#miss doolittle

[laurapetrie]

AUDREY HEPBURN + looking miserable in tiaras: A SERIES

[strazcenter]

What’s In a Date? A Reference to Celebrate

As noted in this very space two months and change ago, Sept. 21 has become “Earth, Wind & Fire Day,” because that date is mentioned in the group’s 1978 hit, “September.” Other songs that mention dates get are celebrated as well. The title figure of the Temptations’ “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” dies on Sept. 3. (What is it about September?) Billie Joe MacAllister meets his maker on June 3 in Bobbie…

[khakilike]

More than a quarter of the way into the 2023 season, the Oakland Athletics are 8-29 with a .216 winning percentage that would supplant the 1962 New York Mets as the worst in baseball history.

Bradford Doolittle and David Schoenfield for ESPN.com, making me wonder how 37 games equals “more than a quarter” of a 162-game season

UPDATE: They changed it to “about a quarter of the way into the 2023 season.” Weird error, and weirder that no one caught it before they published.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

My Fair Lady's Maid (Regency!Aemond x Lady's Maid!Reader)

Part 2: An Ordinary Man

Frustrated with his grandsire's tedious and thorough process of choosing him a "suitable" bride, Aemond makes a declaration that a lady's maid could be indistinguishable from a true noblewoman so long as she was sufficiently dressed and educated in embroidery, conversation, and the like. Otto takes this as a challenge, and gives Aemond four months to turn one of Helaena's lady's maids into a noblewoman.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: none

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: We're only with Aemond this chapter, but Miss Doolittle will return in the next!

An Ordinary Man

Aemond stepped out of the carriage first, extending a hand to help Helaena climb out. He knew his sister well, so he knew her legs would already be sore from dancing all night and did not want her to stumble on the loose gravel drive.

“Did you see the fireflies?” she asked as she climbed out. Her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyelids had begun to droop. “They were insistent, were they not?”

In truth, Aemond hardly remembered there being fireflies in the garden of their host’s estate. He had not ventured outside – the ladies were outside, and he had no intentions of being dragged onto the dancefloor. Still, he smiled at his sister and nodded.

Daeron clambered out of the carriage behind her. His cravat was rumpled, and his hair ruffled, as he always seemed to be after an evening out. “They were! I swear the same one was following me all night. I simply couldn’t shoo him away for longer than a minute.”

“It was all the sweets on the table outside,” their grandfather, Lord Otto Hightower, added as he stepped onto the drive. “I wouldn’t eat a bite. Who knows what other manner of vermin lurked about.”

Helaena flounced through the open doors, smiling brightly at the footman. “Fireflies aren’t vermin, grandfather! They’re beautiful.”

“Forgive me,” Otto said, gently grabbing her elbow so he could kiss her brow. “Of course they are.”

From a distance, Aemond wanted to say, but he wanted to keep his sister happy more, so he remained silent as they all gathered in the parlor. He removed his gloves, dropping them on the surface of the sideboard before withdrawing a bottle of his favorite port, much needed after such a long night.

“Are you going straight to bed?” Daeron asked as Helaena moved toward the stairs. “You don’t want to talk to us?”

“I need my rest!” she called over her shoulder. “My new lady’s maid will arrive tomorrow, and I want to give a good first impression.”

All three men smiled to themselves, waiting until her footsteps faded to speak.

“What use is there in making a good first impression on a servant?” Aemond wondered.

Daeron sighed, rolling his eyes as he stepped up to the sideboard, grabbing a glass and a bottle of sherry before reclining dramatically on the chaise. “Servant or no, the new girl will be her closest companion. Better the relationship be friendly, no?”

He uncorked the port and poured a generous amount into his glass. “I suppose. And it is in her nature.”

“Did any of the young ladies catch your interest, Aemond?”

His hand froze, hovering over the stem of his half-full glass. He swore that if his grandfather brought up the question of a woman one more time, he’d banish the old man to the shabby cottage deep in the woods, where he’d never have to hear that damnable question again.

He had sworn the same the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.

One day, he may actually follow through on it.

That night, though, he simply seized the bottle of port again, filled his glass to the brim, and downed it all in one gulp. The burn in his throat was far more tolerable than any of the simpering women at the ball.

The Tully girl with the lifeless eyes of a dead fish and equivalent intellect. The Lannister could do little else but bat her eyelashes and assault the ears around her with her tittering laugh. The four Baratheon girls, each utterly vexing in her own unique way. And many, many more besides.

“Aemond?” Otto asked again. The false joviality vanished from his voice.

Damn, he’d waited too long to answer. Perhaps he could still pass it off as being consumed in thought?

“Why even ask?” Daeron half-laughed as he swirled his sherry. He always had to swirl it around for several minutes before he deemed it acceptable to drink but gave no reason for it. “He only ever looks at them long enough to notice their flaws.”

Aemond filled his glass again – only halfway this time. “If their flaws weren’t so noticeable, I may have looked longer.”

“Every young lady there was well-bred and well-accomplished. Several of them were even charming, by my estimation. Any one of them would have made a perfectly suitable wife.” His grandfather leaned forward in his chair, steepling his hands together. It was what he always did when trying to use reason to get his way. Oftentimes, it worked.

But not with this.

“I have neither the need nor the desire to find a wife, as I have made quite plain.”

“Every man of our station is in want of a wife, grandson.”

Aemond huffed. “I have no true station. I am nothing but an ‘ordinary man.���”

The words were not his own. It was only an echo of his uncle’s cruel words after the House of Lords had passed the judgment that left Aemond with no more than what his elder sister had deemed acceptable consolation for losing the lands and title that should have been his.

Now, all he had to his name was an old hunting lodge for an estate and a courtesy title. Rhaenyra had not even granted him a pocket borough to allow him into Parliament – that was given to her fool of a son who only rarely attended his duties.

“Even without the title, you are still an important man in the county. Kingswood is a large and profitable estate, and you command great respect from all.”

The empathy in Otto’s voice grated at Aemond. He, too, was a second son who stood to inherit only what his elder sibling would give him. But he could not truly understand; their situations were far too different. Otto had never come nearly as close as Aemond did to the title. It had been so close he could still feel its phantom presence upon his shoulder.

He stared at his reflection in his glass, elongated and deformed by the curved glass. “I still fail to see what benefits a wife would bring me.”

“A proper wife, a wife of good breeding, would enhance your reputation, grant you new allies, and perhaps even expand your holdings.” His grandfather hesitated before continuing, the only indication of his nerves the tightness in his raised brow. “The right match may even bring a title for your children to inherit.”

Aemond set his glass down with such force that it shattered under his hand, shards digging into his palm. It was a welcome distraction. “Nothing I cannot obtain myself.” Save, perhaps, the title. But he knew better to hope for what was impossible.

Otto was silent a while, sipping on his drink. Daeron did not dare disturb the silence. He’d been witness to this fight before. Aemond knew that in only a few more moments, his younger brother would awkwardly raise a different topic, and they could finally move past this particular subject.

But it was not Daeron who broke the silence. It was Otto.

“If you will not accept a wife for advantage, perhaps you will consider the personal benefits?” He looked at his grandson with an affection Aemond had not seen in years. “This estate is in desperate need of a lady’s presence.”

“We have Helaena,” Daeron whispered.

“Yes, but she lives in her own world, and I have no desire to force her into a role she does not want.” He turned back to Aemond, who steadfastly ignored him in favor of picking bits of glass out of his palm. “But we would all benefit from that role being filled.”

Aemond wrapped his handkerchief around his hand, tying it tight enough to stem the bleeding.

“I am not asking you to love the girl, Aemond. Love in marriage is rare, after all.” Otto’s voice faltered. He had experienced love in his marriage, though he rarely talked about their late grandmother. It was better that way, Aemond told himself. Hearing those love stories made his stomach roil. “But would it not be pleasant to have someone by your side? To help manage the estate and ease the burden on your shoulders? She could read to you, sing for you, play that pianoforte that has been collecting dust for years. She could decorate the house, maybe even with her own art. The ladies we met tonight were exceptionally accomplished. They could do all that and more.”

Wishing he had not smashed his glass for want of more alcohol, Aemond finally faced his grandfather. “Is that supposed to impress me? That they have grown proficient in what they have been trained in their entire lives?” He smiled wickedly. “Even the most foolish girl could be trained to do the same.”

“Even that girl we met in Rosby today?”

With his question, Daeron had shattered the argument as if it were a plate of thin glass.

Otto stared at his youngest grandson, then at Aemond, then back again. “What in God’s name were you doing in Rosby?”

“That creature was more beast than girl.” Aemond clenched his fists as he recalled the pitiful thing sprawled on the dirty road, the horrible noises she made, and…

“She was scared, Aemond.” He had never heard Daeron sound angry, yet here it was. “You frightened her.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that.” Aemond dug a finger into the largest cuts on his palm, almost immediately feeling blood soak through the handkerchief. He remembered very well the way the girl had stared at him – at his ruined eye and horrible scar. It was as if she could not believe he was real. Like he was some terrifying monster that had escaped from a book of faerie tales.

Daeron set down his glass, still full, and crossed his arms. “Then you insulted her.”

“I made observations.” He doubted the girl would even perceive his comments as insults, that she had the necessary intellect to do so.

“You called her a wretch and a goose.”

Aemond clenched his jaw in frustration. Why should Daeron care about what he said to some varlet? “I never said she was a goose. I said she sounded like one.”

