. Covered head to toe in black skin and black, glistening feathers, you held your head high to look at the Russian field. Four horns curled over your head, sprouting from your crown and curling at the tip, they mimicked a crown of bone. Bones also grew from your back, the protrusion of your vertebrae growing along your back like a ridge, sharp and deadly, like the sharp-looking feathers that protected your back. If any of that were shocking then your second pair of wings would be frightening, an equally big pair of wings help support your weight on the ground, besides two legs, clawed perfectly to inflict lethal damage. And at the end of your back, a flared, serpentine tail with feathers curled upwards.

While Price acted with such ease and comfort around you, the rest simply couldn’t. If they were bothered by your presence before, now, after having shifted and showed your true skin, it grew tenfold, becoming unbearable and suffocating. You saw their discomfort, cooing at them before you shrunk, bone and feathers sinking back under your skin, your beak turning into the face they knew, but your white eyes remained. It was all knowing and powerful.

You were an Eldritch being, an all-knowing and powerful creature, perhaps one of the last horrors that lived. It made sense why Price was so trusting of you, believing you to be unable to betray them. Why he warned all of them to never stray into your hate and annoyance. Eldritch horrors, after all, were the strongest beings alive (if they could be called alive), old as aeons and unmoving by time. Dragons were second to them, the proud and respectable monsters knowing the worth of Eldritch creatures and respecting them. 

Everything fell into place. It clicked, why everything was simply so. Perhaps, after knowing your secret, you’d open up to them, let them in your colossal and dark and unbeating heart.

Taglist: @saelkie @yeoldedumbslut

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Palantir’s NHS-stealing Big Lie

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TUCSON (Mar 9-10), then SAN FRANCISCO (Mar 13), Anaheim, and more!

Capitalism's Big Lie in four words: "There is no alternative." Looters use this lie for cover, insisting that they're hard-nosed grownups living in the reality of human nature, incentives, and facts (which don't care about your feelings).

The point of "there is no alternative" is to extinguish the innovative imagination. "There is no alternative" is really "stop trying to think of alternatives, dammit." But there are always alternatives, and the only reason to demand that they be excluded from consideration is that these alternatives are manifestly superior to the looter's supposed inevitability.

Right now, there's an attempt underway to loot the NHS, the UK's single most beloved institution. The NHS has been under sustained assault for decades – budget cuts, overt and stealth privatisation, etc. But one of its crown jewels has been stubbournly resistant to being auctioned off: patient data. Not that HMG hasn't repeatedly tried to flog patient data – it's just that the public won't stand for it:

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2023/nov/21/nhs-data-platform-may-be-undermined-by-lack-of-public-trust-warn-campaigners

Patients – quite reasonably – do not trust the private sector to handle their sensitive medical records.

Now, this presents a real conundrum, because NHS patient data, taken as a whole, holds untold medical insights. The UK is a large and diverse country and those records in aggregate can help researchers understand the efficacy of various medicines and other interventions. Leaving that data inert and unanalysed will cost lives: in the UK, and all over the world.

For years, the stock answer to "how do we do science on NHS records without violating patient privacy?" has been "just anonymise the data." The claim is that if you replace patient names with random numbers, you can release the data to research partners without compromising patient privacy, because no one will be able to turn those numbers back into names.

It would be great if this were true, but it isn't. In theory and in practice, it is surprisingly easy to "re-identify" individuals in anonymous data-sets. To take an obvious example: we know which two dates former PM Tony Blair was given a specific treatment for a cardiac emergency, because this happened while he was in office. We also know Blair's date of birth. Check any trove of NHS data that records a person who matches those three facts and you've found Tony Blair – and all the private data contained alongside those public facts is now in the public domain, forever.

Not everyone has Tony Blair's reidentification hooks, but everyone has data in some kind of database, and those databases are continually being breached, leaked or intentionally released. A breach from a taxi service like Addison-Lee or Uber, or from Transport for London, will reveal the journeys that immediately preceded each prescription at each clinic or hospital in an "anonymous" NHS dataset, which can then be cross-referenced to databases of home addresses and workplaces. In an eyeblink, millions of Britons' records of receiving treatment for STIs or cancer can be connected with named individuals – again, forever.

Re-identification attacks are now considered inevitable; security researchers have made a sport out of seeing how little additional information they need to re-identify individuals in anonymised data-sets. A surprising number of people in any large data-set can be re-identified based on a single characteristic in the data-set.

Given all this, anonymous NHS data releases should have been ruled out years ago. Instead, NHS records are to be handed over to the US military surveillance company Palantir, a notorious human-rights abuser and supplier to the world's most disgusting authoritarian regimes. Palantir – founded by the far-right Trump bagman Peter Thiel – takes its name from the evil wizard Sauron's all-seeing orb in Lord of the Rings ("Sauron, are we the baddies?"):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/01/the-palantir-will-see-you-now/#public-private-partnership

The argument for turning over Britons' most sensitive personal data to an offshore war-crimes company is "there is no alternative." The UK needs the medical insights in those NHS records, and this is the only way to get at them.

As with every instance of "there is no alternative," this turns out to be a lie. What's more, the alternative is vastly superior to this chumocratic sell-out, was Made in Britain, and is the envy of medical researchers the world 'round. That alternative is "trusted research environments." In a new article for the Good Law Project, I describe these nigh-miraculous tools for privacy-preserving, best-of-breed medical research:

https://goodlawproject.org/cory-doctorow-health-data-it-isnt-just-palantir-or-bust/

At the outset of the covid pandemic Oxford's Ben Goldacre and his colleagues set out to perform realtime analysis of the data flooding into NHS trusts up and down the country, in order to learn more about this new disease. To do so, they created Opensafely, an open-source database that was tied into each NHS trust's own patient record systems:

https://timharford.com/2022/07/how-to-save-more-lives-and-avoid-a-privacy-apocalypse/

Opensafely has its own database query language, built on SQL, but tailored to medical research. Researchers write programs in this language to extract aggregate data from each NHS trust's servers, posing medical questions of the data without ever directly touching it. These programs are published in advance on a git server, and are preflighted on synthetic NHS data on a test server. Once the program is approved, it is sent to the main Opensafely server, which then farms out parts of the query to each NHS trust, packages up the results, and publishes them to a public repository.

This is better than "the best of both worlds." This public scientific process, with peer review and disclosure built in, allows for frequent, complex analysis of NHS data without giving a single third party access to a a single patient record, ever. Opensafely was wildly successful: in just months, Opensafely collaborators published sixty blockbuster papers in Nature – science that shaped the world's response to the pandemic.

Opensafely was so successful that the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care commissioned a review of the programme with an eye to expanding it to serve as the nation's default way of conducting research on medical data:

https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/better-broader-safer-using-health-data-for-research-and-analysis/better-broader-safer-using-health-data-for-research-and-analysis

This approach is cheaper, safer, and more effective than handing hundreds of millions of pounds to Palantir and hoping they will manage the impossible: anonymising data well enough that it is never re-identified. Trusted Research Environments have been endorsed by national associations of doctors and researchers as the superior alternative to giving the NHS's data to Peter Thiel or any other sharp operator seeking a public contract.

As a lifelong privacy campaigner, I find this approach nothing short of inspiring. I would love for there to be a way for publishers and researchers to glean privacy-preserving insights from public library checkouts (such a system would prove an important counter to Amazon's proprietary god's-eye view of reading habits); or BBC podcasts or streaming video viewership.

You see, there is an alternative. We don't have to choose between science and privacy, or the public interest and private gain. There's always an alternative – if there wasn't, the other side wouldn't have to continuously repeat the lie that no alternative is possible.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/08/the-fire-of-orodruin/#are-we-the-baddies

Image: Gage Skidmore (modified) https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Peter_Thiel_(51876933345).jpg

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

[flawdchaos]

Lips of an Angel

Lando Norris x Reader

based on lips of an angel by hinder (if you haven’t heard this song pls listen to it because it’s a banger and this is heavily based on it.)

tw: angst, kinda sorta cheating, reader and lando being dummies

a/n - hi friends, this is my first time writing for f1. i’ve written before on here and took a break to study on class work. i’ve fallen back into my f1 phase and dreamt this up on the way into work tonight. i hope you enjoy, feel free to give me feedback. thank you xx

word count - 1500 (ish)

Lando’s room illuminated from the soft glow of his phone on the bedside table, buzzing against the base of the lamp. He moved as delicately as he could, careful to not wake the girl sleeping on his chest, to see who could be calling so late. He rubbed his eyes and squinted reading the name across his screen, the name he chose to disguise Y/N’s contact.

JULIE - MARKETING.

He slid out from under the girl, tiptoeing to the hallway before whispering a hello through the phone.

“Lando?” the voice shook through the phone. “Lando, I’m sorry.” he could hear it now, the sniffles and uneven breaths - she was crying. He crept down the hallway a bit more in an attempt to gain distance from his bedroom and sleeping companion.

“Y/N, why are you crying? Is everything alright?” he whispered, being met with only sniffles. “I’m in the living room. I have to whisper. What’s wrong?” He was growing impatient in her silence, the worry growing each minute he was on the phone call.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this - this pretending. I want you for myself. Call me selfish,” she took a deep breath in “, but I deserve you - not her.”

She had never been this brash before but he couldn’t blame her. After months of secret conversations, shared glances, and hugs that lingered just a little too long - he had to agree with her.

What they shared wasn’t meant to happen in the first place. Lando and Y/N had been in the same friend groups for years, only knowing each other mutually. It stayed that way until one night when they found themselves alone at the bar, friends having left long ago. One too many drinks and the heavy hand of the bartender led them back to Lando’s flat in London. They agreed the next morning, for the sanctity of their ‘friendship’ it would never happen again - but, they were both lying to themselves and they knew it. One night turned into two and before they realized it, the rest of Lando’s winter break was shared mostly in the sheets of his bed. It was only when he was leaving back to Monaco that things came to a halt abruptly. No conversation or discussion of what the hell had just happened over the past few months, just radio silence on both ends. It was an unspoken ending between the two.

That was until a couple months later and during Lando’s first podium of the season that he found himself wishing she were there to celebrate with him. Drunkenly, he debated his options and finally decided to send her a text telling her just how much he missed her and the things they would do. His text sat unattended in her messages for the rest of the night because while Lando was thinking of her, she was doing everything she could to forget about him - and this included making the same trek home from the bar with a stranger. Come morning the only thing the pair was left with was regret.

Y/N was the first to reach back out again after his crash in Las Vegas. She couldn’t admit to her friends just how shaken it had her but she tossed and turned in the bed for over an hour before picking up her phone.

Glad you’re okay. Try to stay out of the wall next time, yeah?

Her name lighting up his phone had his heart beating almost as fast as the adrenaline of crashing did. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard as his mind raced on what to say. It was late in the UK so his response would probably go unnoticed until the morning. Or - had she stayed up that late to watch him race? Or should he say crash.

“What’s got you stumped, mate?” Max’s voice broke him from his daze as he glanced over his shoulder. “Y/N, aye? Just admit it.”

Lando’s head shot up to meet Max’s stare. “Admit what?”

“That you’re fucking whipped. I’ve seen you stalking her instagram.”

Something about Max’s words ignited a feeling within him. For the first time in his “playboy” career - Lando Norris was scared of his feelings.

—

It wasn’t long after the Las Vegas Grand Prix that Y/N had noticed a shift in Lando. He was almost nonexistent on her social media - no likes, hearts or story views. She chalked it up to the busy life he lived but when she clicked through his ‘close friends’ instagram story, her heart fell to her stomach. Lando had his arms wrapped around another girl, lips pressed against her cheek in front of a mirror. All of her questions and doubts were confirmed with a simple click and despite him owing her anything, she felt betrayed. Y/N couldn’t deny it anymore - the time she had spent with Lando was a whirlwind and no matter how many nights she spent curled up in bed, their bodies pressed together, she was always left wanting more.

On the mornings she woke before him, which had been every morning except two, she had found herself tangled in his arms feeling safe and secure. The true depth of her feelings came to be when she slowly awoke one morning to Lando running his arms down hers and placing a soft kiss on her forehead, vowing to return shortly. He stuck true to his promise when he crept back into the bedroom, two cups of tea tucked safely in his hands. She realized then that a small snippet of a domestic life with Lando was all she ever wanted but when he spoke again, the reality of their situation came back into play.

“Max is coming over in an hour to set up some stuff for the new Youtube video. I don’t mean to rush you but I figured our secret was still between us.” She nodded and hummed before taking another sip of her tea.

“Sure thing. I’ll be gone as soon as we finish our tea.”