“A ‘strangled goose,’ if I remember correctly.”

“Semantics.”

“Cruelty.”

Otto slammed his hand into the arm of his chair and stood, his face red with anger and eyes wide with confusion. “Will one of you kindly explain what manner of creature you met in Rosby of all places? And what she or it has to do with Aemond needing a wife?”

“It was nothing,” Aemond insisted. “An unfortunate encounter that has absolutely no bearing on this conversation. Or any conversation.”

“At the market today, Aemond quite literally ran into a poor girl in Rosby who was selling flowers. She was thrown to the ground, her flowers were destroyed, and she was distraught, and Aemond did nothing but dismiss and insult her. He wasn’t even going to reimburse her for the cost of her lost wares.” Daeron stood from the chaise and approached his brother, arms still crossed and eyes hard. “You just declared that ‘even the most foolish girl’ could be trained to act like a well-bred lady.” “Why shouldn’t that be true for that flower girl?”

Aemond snarled, the left corner of his lips twitching upward into a sneer. “I never said it wasn’t. But as I said, she had nothing to do with – ”

“Prove it.”

Both young men snapped their attention to their grandfather, their own argument forgotten.

“What?” Aemond asked. His anger was quickly morphing into something like dread.

Otto approached. There was no longer a trace of anger or confusion on his face, only a delighted smugness that Aemond knew well to fear. “You say any girl can be taught to be a lady. I am asking you to prove it – with that girl from Rosby.”

Daeron barked out a laugh, returning to his sherry and raising it in a toast. “A brilliant idea, grandfather!”

“I can see no reason why I should do such a thing,” Aemond insisted. He was fighting to control his anger and indignation. His jaw was clenched to the point of pain. Perhaps it would shatter like his glass had.

“If it is a reason you are looking for, grandson, I will give it to you.” Though he had no need to, Otto tilted his head back to look down his nose at Aemond. “If you prove that even this pitiful girl you’ve described can indeed be trained to be a proper lady, then I shall never broach the topic of your marriage again. You shall be free to marry whomever you wish or to not marry at all. But only if this wretch from Rosby becomes a passable lady – and not only by our estimation. She must prove herself publicly. The Embassy Ball would be ideal, don’t you think?”

He stepped even closer, forcing his grandson to retreat a step. “But if you cannot, and the poor girl makes a fool of herself, you will marry. I will arrange a match with one of the many fine ladies we saw tonight, and you will marry her within the year. Without protest.”

It was too great a risk, Aemond knew. It was more than likely that he would end up married to a woman he did not love who would upend his perfectly peaceful life.

But there was a chance…

A chance to leave all the countless arguments over his marriage in the past, to never have to hear his grandfather’s nagging again. He could live his life precisely as he wanted, without having to sire heirs he did not want or worry about inheritance. Daeron would be his heir, and his children after him.

Otto knew it, too. He knew he was dangling a feast before a starving man only to lure him into a trap. It was that knowledge, along with the self-satisfied smirk his grandfather wore, that made Aemond’s decision for him.

 “Very well, I accept.” He extended a hand to seal the wager.

As his grandfather shook his hand, Aemond could not help but feel as though he had made the worst decision of his life.

[lacontroller1991]

Come Back To You (Danny Walker x F!Reader)

Main Master List || Misc Master List

Link to AO3

Summary: Danny lives, but now he has to make some choices.

Warnings: 18+ Near Character Death, Language, Period Accurate Diction, Semi-Graphic description of injuries, Evelyn isn't pregnant but still has her heart set on Rafe and Danny and Danny has his heart set on her and reader

Author's Note: I had to guys, I just had to and I'm honestly thinking about doing a whole ass multi chapter story revolving around the movie. It's an itch in my brain and it's not getting out. Again... Darn you Josh Hartnett

Word Count: 1.9k

----------

The sun is bright in the blue sky by the time the plane lands on the asphalt and comes to a stop. You feel your breath hitch in your throat as your heart pounds. It’s been months since you’ve seen Danny and you feel like you haven’t been able to breathe normally since. Evelyn moves from beside you, nails shortened by her nervous biting. What’s going to happen now that Rafe and Danny are back? If they are back? Did Danny change his mind after he’s been away and wants Evelyn or is he still keeping his word and coming back to you? 

“I feel like I’m going to faint,” her words are hushed as she tries to poke her head through the crowd of people and you try not to make a snarky comment. You and her were best friends, practically sisters, but she had broken your trust in a way you never thought she would. Since then, your relationship with the nurse has never been the same. 

“Don’t be dramatic.” Despite your harsh words and harsh exterior, inside you are panicking. What if he died? Then what? What if he chooses her? 

“I love him, you know? I love both of them so much.” If there was one thing you loved about Evelyn it’s that she’s a romantic like you, but not as much when she’s talking about the person who you’ve dreamt about for months on end. 

“I love him too. More than you can know.” You grab her hand and lead her through the group of people toward the front as the door to the plane drops open. Doolittle comes out first and you watch as his wife rushes towards him, gripping onto him as others slowly start to trickle out. Most you’ve met before, Gooz, Red, Earl, Rafe. Rafe. At the sight of him, Evelyn bolts forward, running straight into his arms and your heart beats a little faster. Maybe it’s the sun beating down on you or maybe it’s the fact that you have yet to see his face, but you feel sick to your stomach. 

Slowly walking towards the plane, you wait in high hopes as the remaining men come out, but still no Danny. Your heart sinks. Oh Danny, you stupid boy. Tears begin to swell in your eyes as your brain jumps to the worst possible situation. Evelyn takes note too, her hand reaching up to her mouth to hold back sobs, gaining Rafe’s attention. Noticing that Danny is nowhere to be seen, Rafe gently removes Evelyn from his arms and makes his way back to the plane. “Danny get your ass out here.”

“Boy s-s-sure knows how to make an entrance,” Red mutters, walking towards the group of people with a solemn look on his face, wishing Betty was amongst the crowd. 

A boot steps onto the stairs from the shadow and into the light, causing your heart to drop for the second time. “Danny,” you whisper softly, wiping the tears from your eyes as you rush past the group and up the stairs of the plane, grabbing onto him and pushing him back into the shadow causing him to let out a groan of pain. “I thought I lost you.”

Danny lets out a choked sob as he wraps one arm around you and buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. God he’s missed you. You’re the only thing he could think about for those months. The way your skin lights up in the sun. The way your eyes twinkle from the lights. The way the wind moves your hair. Everything about you is what kept him going, even when he crashed. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he chuckles as you pull away, looking over him as realization crashes over you. 

“Oh my God, what happened? We need to get you to a hospital,” you wince as you look over the extent of his injuries. His arm is in a sling, his leg has a long metal brace on it, and he has a big bandage over his neck.

“Wasn’t one of my better landings. The Chinese took good care of me and got me to this point,” he takes a step forward, pulling you back into him as he bumps his nose against yours. “They got me back to you.” He places a feather soft kiss to your lips before pulling back. “You’re as beautiful as the day I left you.” 

“Don’t ever leave me again,” you comment, taking his good side and hoisting his arm over your shoulders, helping him down the stairs as people cheer.

“I don’t plan on it.”

“Danny!” Evelyn rushes to his other side, being careful to avoid hurting him further and a lump forms in your throat. The moment you and him just shared was intimate, loving. There should be no confusion about who he chose, but still, there’s always that probability. 

“Evelyn. It’s good to see you,” he wears a smile on his face but he knows that the only woman he’ll ever love is the one on his good side.

“Yeah,” she pushes a piece of hair behind her ear, “you too.”

“Alright, let’s get Danny some proper treatment. Those Chinese nurses did a temp job, but he needs some actual medical care.” Rafe steps in, aware of your thankful gaze before the four of you walk off and get some medical help.

-----------

The hospital room is warm with a slight breeze coming in from the window as Danny lays on the bed, arm and leg in a proper cast. The tension in the room is visibly thick with you and Evelyn sitting on either side of Rafe, no one dares talking as the doctor and nurses work to make Danny comfortable. 

Turning to the three of you, the doctor gestures for all to step out of the room before eyeing you and Evelyn in confusion. “Which one of you is the wife?” 

“Neither of them are, sir. Whatever you need to say, you can say to all three of us,” Rafe comments as the doctor shrugs his shoulders in response.

“Captain Walker’s injuries were very severe. The doctors overseas did a good job of stitching his neck, but with the extent of his injuries to his arm and leg, he will have to be under watch for several months with several more months of physical training. We speculate that he will never be medically cleared to fly again.” Rafe’s head hangs in pity for Danny, but you see the look of relief that comes across Evelyn’s features and you feel the same way. “It was an act of God that he survived how he did. He should feel very blessed, but the pain is going to be tough. We will monitor it and give pain medicine as needed, but there is only so much we can do.”

“We understand,” you chime in, fingers picking at your cuticles. “Thank you Doctor.” He nods before walking away, leaving the three of you in the hall. “Now what?”

“We gotta be there for him. He’s not going to take this news well.” Evelyn nods along with Rafe’s words as a nurse steps out of the room and faces them.

“Is one of you Evelyn?” Evelyn’s eyes widen as she nods her head, stepping forward.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“He’s asked to speak with you.” The nurse holds open the door for Evelyn to go inside and sit down at his side, taking his hand. You can’t deny the feeling of hurt that encompasses you and Rafe notices. Taking your hand in his, he gives you a series of light squeezes 

“He loves you. Don’t worry.”

“How do you know he won’t choose her?” The question is genuine and Rafe looks to you with exasperation. 

“All he talked about was coming back home to you. Even in the thick of it, when we were surrounded by Japs, he kept praying to whoever to let him come home to you. I don’t think he once mentioned her.” Rafe gestures to where Danny lays and Evelyn sits, crying into her hands. “Believe me, he fucked up big time kissing my girl when he was going steady with you, but you’re the one he wants. The one he’s always wanted.” You let out a sigh of relief, giving his hand a reaffirming squeeze before letting go and letting your heart slowly mend. It’s true that Danny did kiss Evelyn while the two of you were seeing each other, but he had assured you that it was a one time deal and it would never happen again as long as he lives. She, on the other hand, made him her everything. 

Evelyn storms out of the room and faces you, tears rolling down her face. “If you ever hurt him…” It’s an empty threat and you know it. Evelyn couldn’t harm a fly, much less one of her former closest friends. Seeking solace in Rafe, she buries her head into his chest as he wraps his arms around her, still not sure what to make of the entire situation. Taking that as a cue, you walk into the room, closing the door behind you and making your way to his bedside. 

“Hey there,” his voice is raspy and you instinctively reach for the cup of water, bringing the straw to his lips for him to drink.

“Hey to you too. The doctor said you’ll be here for some months. Said your injuries were more severe than you let on.” He nods his head, pushing away the water and laying his brown eyes on yours. 

“Did they say if I can fly again?” Hanging your head, you reach for his hand and grasp it into yours. 

“I’m sorry honey, but probably not. The army won’t clear you after something like this. They said it’s a miracle you’re even alive.” Danny smirks and internally feels relief. Yes, he wants to continue and work for the war effort, but he also just wants to leave the world behind and move to a small house with you to live out a domesticated life. 

“You’re the only thing that kept me going. When I was out there,” he pauses, looking away and trying to bat the tears away. He does not want to look weak, not when he’s already looking weak as is. “When I was out there, I thought I was going to die. I was bleeding profusely, losing consciousness by the second and the only thing I could think of was you. You’re my world, (Y/N), and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you the way I thought Rafe left me. And I’m sorry that I kissed Evelyn. We were both mourning and needing comfort and she was the only one that could understand, not that it doesn’t excuse it. But I love you and I will make it up to you for the rest of my life if I have to.”

Your heart is hammering in your chest and butterflies erupt in your stomach. He chose me. It’s me who he wants. “Danny, what are you trying to say?” 

Mustering the strength, Danny brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your soft knuckles. “What I'm trying to say is, will you marry me?” 

“Oh Danny!” You surge forward, pressing your lips against his as tears roll down your cheeks. Breaking away from the kiss, you rest your forehead against his, his breath and your breath mingling together. “Yes, a thousand times, yes!” 

“Yes?”

“Yes!” Your lips connect with his again and for the first time in a while, you feel that everything is just right. 

people who had an interest: @phoenixhalliwell @waywardtigersandwich

[cosmignon]

It's been a good long while since I made a silly little comic about silly little guys I enjoy!! This was a birthday gift I made for my beloved @quixoticrobotic who's birthday was just yesterday!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

I like the idea of Piper & Rabbit seeing a beautiful woman (each other) and trying to have a nice, fancy little date but of course they're both also silly and attract sillies like magnets, so nothing's ever that simple. ^_^

Image Description/Transcript under the cut

Page 1: Piper and Rabbit are sitting at a table with drinks; Piper's is a tall foamy beer, Rabbit's is a thin martini-like drink. Rabbit: Yknow back where-ere I'm from they don't got anything that can get a bot buzzed, let alone drunk. (Well, except that one time…) Piper: Well then you better enjoy it! It's on me, yknow!

Page 2: Close up on Rabbit taking a sip of her drink. Rabbit: You're too ki-kind, Miss Captain Faraday~! Piper (off screen): Just Piper's Fine. Every bot's got the right to enjoy themselves every now and then. Piper (off screen): Now as for me, I'm still reeling from the fact you've gotten to see mammals! Rabbit: Y-yes ma'am! Why, we were so surprised to see ya didn't have any out here. (Made our set about Dr. Doolittle a little confu-fu-fusing!) Piper (off screen): Dora's going to be mighty jealous once I get back to the ship.

Page 3: Rabbit's eyes widden as the shot pans to reveal Hatchworth and the Spine in fake mustaches, hiding behind a nearby table. Piper (off screen): (And uh, speaking of jealous…) Are your band mates back there alright with us meeting up like this?

Page 4: Rabbit turns her head in a fake smile to yell at her brothers, who dive behind the table to hide. Rabbit: Oh that! No they're just being silly g-gooses! Rabbit: HATCHY~! THE SPINE~! Rabbit: Y-You guys shouldn't play spy detec-decktives like that behind my back when a beautiful lady's involved!

Page 5: Rabbit pulls herself across the table to get closer to Piper, knocking over her own chair and drink in the process. Rabbit: My brothers get worried about when I go on dates, that's all! Rabbit: Don't even think about em! Piper: Okay… Rabbit: They wouldn't know a ro-romantic atmosphere if it smothered out all the lights in the room~! The Spine (off screen): Hey! Hatchworth (off screen): No no let her speak.

Page 6: Close up on Piper taking a sip of her drink. Piper: I think it's kinda sweet you got family that cares enough to butt into your business like that. Piper: Me, I was an only child, so I can't really relate. Rabbit (off screen): Oh, Wh-what about your crew? Piper: Oh! Yeah, they're like my family! Been through thick and thin with them.

Page 7: Piper's expression drops as the camera pans to reveal Ivanski and Sally sitting at another nearby table. Rabbit (off screen): G-good to know, cause I was wondering what they were doin back there otherwise~! Piper: Ah. You don't say. Ivanski: Gooooo Captain! Sally: I don't know him.

[bossboudicca]

welcome to my little at home museum!

hello hbo war pals! and anyone else who likes this kinda stuff~

i recently acquired a collection of memorabilia from my dad, which came from his father (my grandad) and an old family friend. both these men served in ww2, and brought back/earned quite a few medals and other trinkets, american and german.

under the cut are photos and some information i found about some of the pieces, but just a quick content warning- some of these photos contain real nazi memorabilia, and if that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable then here's your warning. anyway, enjoy some artifacts!

this one is my personal favorite- the man who originally wore this would have served in both world wars. the darker medal with the dates is called a Hindenburg Cross

this is a german land mine marker/warning flag. also used to denote any hazardous objects/gas/etc.

this is a german Panzer Badge, given to tank crews who actively participated in at least three armored assaults on three different days.

this is a german Black/3rd Class Wound Badge, given to men who were wounded once or twice by hostile action. basically a nazi purple heart.

i was told this pin was german, but upon further research i believe it's actually an american ww2 honorable discharge pin. im not sure if it was my grandpa's or the family friend's.

and here's the piece everyone loses their mind over. your standard nazi armband. it is very spooky to touch/handle.

this was my grandpa's American Campaign Medal, and i'm guessing he got it from one of his jobs which was being the navigator on a B-25 Mitchell bomber assigned to flying the length of the west coast looking for any Japanese military aircraft/ships/etc. (the same kind of plane involved in the Doolittle raid)

this is his World War II Victory Medal, essentially a participation trophy. Every member of the United States Armed Forces who served from 7 December 1941 to 31 December 1946 was eligible for this medal.

this is his Army Commendation Medal. it is awarded to "any member of the Armed Forces of the United States other than General Officers who, while serving in any capacity with the U.S. Army after December 6, 1941, distinguished themselves by heroism, meritorious achievement or meritorious service". i am not entirely sure about the bars on the right side of the case, more specifically the blue and white with the three stars. any ideas?

beyond the rank badges, i honestly have no idea what these patches are for. however, for my band of brothers fans, that circular patch is an OCS/Officer Candidate School patch from Fort Moore/Benning. My grandad went to the same place Winters and Nixon did (i'm sure tons of guys did too but i think it's cool)

more of my grandpa's random little pins. i do not know what the "G" one is, but the one next to it with the propeller is an Army Air Force pin. i really like the U.S. ones and the lieutenant bar because you see those in the show lol. there is something on the backside of the lieutenant bar, but i can't quite figure out what it is. any insights are welcome!

these are some of his Army Air Force navigator specific pins

lastly, these were my grandpa's hats. i have an old photo of him somewhere, in uniform, wearing the one with the pin. makes me miss him a lot.

AND THAT'S IT! I hope you guys enjoyed your trip to the museum. if anyone has more information, please let me know! or if i misnamed anything!

[broadwaydivastournament]

Movie Musical Divas Tournament: Round 4

Dolly Parton (1946- ): The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982) Miss Mona | The Best Little Special in Texas (1982) | Rhinestone (1984) Jake Farris

"Just look at her." - anonymous

Audrey Hepburn (1929-1993): My Fair Lady (1964), Eliza Doolittle* | Funny Face (1957), Jo Stockton Dubbed by Marni Nixon

"Okay, listen, Audrey Hepburn didn't know she was going to be dubbed in My Fair Lady and is on record for saying she never would have accepted had she known they wouldn't use her singing voice. She was also an incredible humanitarian who traveled the world raising money and aiding/advocating for UNICEF-efforts to provide clean drinking water, immunizations, and other necessities. She was an EGOT-winner, a fashion icon, and just a darling woman." - anonymous

This is Round 4 of the Movie Musical Divas tournament. Additional polls in this round may be found by searching #mmround4, or by clicking the link below. Add your propaganda and support by reblogging this post.