-

Y/N finally realized, after viewing Lando’s story, that she had to move on. Find somebody to distract her from the replays of her intimate moments shared with Lando - and so she did. The pair both settled into mediocre “relationships” to distract themselves from the constant longing they had for each other. Subtle posts made to stories in hopes to cause jealousy in each other were made almost weekly. Lando had been seeing a girl one of his mates had set him up with, and Y/N had met a guy at a bar in London on a girls night out. Neither of them were unhappy, per se, but nothing matched the energy that the pair had shared before. On nights after rough races and a few drinks, Lando would have dreams that the girl in his arms wasn’t who had been currently seeing but Y/N instead. One dream had sent him over the edge and he had called her that night to hear her voice.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. His longing was quickly turning into regret as he realized this was probably a mistake before her soft voice filled the phone, she was whispering.

“Lando?” his heart was racing at the mere sound of her voice.

“Y/N, I’m sorry to wake you.” he said, hand raising to his mouth as he started biting at his fingernails.

“It’s okay, are you alright?”. She was still whispering.

“Uhm,” he began, shuffling his feet against the rug below him. “Fuck. This is so stupid…but I had a dream about you. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“A dream? About me?” he could hear her shuffling around on the other end of the phone, probably trying to put distance between her and her partner just like he had done.

“Yeah. A dream. It isn’t the first one I’ve had either.” They were both silent for a moment before he continued. God, why was he admitting this. “And I guess they’ve just helped me realize some things.” His heart was beating so hard that he figured she could hear it through the phone. A sharp intake of breath from her end of the phone had him biting at his nails again.

“What things, Lan?” Lan. He hadn’t heard her say that in months.

“My girl’s asleep in the next room. John is probably in the room next to you asleep. We’re kilometers and kilometers apart but yet, despite all of that, every time I close my fucking eyes all I see is you. All I hear is you laughing. I dream of you.” He sat down, head in his hands. “I guess I never really moved on, Angel.” The nickname had given her long ago falling effortlessly from his lips.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if she hung up the phone, called him a dickhead, and never spoke to him again. All of the worst options lived in his head. The last thing he expected her to say was,

“Lan, I dream of you too.”

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 11 - Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none really... a little bit of kissing interruptus.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is a slightly transitional chapter after the seismic events in Chapter 10. Our couple have no regrets but cannot get time alone as our intrepid trio journeys to Aubrey Hall. Yes, here beginnith our latest trope: secret relationship! Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Portsmouth, UK, September 1939

Waking up in Benedict’s arms for a second time is a thoroughly different experience, a handsome smile creasing his face.

“Good morning,” he rumbles, and you feel it buzz in your cheekbone resting on his pectoral.

“Good morning,” you whisper, tilting to kiss his lips.

You want to burrow into his warmth, his naked body, curl around him like a vine. Forget the world; just exist with him here in this warm cocoon. His hand slides up your back, pulling you snugger into him as you kiss - languid, sensual, tongues touching, a stirring you can feel between your legs and in him where your thigh is draped over his lap.

Just as you are about to get lost in this, in him, there is a rapid-fire knocking on the door.

“Wakey, wakey, lazy bones! Let me in!” Eloise’s voice calls, muffled in the corridor outside.

You both swing your heads towards the door, then back to each other in almost comic unison, jumping apart as if burned, exchanging panicked looks as you scurry out of bed.

“Give me a minute,” Benedict grouses loudly for her benefit.

Then, there is a flurry of hushed movement as you fling open suitcases and rapidly throw on the nearest clothing. ‘Bed!’ you mouth, signalling for him to help. You work together in unison to make the bed, not to the point it doesn't look slept in, but certainly not the tangle of sheets from tumultuous lovemaking that it was. Belatedly, you realise you should have put a makeshift pile on the floor as if he slept there.

It's less than a minute from when you were naked in each other’s arms to Benedict opening the door to Eloise, you on the other side of the room attempting nonchalance. She wanders in, looking blissed out but also a little worse for wear, an apparent hangover clinging to her edges as she retrieves a hairbrush from her suitcase. You want to ask how her night was, but her frown stops you. 

“Doesn’t look like anyone slept on the floor…” she comments suspiciously as she pulls up to the mirror. 

“I am, in fact, capable of tidying away blankets and pillows after I use them, sister,” Benedict sighs and rolls his eyes, looking out the window. “It is what I was doing when you so rudely woke up half the hotel, in fact,” he lies.

Eloise sticks her tongue out at him in the mirror, which he roundly ignores.

“Your brother is a true gentleman,” you defend, staying intentionally vague, standing behind her and using the mirror as well to touch up your appearance. 

It's your turn to receive the Eloise look of scornful derision before you steer to a new, safer topic. 

“So, how was your night with Phillip?” you tease affably.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” a wistful look claiming her face. A secret little smile you have never seen before. “We had such a memorable night.”

“Aaaand I don’t need to hear this,” Benedict deadpans. “I’ll see you ladies downstairs for breakfast…” is his parting shot as he heads for the door. 

But as Eloise leans down to grab a hairpin, launching into a whole story, he winks at you in the reflection, and your heart skips a beat.

——

“So, ready to party your life away in London?” Eloise chirps as the train trundles through rural Hampshire a few hours later. “It's not Paris, but it will do….”

“I thought we were going to your country home?” you frown.

“Well, yes, for a few days. But we can head back up to Bridgerton House for the weekend,” Eloise grins. “Phillip might be in town by then….” You chuckle at her lack of subtlety. “And we can find you a nice man!” she adds.

There is a scrunch of a newspaper diagonally across from you as Benedict’s grip tightens on the broadsheet he is holding, his face wholly obscured behind it.

“Oh, I don't know..” you attempt to laugh it off. “I think I might give that whole party lifestyle a rest.”

“Nonsense! You are not really a married lady, you know,” Eloise withers, rolling her eyes. “And you can take that off now,” she nods to your ring finger.

“Oh…” you fumble, touching it instinctively, the soft lamplight within the compartment making the gold glint brightly. “I thought it safer to wear it while we are still in transit,” you bluff, knowing Benedict is paying full attention to your conversation now, even as he hides behind The Times.

She frowns. “You have your residency now. The British government will not bother tracking you down with this war effort. You could get divorced tomorrow, and literally, nothing would happen,” she opines imperiously as if suddenly an expert on immigration matters.

“Better safe than sorry, Eloise,” Benedict pipes up, folding down the paper and removing his reading glasses with that lecturing elder brother air. His ring catches the sunlight as he does, making something bloom in your ribs to see it.