ADDITIONAL PROPAGANDA AND MEDIA UNDER CUT: ALL POLLS HERE

Dolly Parton:

Photos submitted by: @mygreatadventurehasbegun

Audrey Hepburn:

Photos and video submitted by: anonymous

[galwithalibrarycard]

Any ideas you'd like to share? I'm curious about any aus you may be working on

It’s interesting, because I tend to write a lot of either canon-compliant missing moments fic or canon divergence AUs, rather than transplanting characters into an entirely new universe. So most of my fic ideas aren’t true AUs, but I do have a few.

Of course there’s the Bones mermaid AU, which I’m still thinking about. I’m also loving the butch woman Booth AU that @miz-chase has been talking about lately, I’m tempted to write some of that but we’ll see. Then I have the AU where everything’s the same but Booth/Brennan/Hannah are a polycule, which I love, and I want to write Booth and Hannah both taking care of Brennan when she has a rough day in that AU.

Outside of Bones, I’ve been thinking a lot about a Rizzoli & Isles My Fair Lady AU, inspired by miz-chase’s post about Rizzles Anastasia AUs. I just think it would be really fun to have Jane as the Eliza Doolittle and Maura as the Henry Higgins (though less of an asshole than Higgins is, of course). There would be a lot of unpacking the classism of giving Jane her high society makeover, and Jane being butch and hating forcing herself into the high-class hyperfeminine persona, and Maura realizing she doesn’t actually want to change Jane, she loves her as she is. I just love the idea of a Rizzles “I Could Have Danced All Night” moment- “I only know when she began to smile at me, I could’ve danced, danced, danced all night!” I’m working on an outline for this AU, I don’t know if it will become a full fic, but I’m having fun with it either way.

Then there’s my Hacks fic where Ava has ulcerative colitis, which I guess is an AU in that the ulcerative colitis isn’t canon and in that it’ll be in a version of the end of season 3 where Ava and Deborah aren’t in as bad of a place in their relationship as in canon, because a lot of the fic will be hurt/comfort and Deb taking care of Ava through her first colonoscopy and the diagnostic process. This one is very self-indulgent and I’ll understand if some people don’t want to read the bathroom-heavy details of having UC. But I have to live it, so I think I’m allowed to write about it. I won’t go that graphic but I will be honest about it.

I also have a Stranger Things fic I’m working on for a friend, in her Ronance riot grrl AU verse. And I’ve always wanted to do a Nothing Much to Do Beadick mermaid AU as well, maybe eventually it’ll become more than a concept. Oh, and you’re probably not familiar with this fandom, but I have a Graceland (TV) fic on the go where Mike has a dream of Charlie’s sauce night story with himself and Charlie in the romantic lead roles in Inquisition Italy, but I don’t know if that counts as an AU because it’s the regular universe character just having a dream.

Anyway, yeah, I have GOBS of fic ideas on the go and so little time to work on them all, alas. How about you? I know about your canon divergence Bones fic, but any other AUs you want to talk about? I’d love to hear!

[lightscamerabitchsmileee]

Vote for your fave, reblog & share your thoughts and what your other faves even if it's outside this list in the tags I would love to hear it ☺️☺️

Check out my masterpost for the other open polls thank you and have fun ☺️☺️

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 29/06/2024 (Coldplay, Charli xcx/Lorde, Post Malone/Blake Shelton)

Her second week for her second #1, Sabrina Carpenter stays at the top of the UK Singles Chart on an otherwise… interesting week, reflected in pretty much aspect, so… welcome back to REVIEWING THE CHARTS!

content warning: language, misogyny, alcohol

Rundown

As always, we start with the notable dropouts, songs exiting the UK Top 75, which is what I cover, after five weeks in the region or a peak in the top 40. This week, we bid adieu to a surprisingly small selection of “Feather” by Sabrina Carpenter, “Gata Only” by FloyyMenor and Cris Mj, “As it Was” by Harry Styles and of course, since we haven’t fared well at the Euros, “3 Lions”.

As for our notable gains, since we don’t have much in the way of returns outside of Disclosure’s “You & Me” featuring Eliza Doolittle back once again at #65, we see boosts for “Mind Still” by Sonny Fodera and blythe at #68, “NIGHTS LIKE THIS” by The Kid LAROI surprisingly up big to #47, “Kisses” by BL3SS and CamrinWatsin featuring bbyclose at #44, “the boy is mine” by Ariana Grande at #39 off of the remix with Brandy and Monica (cheap idea, bad execution), “KEHLANI” by Jordan Adetunji at #29 which is a decidedly unslizzy occurrence, “DEVIL IS A LIE” by Tommy Richman at #21, “Not Like Us” by Kendrick Lamar riding the high of The Pop Out at #14 and really, the biggest story: Chappell Roan. Not only are “Red Wine Supernova” and “HOT TO GO!” up to #40 and #33 respectively, she gets her first ever top 10 hit with “Good Luck, Babe!” hitting #7.

As for the top five, we see much of the expected. “BIRDS OF A FEATHER” by Billie Eilish is at #5, Eminem’s “Houdini” is at #4, Shaboozey’s “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” is at #3 and of course, both Sabrina Carpenter songs in the top 10 stick to the top two: “Espresso” at #2 and the newer “Please Please Please” at the top spot. As for what’s below it… thankfully not a lot in sheer quantity but a lot of interest so let’s try and make sense of it.

New Entries

#69 - “Tears” - Perrie

Produced by Ido Zmishlany

These “extended” versions are a bit ridiculous recently: personally, I’d prefer my songs come complete in the package and I don’t have to find booster packs. With that said, the aforementioned extended version of this newest single from Little Mix’s second-to-most recent solo breakout, Perrie Edwards, is very good. We’ve had a lot of smooth, lounge-esque 80s pastiches on this show, but this delves so fully into glitzy synth-funk that it’s really admirable. The groove, though a bit plastic and muddy in the mix as you kind of expect from cheaper UK pop production, is undeniable and the easy guitar melody has been in my head persistently since I first heard it. Most importantly, Ms. Edwards actually plays with the instrumental and its composition as a vocalist, she doesn’t just sit afloat in the way many other singers would, and that includes, say, a Dua Lipa. The weirdly fast-paced tumble of a chorus displays that messy breakup so well and rings alarm bells in the posturing that she’s really over it, guys, she’s totally not been thinking about him, within the verses, but she’s still rightfully angry and the chorus isn’t that awkward of a tumble that it can’t carry the same swagger the instrumental from Mr. Zmishlany commands. It’s no surprise to me that this guy has worked before with people like Shawn Mendes and Sabrina Carpenter given how breezy of a listen it is, though Perrie doesn’t stumble over her own writing in the way those two do: she shares the command of the song with the funk behind her. It truly is a brilliant pop song, yet it turns out to be the one that’ll probably flop. I understand that the Little Mix girls have had, so far, very ephemeral solo stardom, but the quality is really there for a lot of them, so it’s a damn shame that the girl group fame hasn’t rubbed off more than it probably should have.

#60 - “misses” - Dominic Fike

Produced by Dominic Fike

Ah, Dominic Fike. I remember when I knew that one song which was a pretty good song, and never even needed to think about him for a second song, let alone an acting career that I couldn’t care about but have heard… not so great things regarding, as well as of course pushing out some of the most insufferable indie pop of the last few years, of which some has been covered here. This new track… okay, are you fucking kidding me? This is one minute and 14 seconds. I get Fike has gained virality more for his demos than his completed songs, and that sometimes this is valid, but you can tell how inauthentic and tacky the “distortion” here is, and the fact that it’s all packed into barely more than one minute shows me two things: 1.) the writers and producers are lazy, 2.) they’re chasing some of that success he got from dumping some, at least honest and interesting, demos onto streaming services. Oh, and a third thing: it was written and produced solely by Fike himself. That’s not particularly impressive, of course, when it’s somehow completely forgettable despite being so concise and insistent on drilling that one chorus melody into you, but he also devolves into vocal riffing midway through over an unchanging garage rock plonker that couldn’t pick up any momentum if it tried. And of course, because it’s Fike, I don’t need to tell you that the lyrics are condescending towards women. Calling her his “miss” is already off to a rough start without some needed context, and he doesn’t grant us that, instead going onto consider the relationship dead and reassuring her that she’ll be “grieved” - as if the woman in any given relationship actively wants their ex-boyfriend to grovel about them instead of just going their separate ways - before pinning the blame on her because he’s just a man who loved too much too quickly, right? The verse later basically berates her for being useless, and that when she’s not with him, she’s misguided and invisible, despite the fact that she’s so beautiful, yeah, piss off. This is a barely-constructed song with nasty attitudes on an album seemingly full of these shitty, malformed interludes and I don’t see any value in it sticking around.

#41 - “Wave” - Asake and Central Cee

Produced by Magicsticks

Nigerian singer Asake, who I’ve praised before on this show but mostly in the lower rungs of the chart and off of it entirely, is finally getting a real UK push, given the Cench feature, and whilst I liked “Lonely at the Top” largely for lyrical and performance reasons, this if anything is more of an exhibition for his producer, Magicsticks, as this is a genuinely unique instrumental here. It’s got an Afrobeats rhythm for sure, but not only is the drum pattering shakier but it’s accompanied by what I can only describe as a groan stick, which follows as weedy a melody as the later flutes. This is largely a chill song about relaxing and flexing, but the flatter sense of groove that exists here, the way the drums never embrace their full punch into long after Asake had meandered beyond the chorus, and only when Central Cee comes in, and still in a slightly staggered, stuttering way, it’s a really interesting decision that works out very well. It almost reminds me of Brazilian funk sometimes, especially with its cacophonic approach and that later screeching synth. As for content, it doesn’t really matter, but I do wish there was a little more substance or at least a less generic Cench verse, but really, the weird note the very busy and tense instrumental carries when placed against the Afrobeats genre’s use of choir vocals is really fascinating. It doesn’t fully hit, but it’s a risk that is pulled off by ensuring other elements of the mix, like Asake’s drowned out vocals or the general blandness of Cench’s cadences, are kept to the sidelines, which doesn’t lead to a fuller song but still an interesting one that is still developing on itself with extra choir harmonies and even uglier synth fuzz at its last moments. Maybe it’s not one I’ll go back to - it’s not particularly catchy - but it’s an interesting way to grab a different audience’s attention.

#37 - “us.” - Gracie Abrams featuring Taylor Swift

Produced by Aaron Dessner, Gracie Abrams, Taylor Swift and Jack Antonoff

So, Gracie Abrams, daughter of J.J. of course, released her let’s-pretend-it’s-adebut record, The Secret of Us, and surprisingly to me, despite pretty much no traction before this, it went to #1 on the albums chart: here is your golden ticket as to why. Not particularly this song, but the idea of Taylor Swift being behind this specific young singer and project, as well as making a direct appearance, absolutely helped. It also makes perfect sense considering that both of Abrams’ prior songs I had heard that charted were basically less self-realised Taylor Swift leftovers. She even got both Dessner and Antonoff on here because of course, and well, firstly, I don’t understand why this is a duet - and barely at that. Abrams derives from both her own older tracks and Taylor’s to create some unsubtle metaphors and oddly fragmented verses about a former relationship, and Taylor is here for decoration as far as thematics are concerned as there isn’t a clear attempt at implementing her vocal presence into the narrative. That’s… fine, if not lazy, but once you get to the lyrics themselves, it’s all kind of a shambles that apes Taylor’s style of writing without actually making all too much sense. I would appreciate the fantastical, forelorn imagery of “Babylon lovers hanging lifetimes on a vine”, if she didn’t ask her ex if they “miss[ed hers]”… what exactly could they miss here? If the point is that the vine represents a “lifetime”, then in what sense does it make for someone to “miss” a “lifetime”? Abrams could say that the relationship felt like a lifetime, or took a lifetime out of her, that would make sense, but it gets confused with the use of the Babylon imagery - also, the hanging gardens of Babylon are disputed to have even existed at all, but not in a concrete way where we know exactly what it’s being confused with or who exactly fabricated it, so “Babylon lovers” and the “vine” conceit feels like a cheap use of imagery without really understanding its origin, especially since Abrams makes “us” - I.e. the relationship - solid and established in that chorus.

The verses may be a bit of basic word salad, but when you try and make connections between certain ideas, they start to break down - what does being 29 years old actually have anything to do with being welcoming or open with your younger partner? If you’re going to include the “so”, there should be a connection but it’s never explained. It gets worse and worse throughout the song also: I know the “prophets”/”profits” homonym was probably just an inescapable cliché for our gang of four - even if it actually muddles the flow of that bridge - but what actually ARE the “false profits they make in the margins of poetry sonnets”? Who’s “they”, book publishers? How are the profits in any way “false”, or the exact “margins” of a sonnet relevant? Oh, and thanks for specifying “poetry sonnets”, not to be confused with the other types of sonnets that aren’t poetic, all zero of them. You could argue that part is purposefully meaningless as it criticises the guy for his misunderstanding of literature, sure, but I think to pull that off, one needs to 1.) show an understanding of the unnamed poetry he supposedly misconstrued and 2.) not, in your own poetry, express yourself in obtuse ways acting as rhythmic filler.

If you’re going to bring up Robert Bly and the irony that this guy gifted you his work without understanding its reference to masculinity and not representing the values in Bly’s work, how is this guy in any way “incomparable”? You just made a comparison! The condescending lyric from Taylor that he never “read up on” any of the literature he cared about and that he “could have learned something”, sounds really hypocritical in this song full of adding complexity and faux-poignant takes or, well, comparisons into a song ultimately lacking any nuance, because what does adding any of this meaninglessness really contribute to the general picture Taylor will paint of any ex-boyfriend in a typical song? I’m a sucker for detail lyrically but detail that actually gratifies the listener for looking carefully, not punishing them once the cracks are realised. This sounds nit-picky but is genuinely incredibly distracting for a song wherein I’m supposed to reeled into the narrative on display… and Hell, I’m always being told that Taylor is one of the greatest songwriters, so I’m not sure why I can’t nit-pick for every detail.

Obviously, this is not my only problem with the song. Dessner’s acoustic guitar is twiddly and oddly tense as well as feeling copy-pasted throughout the song, Abrams sounds like a BTEC Lorde on a chart week where we get the real deal taking genuine artistic risk - more on that later - and the chorus is a sludge of a lead vocal melody covered in feathery vocal layers that really emphasise how little is being said. If I were right-wing, I’d probably take even further offense in the sheer amount of pronouns Abrams is shoving down my ears, and honestly, I still am, because outside of the bridge, what is “us”? Why should he miss that? The bridge has all the plastic cinematic swell of a video game trailer, full with swooshing effects and some of the worst drums I’ve heard in pop this year just because of how staggered and dire they feel, they really contribute to a complete tonal clash with the supposed electricity and pure emotional feelings that the two sing about. I know this review is incredibly wrong for a song I don’t really like, but I did come into this with the idea that it’d probably be a good fit for the two to collaborate given Abrams’ influences and the potential for a really interesting narrative as a result, potentially playing off of that dynamic… yet what I get is a white, null void of platitudes that shatter at any scrutiny. Sorry, Swifties… or Abramites I suppose - this is one of my least favourite songs of the year so far.

#34 - “Pour Me a Drink” - Post Malone featuring Blake Shelton

Produced by Louis Bell and Charlie Handsome

Post Malone has yet to truly convince me on the straight-up country pivot. Sure, elements of folk and country have been vaguely reflected in his music for a while, if much lesser than the pop rock influences that have practically always been there and still largely are, but his producers are still his main guys - which I guess I can respect - and he decided Morgan Wallen wasn’t a seasoned enough veteran of Nashville so he went and bagged Mr. Gwen Stefani for the feature on yet another country drinking song… and I guess it’s fine. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a 2000s country-pop track, particularly one with some more organic fiddle but more canned drums and rock instrumentation, and I realise that I’m just describing a Blake Shelton song. Bizarrely, he fits less here than Post, who is a natural fit in his warble for this kind of casual country radio sing-a-long. Much like “I Had Some Help”, which this very much resembles, there’s a quicker pace to some of the songwriting, especially the chorus, that Shelton finds himself a bit behind sometimes, especially in that rough first verse to chorus transition. The second verse has some cool idea of chemistry between the two but it seems very forced. I can’t imagine a situation where Blake Shelton would be calling Post his “buddy” at an old bar as Post is trying to get with some girl. I think something is missing there, optics-wise… as well as a proper bridge, or any real harmonisation between the two, which also has no reason to be a duet, really. That really shows to me that Post or his label have little confidence in his ability to sell country, by lodging these veterans onto the track without any thematic relevance, and also not realising just how charismatic Post is on his own. I can imagine the dumb grin on his tatted-up face as he records the song, I’m not sure I can really imagine Blake Shelton feeling anything at all. I also don’t really buy either of these guys trying to “keep up with the Joneses” - you ARE the Joneses, fellas - but that’s beside the point of the song. It’ll work in the right context, but it’s not like there’s not plenty of these types of songs and the inclusion of Blake Shelton here detracts from it quite a bit too.

#28 - “Girl, so confusing” - Charli xcx

Produced by A.G. Cook

Yeah, I prefer the solo version. Whilst it’s clear that Charli is talking about someone, probably Lorde, on “Girl, so confusing”, which is now confirmed, the more self-contained story of Charli misunderstanding cues and overthinking certain interactions she has with women in general, as well as the more specific showbiz talk, is much more compelling to me than knowing that it’s just about one woman in particular. That doesn’t mean the Lorde version can’t be that as well, but when I first listened to BRAT, “Girl, so confusing” really resonated with me, in part because of the anthemic nature of the chorus, with the scattered vocal stuttering very much in A.G. Cook’s wheelhouse, but also because, I mean, yeah. It is confusing sometimes to be a girl, and that general thesis, as well as applying the lyrics in the verses to everyday interactions, is something I can get behind and see a lot of value in, especially since it uses such a universally humanising statement to bring the album’s themes back home. Unfortunately, here comes Lorde, coming off the strength of her worst album, and making a song already about her… not very easily about anything else.