Just as Eloise goes to dispute it, her face instead lights up from the passing trolley service. “Oooh, snacks!” she exclaims distractedly, craning to look out into the corridor, allowing you to smile your thanks softly at Benedict unseen. His responding lopsided smile has your stomach vaulting.

Then Eloise is on her feet, chasing the attendant that rumbled past your compartment, apparently keen for refreshments. As soon as she is out of sight, you reach a hand across to him. He leans forward and grasps it with both of his.

“We will have time alone at Aubrey Hall, I promise,” he whispers earnestly, his eyes imploring, bringing your hand to his lips and making you stutter as he brushes warm lips over the back of your fingers.

“I want to touch you, Benedict…” you confess ardently, “all the time. So very much…”

His face is a storm of bridled intensity at your words, his pupils dilating rapidly. “As do I….” his words impassioned, even as his expression clouds wincingly, and you know where his thoughts have slid.

“But, Eloise…” you nod, understanding, reluctantly withdrawing your hand and sitting back, a tingle still on your fingers from his lips.

There is no way either of you wants to raise what is happening or what has happened yet. Neither of you is sure of anything except this magnetic pull between you—yearning to be together, alone.

“Yes…” he sighs, pained, slumping back into his seat just as the lady in question twirls back in, hands full with Cadbury's bars and a Fry’s Peppermint Cream.

“I thought you hated Peppermint Cream?” Benedict frowns as Eloise hands you both a Cadbury and immediately unwraps the Fry’s bar for herself, taking a big bite.

“I may be reassessing its merits,” she sniffs before leaning in to whisper to you, muffled around her mouthful. “It’s Phillip's favourite,” she divulges before staring dreamily out the window.

You have never known Eloise to change her mind about anything in the time you have known her, especially not from a man’s opinion. You just shrug at Benedict, conveying your equal surprise. Clearly, this one might be a serious contender.

—

Walking the connecting overhead path to Waterloo Junction for your onward train to Kent, you are startled when Benedict grabs your hand and places it into his coat pocket. You soon realise in the glass reflection ahead that the swish of the open fabric means the connection of your hands is unseen. 

Your heart pounds in your ears as you walk beside Eloise, her none the wiser as your palms grip each other, fingers laced. When you glance up at him briefly, you see the ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips, but he keeps looking ahead as if nothing unusual is happening. 

You want to kiss the little dimple right there at his sheer genius.

—

The onward leg only takes an hour and is filled with amiable chat, mostly about books and films. Soon, you are alighting the train at a charming rural village stop, the platform ablaze with neatly potted late summer plants of reds and yellows.

But you are struck with a sudden wave of nerves as a sleek car awaits you. You are not long away from meeting the rest of the Bridgerton family. Strictly, your family now too.

“Does anyone know?” You ask Eloise as the driver loads your cases into the boot.

“Know what?”

“That Benedict and I are married…?” You spell out, surprised she didn’t follow your train of thought. 

“Oh. Well. I didn’t call or telegram,” she twists to look at Benedict as he places your day bag on top of his. “Did you tell mother?”

He scoffs. “God, no. Not something I could begin to explain over the phone.”

“So what do we say? Or do?” You ask, subconsciously toying with your ring.

Benedict walks over and places comforting hands on your shoulders. It takes all of your willpower not to lean into him. “Don't worry. Follow my lead. I don’t think we can or should lie.” 

Less than a minute into the car ride, you sandwiched between the siblings, Eloise’s eyes flutter closed, face lolling against the glass. You signal to Benedict, and when he twists to see, his hand grabs your kneecap, fingers wrapping around and caressing the ticklish skin near the crease at the back of your knee. Something about this stolen moment is exciting, elicit, and endlessly arousing.

“I cannot go more than an hour in your presence without wanting to touch you,” he whispers, leaning close, his words a hot gust into your ear that has you melting.

“Same,” you murmur back, your hand sliding over his, mapping the raised veins with your fingertips, memories of the last night tumbling through your mind, those strong hands running over your naked flesh, grasping. It makes your breath hitch audibly.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice is a honeyed rumble that makes every hair on your forearms stand on end. He probably knows, but you confirm it anyway.

“Last night…” you mouth, turning your face into him so his lips brush your cheek. His grip tightens, and his breath rags into your hair.

“It's all I have thought about since…” he confesses; your chest flutters as his hand slides a fraction higher on your leg, playing with your hem. Every fibre of your being is calling for him. You want him to keep going, slide all the way up your thighs and touch you… but Eloise stirs, and instantly, his touch is gone, and you are left bereft. 

—

To call Aubrey Hall a country house is ridiculous. Your jaw drops as the car sweeps up a long gravel driveway to an enormous, handsome pile of a manor estate.

“Oh my god, Eloise,” you smack her arm lightly. “How rich are you!?”

She laughs. “What, that my brother is a Viscount doesn't give that away?” she guffaws.

“Well, I thought maybe it was an honourary title or something…” you mutter, feeling slightly embarrassed you don't know the full ins and outs of the British aristocracy you have clearly married into, entirely without knowing.

“Don't be intimidated,” Benedict soothes. “We are just a large family who inherited a big pile. I promise we aren't stuffy or cold.” You want to squeeze his hand for being so empathetic and reassuring.

“Or inbred!” Eloise cackles as the car stops, and you notice a beautiful, elegant middle-aged woman waving from the steps.

“Our mother,” Benedict elucidates before Eloise throws the door open and jogs up to hug the lady, who looks overjoyed to be reunited with her daughter after months away. You can tell Eloise is happy, too, even if her joy is more understated.

Benedict is by your side when you are out of the vehicle. A pillar of support, even if not touching you.

“Mum…” Eloise pulls her down the steps. “This is y/n!”

“Oh, it's wonderful to meet you!” the lady greets, pulling you into a welcoming hug that smells lavender and lilac. “I have heard so much!”

“Same!” you chime back.

Then it is Benedict’s turn to hug her; you swear there is an extra glint in her eye as if he is her favourite. However, you notice he keeps his left hand in his pocket throughout.

“Thank you for bringing them back safe, darling,” she reaches up and pats his hair affectionately as if he is still a child, not a grown man in his late twenties.

“We would have made it home perfectly safe without him, mother,” Eloise gripes with her trademark mettle.