I’ve said this before with acts like Doja Cat and Ye, but when it gets too absorbed in gossip, I tend to tune out, and I can’t find many universalities in Lorde’s new contributions, to the point where that main lyric starts to sound closer to “It’s confusing to be Lorde”, which I don’t doubt but I also don’t care about hearing unless I spin a Lorde album, which, well, I do. I love Melodrama. What I don’t love is the awkward implementation of Lorde into the Auto-Tuned club-pop cacophony. She gets to the point - are you sure this is still Lorde? - but it’s through a breathless delivery that name-drops specific elements about Charli that take the song even further away from universality for the sake of the “moment”. I didn’t even realise people cared about a Lorde and Charli feud, one I didn’t know existed until this album dropped, and I honestly doubt this lasts much longer thanks to what is arguably a novelty aspect. I still do like the song, and yes, I will count the original in the conclusion because the Official Charts Company doesn’t credit Lorde, but I wish I could connect to it much more, and the way a lot of people really are gravitating to this viral moment at least gives me some solace in knowing it did do that for other people. The funniest end result for me would be if the song is actually about Marina and the Diamonds and this was all grade-A trolling.

#25 - “feelslikeimfallinginlove” - Coldplay

Produced by Max Martin, Oscar Holter, Bill Rahko, Daniel Green and Michael Ilbert

So, Coldplay are releasing their second weirdly-stylised, Max Martin-penned space album of the 2020s. Sure. These guys can do anything they want at this point and whilst it frustrates me that they don’t take the risks they have with that freedom, or at least in more compelling ways because there definitely are some… choices on the last few albums, some genuinely experimental and out-there, I know I’m not going to find that in a lead single, and hey, the band’s given us some great music in the past, with singles and deep cuts so there’s a level of expected quality and polish to everything they put out. Unexpectedly, however, I love this song. Yeah, I was surprised too, not been a fan of much Coldplay for a while, but this reminds me of the muted Ghost Stories, where its swell came from a genuine push and struggle to express those emotions, rather than the careening easiness of stumbling into orchestras or guitar overdubs like they usually do. If there’s any song in particular I feel that it’s reminiscent of, it’s probably that record’s big single, “Magic”. The difference here is that this is far from a divorce record, it’s a childishly lovestruck anthem, but one that starts with a piercing, glittery distortion that peters away for Damon Albarn-sounding synths and flickering drum sequencing that is as monotone as Chris Martin’s pained attempts at “la-la”s. He’s so tedious in his delivery that he ends up having to harmonise with a pitch-shifted version of his own vocal take, and all of that is a compliment, this is a really interesting song in terms of where it lies emotionally: he’s in love, but seemingly some of that love is coming out of a pity, a hand being lent to a guy who considers himself born to destroy everything good that comes to him. This is his one attempt to pull on those hands in full sincerity, acknowledging that it’s probably a mistake for him to do so but putting his heart and hope where his hands are: in the trust of a new partner who lets the windows open in spite of all that. Fitting for a Glastonbury performance, there are some lush synth and stringwork in the sing-a-long chorus, and it’s definitely a sing-a-long chorus given the simple melody and platitude lyrics that still do reflect some of the song’s conceits - “You’re throwing me a lifeline” is a great lyric to add to ensure that’s still embedded within each crack of the song’s premise, and yes, he rhymes it with “lifetime” and this time, it makes sense. I don’t usually say, “Take notes from Coldplay,” but we might have to start revising their back catalogue. There’s a certain restraint to the song’s true capabilities too - it’s in full slow build-up Coldplay territory of course, but all we have to really reflect on that other than the expected instrumentation is a guitar line so far to the left channel that it’s borderline communist, and a sputtering of lovestruck gibberish from Mr. Martin that’s honestly kind of adorable. It reminds me of when he performed lyrics from the Crazy Frog live on television as part of an instrumental break, it’s a cute and endearing way to end the song. Surprisingly enough, I do thoroughly enjoy this new Coldplay single. Been a while since I’ve said that with as little hesitation.

Conclusion

It’s tough. Who wasted my time the most? But whom did I clearly at least have something there to tussle with and find some value in outside of novelty? As controversial as this probably is, I’m ultimately going to grant Worst of the Week to “us.” by Gracie Abrams featuring Taylor Swift, because at least Dominic Fike’s vapid garbage is as transparent as it is, and yes, “misses” gets a very close Dishonourable Mention. As for the best, it’s also pretty evident here that it’s a toss-up between a few great songs, but ultimately I’ll actually lend it to Coldplay for “feelslikeimfallinginlove” because it sounds great in what might be a more unique emotional balance than the others, though I’m still giving a tied Honourable Mention to the girls, those being Charli xcx for “Girl, so confusing” and Perrie for “Tears”. As for what’s on the horizon, we’ll see whatever tangible impact Glastonbury and Headie One have, as well as that mess of a Camila Cabello album, Jason Derulo’s team-up with two prominent English DJs and maybe more K-pop than you’d think. Time will tell, however, and for now, thank you for reading, rest in peace to Shifty Shellshock - sugar! baby! - and I’ll see you next week.

[audreyhepburninblackandwhite]

Scanned cover and interior pages of England's WEEKEND magazine's May 14-20, 1969 issue

'Thin Little Me—But I'm All Woman'

Newly married Audrey tells the Hepburn way to attract men

“I’m tired of being thought of as a dear, sweet, not bad-looking, flat-chested girl”

You Don’t Need a Bust to Get a Man

That’s Audrey Hepburn’s opinion. She says she has more sex appeal on the tip of her nose than most women have in their entire bodies.

Story by Walter Rainbird

A glittering Audrey with Mel Ferrer—their "idyllic" marriage lasted 13 years.

A strange sort of humility overcame me as I looked into the big brown, saucer eyes of Miss Audrey Kathleen Hepburn-Ruston as she curled kinkily in her catsuit in a corner of the hotel suite. Then I was startled as Miss AKHR—Audrey Hepburn to you, me, and the world at large—suddenly rapped: “Look here, there’s more to sex appeal than a top heavy bust and a well-rounded bottom, you know.”

Behind the characteristically-large glasses, the Hepburn nose that Audrey says is so sexy

All I could do was mumble in reply that I didn’t doubt it.

And so began one of the oddest interviews of my life with the star they call “The Fairest Lady of Them All.”

At 40, Audrey Hepburn is even slimmer than she was when, skinny and elfin, she played Eliza Doolittle. And, honestly, she doesn’t look much older than when she started out in show business as a chorus girl at the London Hippodrome—now the Talk of the Town—back in 1948.

Billy Wilder, who directed her in Sabrina Fair, once said of her, “When she walks on to the set, people stop using four-letter words, though she is certainly no prude. She has a rare class, something that Garbo had, a personal style, a kind of breeding which radiates from the screen.”

DIVORCE

This, then, was the girl who was talking to me about sex, busts, and bottoms. The girl whose “idyllic” marriage to Mel Ferrer ended in divorce after 13 years, during which her eight-year-old son Sean (“he means more to me than I mean to myself”) was born.

She told me, “I am tired of being thought of as a dear, sweet, not-bad-looking, thin-legged, flat-chested girl.

“I’ll admit I’m not so well-stacked as Sophia Loren or Gina Lollo whatever-her-name-is. But there is more to sex appeal than just measurements. Those curvy screen-stresses don’t even know what it is, never mind how to use it.

“I have heard it said that if I walked on to a studio bedroom set I wouldn’t know what to do—that I would be as lost as Bo-Peep’s sheep. Well I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness.

“I can covey just as much appeal fully-clothed, picking apples off a tree and standing in the rain as some of those stars think they do wearing practically nothing.

“The secret of real appeal is that you must feel it, deep down inside you. It is something that is suggested rather than shown.

“Take a simple thing like a handshake. I can put more oomph into it than most women can in a walk.

“When you hold your hand out to a male, you think to yourself, ‘I’m all woman. I’m all woman.’ And when your hand touches his—POW!”

What about those famous Hepburn eyes?

They flushed like moon signs, as the star who normally regards Miss Hepburn as her least favorite subject, went on . . .

“A woman’s eyes can be her best weapon in the battle to attract the opposite sex. I don’t mean she should ogle a man. No real man likes that. What she should do is, perhaps, make the faintest fluster of her eyelashes as an added come-on. 

Hepburn—the girl with the Garbo touch that radiates from the screen in every part she plays. Here, she wears her favorite outfit for the film Two for the Road

“I’m fed up hearing that I’m just ‘plain Audrey.’ The truth is that I know I have more sex appeal on the tip of my nose than most women have to their entire bodies. It doesn’t stand out a mile, but it’s there.”

To illustrate her point, she told me how she once arrived late for a party and had to make her way into the room alone.

“The first thing I noticed was all the gorgeous girls there—ones who had curves in just the right places.

“This little me wandered across the room, got a drink, and stood alone in a corner. Then I decided to try to experiment to prove how much man-appeal I have—and to show that appeal does not always have to be an obvious, physical thing.

IRRESISTIBLE

“I started to think of myself as the sexiest creature on earth and that I was irresistible to men.

“It didn’t take long. First, one pair of eyes, then another, swung in my direction. After only a few moments, about a dozen men were looking at me and before long I had more male company than I could handle.

“I could almost hear all those curvy girls asking, ‘What’s SHE got?’

“Well, I know. And while there is life to be enjoyed, I mean to go on and wing it.”

One discerning male will testify to the subtle powers of Miss Hepburn’s personal magnetism in 32 year-old Italian psychiatrist Dr. Andrea Dotti.