“Eloise Bridgerton, you would have absconded to Saint Tropez if your brother were not there. Don't even lie about that,” Violet chides lovingly, and you can't help but giggle.

“Don't take her side!” Elose decries.

“Come on, it's true,” you laugh, bumping her gently with your shoulder as you walk in through the doors.

It is a beautiful stately home, but at the same time, it seems less imposing on the inside; it looks lived in and loved. A house that is full of family and life.

“You will meet the rest of the family later today,” Violet advises. “Well, minus our brave Viscount, who is in London with Churchill, and Daphne, who lives with her husband.”

“And Fran,” Eloise adds.

“Yes, Francesca is staying with her cousins in Bath,” Violet counsels as she guides you into their parlour.

“She’s barely my sister,” Eloise jests, dropping onto a sofa and grabbing a glass of water from a carafe on the coffee table.

Violet just shoots her an exasperated look while offering you a seat, too. “Eloise told me you were engaged, not already married,” Violet addresses as you get comfortable.

Benedict springs from across the room. “Ahhh, about that….” he placates with his left hand aloft.

“Is that also a ring I see on your finger, Benedict Bridgerton?!” Violet splutters.

“Mother, I can explain….”

And thus, he recounts the events of the last few days. Violet listening intently, looking, in turn, shocked, dumbfounded and proud. Of course, Benedict omits the whole part of the fact you are together romantically. Well, sort of. You think. You are dying to be alone with him so you can talk. Or perhaps do other more exciting things. That idle thought makes your cheeks flush.

“I am so very grateful to your son, Viscountess Bridgerton,” you jump in as much as to steer your own wayward thoughts away from dangerous waters. “Without him, I would likely still be stuck in France, all alone.”

His eyes dance with warmth as you glance at him, wanting to grab his hand and lace your fingers. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Violet has the most intrigued look as she observes her son carefully—the all-knowing eye of a matriarch.

“Well, I am so grateful you are safe, my dear,” she turns to you. “And please, for goodness sake, call me Violet. You are welcome to remain with us as long as you need or desire. You are family now, after all. At least for as long as you wish to be considered such,” she concludes, seeming to choose her words very carefully.

“Thank you, Violet,” you murmur, so grateful, already feeling a warm glow from her hospitality. “I could not be more honoured to be here for as long as you will all have me,” your eyes drifting back to Benedict as you say it.

The tender look on his face makes you touch your wedding ring idly with your thumb, and your heart leaps as he does the same. Although you swear you can feel the weight of Violet’s stare as you do so.

Sign up to my taglist here

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[helloliriels]

'When all is lost, your face I see ...

... Do you, still then, remember me?'

Remember Me by helloliriels (GIF art made to accompany ficlet)

Based on this actual knitted soldier found in UK for Remembrance Day, Syston, Liecestershire. (I've moved it to London .... shhhh!)

Uncle Rudy w/Baby Sherlock, Mummy Holmes with Kindergarten Lock, Teenlock w/Mycroft, Sherlock alone, The Soldier (John) carrying Sherlock home to 221b. (wanted to do a few more of the in-between years, but stuck with just adding Uncle Rudy, like it had been their routine for years)

@chinike @rhasima @johnlocky @whatnext2020 @iwlyanmw @mrb488 @fluffbyday-smutbynight @totallysilvergirl @7-percent @sarahthecoat @kettykika78 @khorazir @musingsofmyown @mutedsilence @cmorris-art @safedistancefrombeingsmart @chriscalledmesweetie @discordantwords @john-smiths-jawline @gregorovitchworld @lisbeth-kk @dontfuckmylifewtf @so-youre-unattached-like-me @colourfulwatson @pocketwatchofmycroft @aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain @loki-lock @missdeliadili @sgam76 @peanitbear @morgendaemmerung89 @zira-and-crowley @teamkidman @meetinginsamarra @keirgreeneyes @impalaparkedat221b @topsyturvy-turtely @a-victorian-girl @thegirlfromthesouth @insistentbass @arwamachine @solarmama @amyreadsandstresses @glows-n-the-dark @masterofhounds @inevitably-johnlocked @kittenmadnessandtea @raina-at @anyway-kindness @purplevatican

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - June 13, 2023

1. U.S. judge blocks Florida ban on care for trans minors in narrow ruling, says ‘gender identity is real’

A federal judge temporarily blocked portions of a new Florida law that bans transgender minors from receiving puberty blockers, ruling Tuesday that the state has no rational basis for denying patients treatment.

Transgender medical treatment for minors is increasingly under attack in many states and has been subject to restrictions or outright bans. But it has been available in the United States for more than a decade and is endorsed by major medical associations.

2. Eagle Who Thought Rock Was an Egg Finally Gets to Be a Dad

A week after their introduction the cage where the little eaglet was put, was removed so the two could interact more closely. When they were given food, a whole fish for Murphy and bite-sized pieces for his young charge, rather than each eating their separate dish, Murphy took his portion and ripped it up to feed to the baby.

3. Little penguins to reclaim Tasmanian car park as city-based population thrives

Not far from the centre of Tasmania's fourth largest city, a colony of the world's smallest penguins has been thriving, and their habitat is about to expand into an existing car park.

The bright lights and loud noises of Burnie have not been a deterrent for hundreds of penguins who set up home on the foreshore in the north-west Tasmanian city.

4. Latest population survey yields good news for endangered vaquita porpoise

The resilient little vaquita marina appears determined to survive the illegal fishing that has brought it dangerously close to extinction, according to the latest population survey. Despite an estimated annual decline of 45% in 2018, the endangered porpoise appears to be holding steady over the last five years, according to a report published Wednesday by the International Union for Conservation of Nature.

5. 'Extinct' butterfly species reappears in UK

The species, previously described as extinct in Britain for nearly 100 years, has suddenly appeared in countryside on the edge of London. Small numbers of black-veined whites have been spotted flying in fields and hedgerows in south-east London. First listed as a British species during the reign of King Charles II, they officially became extinct in Britain in 1925.

This month they have mysteriously appeared among their favourite habitat: hawthorn and blackthorn trees on the edge of London, where I and other naturalists watched them flitting between hedgerows.

6. Colombian is a hero in Peru: he rescued 25 puppies that were about to die in a fire

During a structural fire that occurred in a residential area of ​​Lima in Peru, a young Colombian became a hero. The Colombian, identified as Sebastián Arias, climbed onto the roof where the puppies were and threw them towards the community, that was waiting for them with sheets and mattresses. "I love them, dogs fascinate me," said the young man.

7. World-first trial for pediatric brain cancer

Researchers in Australia are conducting a world-first clinical trial for children diagnosed with ependymoma, a rare and devastating brain cancer. The trial aims to test a new drug called Deflexifol, which combines chemotherapy drugs 5-FU and leucovorin, offering potentially less toxic and more effective treatment compared to current options.

Ependymoma is the third most common brain tumor in children, and current treatments often lead to relapses, with a high fatality rate for those affected. The trial, led by researcher David Ziegler at the Kids Cancer Centre, has received support from the Kids with Cancer Foundation and the Cancer Institute NSW. The goal is to find a cure for every child diagnosed with ependymoma.

----

That's it for this week :)

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[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

“There are thousands of FGM survivors like Araweelo across the country. In 2011, the Home Office data estimated there were 137,000 people living with FGM in England and Wales, but with more than 5,800 survivors newly identified by the NHS between April 2022 and March 2023, the numbers could be much higher.

In 2014, the government and NHS England launched a £1.4m FGM prevention programme to educate healthcare professionals, and NHS guidance states that such professionals should seek to support women by “offering referral to community groups for support, clinical intervention or other services as appropriate, for example through an NHS FGM clinic”. Yet this year, nearly a decade later, an independent report carried out by the Vavengers – a London-based charity fighting FGM - showed that two thirds of the 670 NHS staff surveyed reported receiving either no or minimal training on how to deal with survivors.

…

Charities, pressure groups and FGM experts say that the UK is lagging far behind in offering survivors surgical reconstruction. There are now 26 clinics across 11 different European countries offering reconstructive surgery to FGM victims.

Many groups believe that British doctors already possess the required skills to perform such surgeries on survivors but that their injuries are simply not being considered a priority.”

[harrietvane]

The dress from 1998's Ever After recently sold at Kerry Taylor auctions in London, from the Cosprop archives, to benefit The Bright Foundation (an arts-based education charity based in Hastings UK, which provides free access to creative activities, visual and performance arts for children and young people facing disadvantage)

Images from the auction house show details of the embroidery and base fabrics, as well as how the wings were attached (through button holes in the dress to slot into a channel in the separate, boned bodice worn underneath)

Wings are included, which are those worn after the ball, and are screen-distressed/torn on one side - apparently worn in the scene by the door, as Danielle returns home.

Described as "the Renaissance style gown of goffered pale-gold gauze, finely worked with purl embroidered flowers and spangled with 'pearl' droplets, integral ivory satin under-slip with quilted hem; cotton petticoat and separate boned and mesh corset; together with a pair of tulle and wire-framed wings, intentionally distressed"

[brian-in-finance]

This quote from FvF Director James Mangold can be added to the one you posted:

“Whatever had been said to me before I met Caitríona — ‘She’s in this hot TV show, huge following, former model’ — this is often the kind of thing that turns me off. But what I was confronted with was a simply remarkable actress—present, fearless, emotionally vulnerable, and smart.” - James Mangold, Director FvF

Thanks for the message, Anon. 😃 Your Mangold quote is from Vanity Fair and follows Brian’s recent post with video of Jamie Dornan’s and Orlando Bloom’s, and a tweet screenshot of Mangold’s, talking about working with Caitríona.

James Mangold and Caitríona Balfe attend the Le Mans ‘66 /Ford v Ferrari premiere at the 2019 Toronto International Film Festival at Roy Thomson Hall on 9 September 2019 in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Thanks for your message, Anon. 😃

What do I think “based on reviews in everything she's done in and outside Outlander?” 😂 How To Attract Unwanted Attention Without Really Trying…

I think Caitríona will be just fine, regardless of her age (45 in October) and Outlander’s ending (filming in the next few weeks, Season 8 promotion sometime before 2030…).

It’s nice to step into the unknown and see what the possibilities might be. — Caitriona Balfe, 6 September 2024

Video 📹 from Twitter

I’d argue if every other role is typecasting, every other role is something different. 😉

Let’s look at her work released since Outlander premiered in August 2014, supportive wife/mother wise:

2015 The Price of Desire ❌

2016 Money Monster ❌

2019 Le Mans ‘66/Ford v Ferrari ✔️

2019 The Dark Crystal: The Age of Resistance ❌

2019 The Christmas Letter ❌/✔️

2020 Angela’s Christmas Wish ✔️

2021 Belfast ✔️

2024 The Cut ✔️/❌

2025 The Amateur TBA*

*Will she play the murdered wife? An American CIA agent or diplomat? A foreign agent or assassin? The Amateur’s version of Mrs Kravitz? 🤷🏻‍♂️ What we do know is she had her own dialect coach who is “passionate about coaching accents,” and, according to someone who attended the film’s screening in Pasadena last month, “(Caitríona’s) talent and range is bigger than anything we’ve seen.”

Does she have something bigger than small parts lined up?

As you mentioned, she typically doesn’t talk about, much less name, a project until it’s announced officially. 🍿🍿🍿

I think she’ll be offered roles, big and small, and do only what appeals to her and suits her family’s** lifestyle. She still owns the rights to Here Is The Beehive and now has some experience directing. She’ll never be bored, between time spent enjoying her family** and her interest in travel, art, music, film, fashion, literature, sports, and people.

**her actual family

You didn’t ask, but I’ll offer my humble opinion, just the same. I don’t think they’ll move abroad, regardless of her having lived for several years in New York and Los Angeles. Her and Tony’s parents, siblings, nieces, and nephews all live in Ireland and the UK. As she and Tony have done for years, I see their staying abroad for long periods during filming, but not setting up a permanent residence. I think they’ll continue to make their home and raise their son in Ireland/UK… JMHO.

Photos: FarFarAwaySite (cropped by BIF), Wimbledon, 8 July 2019, London England

Remember… as long as I keep getting cast, I don't care if it's typecast. — Chris Pratt

[usafphantom2]

50 years ago today.

On Sep. 1, 1974, Maj. James V. Sullivan and Maj. Noel Widdifield set a new world speed record from New York to London, as our friend Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) on her Facebook Page Habubrats. It took less than two hours.

This mission might’ve been the ‘gateway plan’ to have SR-71 stationed in England. The United States was fortunate to be able to house two SR-71s at RAF Mildenhall years later. This was a huge help to have SR-71 in Europe [SR-71 Reconnaissance Operations at RAF Mildenhall was from April 1976 to 1990. Prior to Det 4 being established, UK permission was required for each sortie flown. According to the SR-71 Blackbirds website, the SR-71’s stay would be no longer than 20 days for each visit.

Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher announced that Det 4 would be a permanent SR-71 Detachment with two aircraft assigned. The UK remained in control of the more sensitive missions. The two aircraft Detachments ceased operations on Nov. 22, 1989. The last aircraft departed the UK on Jan. 18, 1990.

The US Government has given the United Kingdom an SR-71 #962 for public display at Duxford Imperial War Museum for its contribution to ending the Cold War.]. Blackbirds based at Mildenhall could fly around the Baltic Sea and take pictures of potential targets in the Soviet Union using their side-looking cameras [without crossing the Soviet border].

On September 1, 1974 Major James V. Sullivan, 37 (pilot) and Noel F. Widdifield, 33 (reconnaissance systems officer) flashed across the starting line (radar gates in New York) at approximately 80,000 feet and speed in excess of 2,000 miles per hour. Exactly 1 hour 54 minutes and 56.4 seconds later, they had set a new world speed record from New York to London England.

The average speed was 1,807 statute mph over the 3,461 statute mile course, slowing to refuel one time from a specially modified KC-135 refueling tanker. The aircraft was placed on static display at Farnborough Air Show for 1 week. It marked the first time the secret plane had been on public display outside of the United States. ”Kelly” Johnson, the aircraft designer, was on hand for the event. He remarked, “It (the SR-71) has exceeded all my expectations.”

Another historic speed record was set on the return trip to the United States. Captain Harold B. Adams, 31 (pilot), and Major William Machorek, 32 (reconnaissance systems operator), set a speed record from London to Los Angeles. They returned the Blackbird 5,447 statute miles in 3 hours 47 minutes and 39 seconds for an average speed of 1,435 miles per hour. The difference in the two speed records was due to refueling requirements and having to slow over major US cities.’

Even so a large number of people in Los Angeles reported broken windows due to the sonic boom. One of those people was actress, Zaza’s Gabor, who complained bitterly about her broken windows. To appease her Captain Adams and Major Machorek went to Zazas Home to apologize. They brought their wives with them. Zaza only allowed the SR-71 Crew to come into her home! The wives had to sit in the car. Very bad manners on the movie stars part.

The trip from New York to London 50 years ago became a beautiful friendship between allies, the United States and Great Britain .

We both worked hard to win the Cold War.

This article was originally in the aviationgeek club written by Linda Sheffield. published by Dario Leone

Artwork by Force Graham

@Habubrats71 via X

[sweetsreverie]

König x pink! Reader? And his teammates just think that she's either made up, or playing a cruel joke on him

ahh i'm so happy to have pink!reader making an appearance again!! i've been having some writer's block with mwII and i think i've finally come out of it.

pairing: könig x pink!reader wc: 589

König’s teammates were convinced you weren’t real. He’s told them about you, your sweet demeanor and your sunshine personality, but they just didn’t believe that a big oaf like him could pull a woman like that. He was working with a team in the UK for the time being, and the two of you were staying in London.

“All right big man, so you’re tellin’ me that a brute like you has a girlfriend that’s basically… Barbie?” Soap asks König, and after a moment of thinking, he nods.

“To put it plainly… I suppose you could say that. Pink is her favorite color, she always smells like vanilla, and she’s a great cook- sometimes she packs lunch for me-” König begins to ramble, but he quickly stops himself.

At that, Gaz lets out a quiet laugh. “But you didn’t bring any today, man. Did she forget?” He jabs at König lightly, and the taller man lets out a quiet huff.

“I forgot to grab it on my way in today.” He mutters. He was needed at the base for some mission briefings and paperwork, and you had reminded him countless times that you packed him something. He’s a big guy… he needs to eat, okay? You always make sure of that.

Just as Soap was about to open his mouth to tease König some more, the door opens and there you stand, clad in some fitted pink pants, a white sweatshirt with My Melody on it, and some pink and white sneakers. Under his hood, König smiles. Your hair was down, and you looked so effortlessly beautiful.

“Hey baby- You forgot this at home, you know- it’s a nightmare to get in here.” You tell him as you approach, holding out a bag that contained his lunch. You smile while he takes the bag from you, and under the hood, you can see the crinkle in the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you, mein engel- I’m sorry you had to come all this way.” he apologizes softly, before he reaches forward and affectionately places his large hand on your cheek briefly.

“I’m happy to do it, love.” You say with a gentle smile, and then your turn to the two men that your boyfriend had been speaking with.

“Oh- um, Y/N, this is Soap and Gaz.” König introduces you, and you greet them with a smile and a little wave.

“It’s nice to meet you guys. Take care of him while you’re out there, alright?” You tell the two men, and the one with the mohawk, Soap, nods and gives you a thumbs-up.

“Of course, lass. We’ll bring your big guy home in one piece. Don’t you worry.” He assures you, and you give König a gentle smile before you lean up and kiss his cheek over his hood.

“Alright. Well… I’ll see you soon. You guys take care.” You tell the three men with a smile before you exit the room.

Soap and Gaz both look at König with raised eyebrows, and Soap shakes his head.

“I cannae believe you have a woman that wears hello kitty, big guy. I for sure thought you were making that up.” Soap tells him with a laugh.

“Actually- uh, that was My Melody. Not Hello Kitty. She’s Hello Kitty's best friend.” König corrects him before he reaches into the bag of goodies and pulls out an energy drink.

Soap just blinks at that while Gaz snorts and laughs, because they can’t believe that König corrected Soap on the sanrio characters.

[charlotte-of-wales]

Happy 59th birthday to Sophie, the Duchess of Edinburgh!

Born 20 January 1965, Sophie Helen Rhys-Jones, is married to Prince Edward, Duke of Edinburgh, the youngest sibling of King Charles III.

Prior to her wedding to Prince Edward, Sophie worked in public relations, representing firms across the UK, Switzerland and Australia before opening her own agency in 1996. She met Edward in 1987 while working for Capital Radio; they began dating in 1993. Edward proposed to Sophie at a vacation in the Bahamas in December 1998; their engagement was announced in January 1999, and they married on 19 June at St George's Chapel, Windsor Castle. The couple have two children: Lady Louise Mountbatten-Windsor (20) and James Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl of Wessex (16), who are respectively sixteenth and fifteenth in line to the British throne as of 2023. The family resides in Bagshot Park, their home in Surrey.