In January, just six weeks after her divorce from Mel Ferrer, he married her in Rome. And, as Miss Hepburn would doubtless point out, the doctor always knowws bests.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

My Fair Lady's Maid (Regency!Aemond x Lady's Maid!Reader)

Part 1: Loverly

Frustrated with his grandsire's tedious and thorough process of choosing him a "suitable" bride, Aemond makes a declaration that a lady's maid could be indistinguishable from a true noblewoman so long as she was sufficiently dressed and educated in embroidery, conversation, and the like. Otto takes this as a challenge, and gives Aemond four months to turn one of Helaena's lady's maids into a noblewoman.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: Aemond is just a bitch ass rude motherfucker

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: Enjoy happiness! Or at least more than you'd get with WIB...

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Loverly

“Now, what are you doing here, Miss Doolittle?” Mrs. Cunningham asked from behind a wall of flowers – peonies and daisies, roses and hydrangeas, violets and lilies. “I thought you’d be well on your way to Kingswood by now.”

“And miss me last market day? Never!”

There was very little in the world that was more exciting to Miss Doolittle than market day in Rosby. For others, almost anything else was more exciting, but not to her. For a few hours once a week, the sleepy town of only a few dozen people that made up her entire world grew into a bustling city. New people, new gossip, new trinkets and doodads from all over the countryside for her to gawk at.

It was better than a circus.

At least, she imagined it to be. She’d never been to a circus.

“Can’t hurt to earn a few coins more before I leave, can it?” she asked as she stooped to the ground and began picking through the smaller stems that had fallen on the journey between Mrs. Cunningham’s wagon and her brightly painted stall. Those that were still mostly passable found their way into a threadbare basket.

Market day was when she made her living, even if it was just enough to pay the rent on her tiny basement apartment and cover her tab at the local pub. Though sometimes, she made enough to share with those even less fortunate than her.

“And what would you be spending it on, dear?” Mrs. Cunningham asked, not so slyly dropping a few of the finer blooms. She was a kind woman, a florist from King’s Landing. She had a shop in the city where she sold her flowers and bouquets most of the week, but she came to Rosby each Saturday. Most of the rich people in the county lived in the city, but there were several manors further out in the countryside that needed their flowers, too.

Fancy folk loved fresh flowers. Even the ones who weren’t actually rich enough to be fancy, but tried to pretend like they were, would pay for a flower just to show that they had the money to spend on something that’d be dead in a day or two.

She was only nine years old when Mrs. Cunningham gifted her an old wicker basket and began letting her take the flowers that were too small, slightly crushed, or not quite the right color to use in her bouquets that would otherwise be discarded. Then, she’d flit around the marketplace, selling them for a penny each.

If she had a good day, she’d make enough to pay her expenses and buy herself a sweet or two after her evening meal. If she had a bad day… she’d find a way to make do.

It wasn’t charity, like her father used to say before he drank himself to death. She worked for it, and that meant she earned it—every penny. Mrs. Cunningham always told her so, too. The old woman was very proud of her little protégé, in fact. So proud that she’d begun making inquiries about other jobs for the girl – real jobs.

Miss Doolittle shrugged, “Oh, this ‘n that. Fare for the journey ‘n such.”

“Your new employers are making you pay for your own journey?” Mrs. Cunningham asked with a raised brow as she wrapped a satin ribbon around a bouquet of pale yellow lilies. “I thought they were sending one of their own to fetch you in the morning.”

She would know. A fortnight ago, it was Mrs. Cunningham herself who found Miss Doolittle a new opportunity: a position as a lady’s maid for the eccentric daughter of a duke. The poor lady was so odd she’d frightened away nearly every other employable girl in the county, so her butler had no qualms about hiring someone with so little experience as long as she had at least one decent reference.

So tomorrow, Miss Doolittle would leave her basement behind and travel deeper into the forests of County Westeros to Kingswood Manor, where she would begin to look after the eccentric Lady Helaena Targaryen, son of the late Duke Viserys Targaryen. With the wage they’d promised, she didn’t need to be selling flowers today.

“Thought I might should get some new shoes or… ribbons for my hair?” She shrugged. Perhaps she could even make enough to buy something nice to put in her room in the Manor’s servant’s quarters. She’d always wanted her very own clock.

“Gotta pay off some folk, too,” she sighed. The basket was nearly full now, but she wanted to try to nab a few of those pink roses – they were always popular. “Don’t want to have to send my wages all the way back here.”

Mrs. Cunningham dropped a bundle of nearly perfect rosebuds in the basket, then drew the girl’s gaze back to her face. “Buy yourself something nice, dear. You deserve it.”

Tears began to spring to her eyes, and she looked away to avoid meeting Mrs. Cunningham’s kind gaze – she’d only cry harder if she did. “Thank you. For everything. I –”

Her ramblings of gratitude were cut off when the florist took the girl into her arms, squeezing tight enough to choke her. “Just make the best of it, dear. Work hard, like you always have. And never stop coming to see me, promise?”

Finally, she hugged Mrs. Cunningham back. “I promise.”

The best customers were always near the dressmakers and textile sellers, young women who couldn’t resist the perfect flower to match their new frock. It was on the other side of town, but if Miss Doolittle wanted to afford a clock, that’s where she needed to go first.

She had taken only a single step into the street when someone large and firm collided with her, knocking her to the ground in an instant.

“AAAAOOWWWW!”

Her knees pounded with pain, the edges of her vision pulsing black, but she pulled herself up to her elbows, focusing only on what was directly in front of her.

The flowers were scattered across the cobblestones, half already trampled on by people scrambling to avoid falling with her. Those had been the best blossoms, the ones she put at the top of her basket to entice people into buying from her. All that remained in her basket were the scant pickings she used to make the basket look full.

Nearly a full day’s wages – more, with those rosebuds – gone like that.

“What in the devil’s name was that noise, girl?” The bastard who ran into her sneered. She’d never before heard a voice so suited to sneering. She lifted her head to growl something back at him, but any biting words quickly died when she saw who looked down at her.

He was finer than any man – any person – she’d ever seen in Rosby. Not a single silver hair out of place, not a loose thread anywhere on his fine clothes, or a speck of dust on him. Well, except for the slight smudge of grime left on his deep green tailcoat from where he’d crashed into her. The sight of it made her want to crawl into her dirty basement and never come out again.

“You should watch where you’re walking, brother,” another man, standing next to the severe man who had run into her, said. The familiar resemblance was obvious in their coloring – the silver hair, the eyes so vibrantly blue they were nearly violet.

The severe man scoffed, his lip curling as he looked at her. “I was, Daeron. But the little wretch came out of nowhere.”

“I ain’t no ‘wretch!’” she shouted, indignation burning through her fear and embarrassment. “I’m a respectacle woman, I am!”

The man scoffed and rolled his eyes, and only then did she notice: his left eye was entirely white, its milky paleness emphasized by the angry red scar stretching from his forehead down through his cheek.

She didn’t mean to stare, really. But she had never seen a man who looked like him – scar or no. He was like something out of a fairy tale. Especially when his scowl deepened, and his one blue eye seemed to catch fire.

“Have you looked your fill?” he growled. She immediately averted her gaze, not knowing what to say. She couldn’t think of a single word.

The other man stepped forward, angling his cane slightly in front of his brother. He was softer, kinder looking. “Now, now, she’s just had quite the fall. Allow her to recover her senses.”

“I doubt she has any to recover.”

She flinched at his cruel tone and tried to hide it by picking up her basket full of little more than mulch. “My flowers…”

“Lord, she can’t even talk properly.” The severe man turned to his brother as she began picking through the spilled blossoms. “She sounds like a strangled goose.”

Evidently, the scene was too much for even the worst of the gossip mongers to endure, and the final gawkers turned back to their business. How was she ever supposed to speak to any of them again after this?

At least she’d be gone tomorrow. No one at Kingswood would know about this.

The kinder man – Daeron, the other had called him – hissed something before kneeling with her to help her pick at the flowers. He didn’t care to see if they were ruined; he just put them all back in the basket. “These are yours?”

She nodded.

“What are they for?”

“I sell ‘em,” she explained, wiping away an errant tear. The cruel man scoffed again when she sniffled. “Penny a bloom, tuppence for three. But…”

Daeron looked at the trampled violets, daisies, and rosebuds, then at the meager offerings that remained unharmed in her basket. The only reason anyone would buy them now would be to feed some animal. For that, she’d hardly get enough to pay her rent and have to use what little money she had hidden in a wooden box under her bed to cover her tab at the pub.

She wouldn’t be able to buy the clock.

“How much for the basket?” Daeron asked as he pulled out a pouch of coins.

“What?” She and the cruel man said at the same time, in the same disbelief.

He stepped forward, a large hand gripping his cane like it were a club he’d beat her with. “It is nothing but weeds, brother. Let’s move on.”

As much as she hated it, she agreed with him. “I don’t want your charity, sir,” she told Daeron. “I earn my money.”

The cruel man put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, ready to pull him away. “You heard her. Let us go.”

“No, Aemond!” Daeron pulled away from his brother – Aemond. The name was familiar to her, somehow. But the man himself turned away, his cheeks flushing slightly. Perhaps he was embarrassed, too. Good.

“It is not charity,” Daeron insisted. “We have damaged your wares, and we are compensating you. It is a fair exchange.”

“I…” she was too flustered to truly comprehend his words, much less calculate how much the destroyed flowers were worth.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Aemond stepped forward, pushing his brother back. He snatched the pouch, withdrew a few coins without looking at them, and tossed them toward her basket. Only one made it in, the others plinking onto the cobblestones. “There. You are compensated. Let us go.”

She vaguely heard Daeron say something in protest, but both men were gone when she looked up from gathering the stray coins. No one looked at her, as if she had dreamed the entire encounter. Depositing the coins in the basket, she quickly left the market and returned to her little room in a dirty basement.

Miss Doolittle dumped the contents of the basket on her bed. The flowers were thoroughly ruined now, but seven coins were glimmering amongst their dull petals: a sixpence, two shillings, two half-crowns, and two crowns.

Whatever the flowers had been worth, this was so much more. Perhaps more than she had ever possessed in her life. It could buy her that clock – the finest clock at the market, even. And more. But when she touched the coins, they felt oily. Wrong.

She had not earned it, and neither was it charity. These coins were an insult, a dismissal. That cruel man—Aemond—had thrown them at her like they were table scraps and she was a starving mutt.

It was more money than she ever dreamed, yet it was nothing to him but the soon-forgotten cost of ridding himself of an inconvenience.

She could not buy the clock. Not with this. But she would not let it go to waste. She added the sixpence, shillings, and one of the half-crowns to her box. That would pay all her remaining debts.

That still left her with two crowns and one-half crown. And while she had no intention of spending it, she knew someone who would have no hesitations whatsoever about doing so himself.

Market day ended the moment the sun set, and Rosby was once again just a quiet little town. Nearly every resident, now exhausted from a day hawking their wares or frantically trying to buy everything they’d need until the next market day, converged in the Ailing Rooster, the beloved, if more than a little run-down, local pub.

Miss Doolittle would usually be found in the middle of the throng, soaking up any gossip she could find and happily picking bits off other people’s plates. But tonight, she had merely claimed a small corner table where she sat staring at her three remaining coins. The longer she looked at the stamped faces on the coins, the more they started to look like that man – Aemond.

If that was how fancy folk saw her, what hope did she have for when the Duke’s daughter saw her? Would she be fired on the spot?

The excitement in her chest began to turn to nervousness at the thought. Was she little more than a fool for thinking she could actually do this?

Part of her was tempted to throw them into the fire to watch that stupid, sharp, beautiful face burn, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, even if she didn’t want the money for herself. There was someone out there who needed it. Or at least, who would appreciate it very much.

“How’re you gonna sulk the day before you go to live in bleedin’ paradise, ‘Little?”

She swiped the coins back into her little purse before Alfred could land in the seat across from her, his compatriots, Harry and Jaimie, close behind him. If he saw them, he’d only try to convince her to buy them all a round, but while the money was still hers, she would not allow it to be spent on drink. “I’m not sulkin’, just tired. And it’s not gonna be a ‘paradise.’”

“Yer sulkin’,” Harry laughed as he slyly swapped his half-full tankard with Alfred’s full one.

“Am not.”

“You are.” Jaime leaned forward, genuine concern on his face. “What’s wrong, girl? I thought you were excited about leaving?”

She sighed. “I was – I am! Just havin’ a bad day, I guess.”

All three men exchanged a look.

“We ‘eard,” Jaime nudged her with a shoulder. At least they hadn’t been planning to bring it up themselves. “Rich bastard.”

“Shit-sack,” Harry added.

Alfred slammed his tankard on the table. “Twat.”

A small smile bloomed on her lips. “Well, least I’ll never have to see ‘im again, right?”

Harry raised his stolen ale. “I’ll drink to that!”

“In a week, you won’t remember this,” Alfred added, flapping his hands about like he could swat the memories away from her. “You’ll be in a palace wearing silk and gold and won’t give a damn what some moron said to you.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbing Harry’s tankard and taking a large gulp. “I’ll be a servant, I don’t think I’ll be wearing any silk or gold.”

“But you’ll make good money, maybe you can buy yourself something nice!”

Jaime nodded. “Maybe you’ll make enough to buy your own palace in a few years?”

“I don’t want a palace,” she admitted. In truth, she’d never really thought about a future beyond Rosby until about two weeks prior. “It’d be too big for just me.”

“Who says it would just be you, ‘Little?” She glared at Harry, and he swiftly looked away, already ruddy cheeks blushing even redder.

She leaned back in her chair, her hand reaching her pocket to fiddle with her coins. “Even if there was someone, I don’t want a palace. I just want…”

What did she want?

Something better than Rosby, but nothing too grand. She wouldn’t fit somewhere grand. So…

“All I want is a little cottage somewhere nice, where it doesn’t smell like cattle or sheep.” The more she spoke, the clearer the vision became. “I want a massive fireplace, so the whole place stays warm even when it’s snowing. And a garden – I want a place to grow my own flowers. Wouldn’t that be loverly?”

When she looked back up, all her friends were smiling at her. She soon joined them.

“Loverly, ‘Little,” Alfred agreed.

Suddenly, she did not feel so nervous to leave for Kingswood in the morning. She knew what she wanted, even if the details were still fuzzy. Holding that dream close to her chest, she was sure she could endure anything to get that loverly little cottage.

[new-albums-daily]

Pixies – Doolittle (1989)

15 tracks, 38 min 38 sec

Rating: 7/10

Top Track: Here Comes Your Man

Whoops, I'm behind on organizing my spreadsheet, so picked this one out by hand today. Been sitting at the top of my prospects list for a while now, so probably would've played it sooner rather than later anyways. I can't say I've heard anything by the Pixies, although TMBG have so kindly covered Havalina so that I can say I'm at least familiar with that. Not much, I know, but it's something.

Not going to lie, I spent a lot of this album wondering how it's so consistently ranked among the best. It was good, don't get me wrong, but either I'm missing something or it just wasn't that good. I will say this definitely grew on me as it progressed, which is a bit different than usual. As I've gone through this project, I've started forming opinions on albums pretty quickly, though that's not to say that I tune out the rest of the album. It's a natural response to any composition over 30 minutes. But this one really forced me to reconsider it about halfway through, especially after Here Comes Your Man came on. Definitely my favorite track here by a long shot, but that helped me re-contextualize the rest of the album a bit. At any rate, in the end maybe it's just not my thing as much as it is most people's, but it was good nonetheless. Top tracks included Debaser, Monkey Gone to Heaven, and Mr. Grieves.

[poorshadowspaintedqueens]

(Slightly Late) 2023 Fic Roundup Post

Like it says on the tin, about 24 hours late, but I wanted to wait until Yuletide reveals were up, since 3/4 of my fic output happened in the last two weeks of December.

Due to a case of writer's block that I just couldn't shake for most of the year, I finished only four fics in 2023 and made barely any progress on any WIPs. That being said, I did manage to write about 15k words of a separate book project that I am horrendously behind on, so there's that. Hopefully I can do more of both this year.

One standalone fic written for a Valentine's Day exchange:

The heart is an organ of fire (House of the Dragon, M) - How Rhaenyra Targaryen arrived at her sister-in-law’s funeral with one husband and left with another. Written for @crossingwinter.

***

And three for Yuletide:

A Wedding in Firenta for @iberiandoctor (Guy Gavriel Kay, A Brightness Long Ago) - “Was our last encounter at the Sardi wedding? Piero’s older son, in Firenta?” “Were you there? I forget.” The other man smiled. “No, you don’t,” he said.

Over the past year, I have been trying to catch up on various authors who have written new things that I missed. Thus, I ended up reading three new-to-me books by one of my all-time favourite authors, Guy Gavriel Kay. I had only read the first in the series when @iberiandoctor's prompt turned up on the Yuletide list and I took it on impulse, hoping to make myself write something. And I succeeded, go me!

***

The New Galatea for @edwardianspinsteraunt (My Fair Lady) - Eliza Doolittle departs. Henry Higgins tries to move on. Freddy Eynsford-Hill succeeds.

Every now and again, my brain tells me I want to do something with My Fair Lady. I don't know how old I was when I first saw it, but I have incredibly clear memories of dancing around as a 3-4 year old singing "Wouldn't It Be Loverly," and feeling very close to Eliza at least as far as her love for chocolates was concerned. But the ending never sat well with me. Higgins got off too easy. And while I wanted to write an enormous reworking that grappled with an Eliza whose family came from India and thus added another layer of complexity to the class dynamics already at work, I didn't have time for that, so I stuck to fixing the ending and restricted myself to a few oblique hints.

***

Pandora's Mirror for@chthonic-cassandra (Penny Dreadful) - Hecate Poole’s history was one of betrayal and blood, but her end, at least, would be her own.

I have been long overdue for a rewatch of Penny Dreadful and came across this prompt before I had time to start it. I am now 3 episodes into Season 2 and already have a small list of things I wish I'd done slightly differently in the fic, but I'm very pleased with how it turned out given how long it had been since I'd last watched the show. Hecate is one of those characters who spends a lot of time on the sidelines, at least in the first half of S2, before her own internal conflicts come to the fore, and I really enjoyed exploring what her history might have looked like.

[jon-withnoh]

Musical Tumblr, I think we're missing out on Blorbo-fying Eliza Doolittle. I mean...

"Tell me no dreams Filled with desire If you're on fire Show me"

So assertive!