In 2002, Sophie closed her business interests and began full-time work as a member of the royal family. She is the patron of over 70 charities and organisations, including Childline and the London College of Fashion. She undertakes over 200 engagements each year, including visits to schools, universities and military bases. Her charity work primarily revolves around people with disabilities, women's rights, avoidable blindness and agriculture.

Sophie was styled as "Her Royal Highness The Countess of Wessex" from her marriage in 1999 to 2023. On 10 March 2019, her husband was made Earl of Forfar, making her Countess of Forfar. On 10 March 2023, her husband was created Duke of Edinburgh; since then, she has been known as "Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Edinburgh".

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Red-UK Magazine Raising the Stakes interview with Jacob Anderson

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“Jacob Anderson has a very sweet tooth. ‘I’m, like, addicted to sweetness, ever since being in America,’ he says, sipping tea with a sheepish smile. Having come to meet me in North London after dropping his daughter at nursery, the 34-year-old star of AMC’s hit series Interview With The Vampire is sitting with his face towards the morning sunshine, a move unlike the supernatural being he plays. ‘It’s good to have everything in moderation,’ he muses, opening a sachet of sweetener. ‘But the minute you start paying too much attention to quantities of things…’ he pauses, ‘it’s like sucking the joy out.’

It’s an apt metaphor for the show we’re meeting to discuss. Based on Anne Rice’s 1976 novel, the lavish revamp sees Anderson play the brooding vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac as he recounts a life of eternal love and bloodlust to journalist Daniel Molloy (Eric Bogosian). In an era when television feels increasingly bland, the show pulls off theatrical magic with its epic, queer reinvention of Rice’s work. ‘You don’t really get weird stories with scale,’ notes Anderson. ‘And I feel like this show has managed to hit the sweet spot of scale and oddness.’

Having attempted to despatch his paramour Lestat de Lioncourt (Sam Reid) and then moved to Paris with his adopted daughter Claudia (Delainey Hayles), Louis works to untangle his manipulated memories in the second season. ‘There’s a lot of tension building,’ says Anderson. ‘In episode one, in particular, I remember thinking Louis has a tension headache for years. It affects his decision-making, and his outbursts. And he makes a lot of poor decisions in season two.’ There’s a great deal of unresolved trauma, he observes, ‘Louis is very emotionally constipated in that way. I think he’s not quite able to embrace his grief, embrace his first 30 years of vampirism. He’s also unravelling in the present; all of that suppression and repression is coming back to get him.

Therapy is the place where Anderson goes to figure things out. ‘I don’t want to be like a ball of confusion and contradiction. I have two daughters to raise,’ he smiles. ‘I don’t want to be another angry man, because they’re gonna meet a lot of angry, oppressed men in their lives.’ Since playing Louis, though, he suspects the boundaries between fiction and real life have become blurred. ‘There are things about Louis that I justify, like, “I understand this decision, and therefore we’re the same.”’ he laughs. Getting deep into character, I suggest, must lend itself to overthinking. ‘Yeah, I’m a huge overthinker,’ he says emphatically. ‘Sitting here, I just noticed my own body language, and my brain is firing off.’

Despite having been in the public eye for most of his life (both on TV and in his music, which he records under the name Raleigh Ritchie), Anderson keeps a low profile. ‘I’m quite a private person,’ he chuckles. He largely avoids social media, as he has an ‘internal compass’ that guides him towards negative criticism. ‘I think it would be unhealthy to spend too much time indulging in how other people are looking at me,’ he says. ‘I feel like I’d lose my sense of self; the sense of self that I’ve been trying to build up all this time.’

As a child, he was always waiting for adulthood to begin. He moved to London at the age of 17, not specifically to pursue a career in acting, but mainly to leave his home city of Bristol. ‘I have a really healthy relationship with my home city now,’ he says, ‘but at the time, I just wanted to escape.’ He was always resourceful in his pursuit of opportunities. ‘In the beginning, I would get coaches up to London at four in the morning to get to an audition at nine. And I would do that a few times a week. And then if I stayed over for some reason, I’d stay at like a backpacker’s hostel for £19.’ Since that point, he’s worked solidly. ‘I think I have a bit of a work thing,’ he confesses. ‘I really feel like myself when I’m working. I feel like I can key into the version of myself that I most want to be, and it gives me a real sense of purpose.’

Playing the stoic Unsullied warrior Grey Worm in HBO’s Game Of Thrones was an ‘emotionally taxing’ experience at times. ‘The challenging bit was giving myself something to do sometimes, like, keeping myself alive in the scene,’ he recalls. ‘Trying to stay present was a real challenge.’ But it also proved to be a valuable learning curve. ‘You don’t need lines, you don’t need words to tell your part of the story. You can do it with your face. You can do it with your body language. So I learned a lot from doing that. But I was ready for it to be over.’

When he finished the show in 2018, he felt burnt out. ‘That last year was so brutal. It was an amazing experience in lots of ways, but I was also very low and so I just took a break for a bit.’ He considered giving up acting. ‘I was just losing my love a little bit,’ he says. The thing that inspired him again was playing recurring character Vinder in Doctor Who, a show that he aspired to be on as a child. ‘That gave me back my play. It re-energised me.’

He certainly wasn’t prepared for the phenomenon that Thrones would become. ‘It was really surprising,’ he recalls. ‘Whenever we went through the press for it, it felt like being in The Beatles or something. But when we were making it, it was really intimate.’ In any case, he isn’t driven by conventional measures of success. ‘The processes are really important. I’ve really learned that, for me, it doesn’t matter if the thing is good. If making it isn’t a pleasant experience, or joyful in some way, fulfilling or cathartic, then it wasn’t worth it. I don’t really care if something is, like, quote unquote, a hit or success, if making it was miserable, you know?’

What really drives Anderson, is creating work that helps people feel seen; and the enthusiastic response to Interview With The Vampire (plus an early season three renewal) has proved that it’s resonating with audiences on a deep level. ‘To be a part of something that people take into their hearts so much is really special,’ he says. ‘Through music and films and TV was how I learned how to be a human, you know?’ He pauses, looking deep in thought. ‘To see that I’ve contributed in some way to something that does that for other people gives me a sense of “it’s the right thing to do”. Like, I’m still doing this for the reason that I got into it.’ He smiles, ‘So yeah, it’s lovely.’”