#Not much progress but some progress is still good!

[renderprism]

Burns researcher here, and long-term effects following injury is part of my expertise. I also have experience communicating research to patients and medical professionals.

And I think a component of this that will be overlooked (from the medical-science-as-an-institution perspective) is an ethical obligation not to traumatise someone with a laundry list of possible morbidities from any given insult to the body. Which means these discussions need to happen carefully so that people understand the cumulative impacts of illness in a way that won't cause undue stress (which can also lead to morbidities!).

This often means some combination of a) not delivering all this around the time of injury/illness unless the risks/risk factors are well defined (often they are not), b) having good, validated, actionable advice on mitigating risk of disease (still a work in progress for most chronic morbitities), and c) hoping your audience has enough medical/physiological literacy to understand the web of mechanisms that leads to any outcome in a biological system.

This a challenging thing to balance, and being a comparatively new field of research means good strategies for education haven't had much time to be developed and disseminated.

one of the culprits here in the public obliviousness about covid is that medical science has completely failed to integrate the fact that infections and injuries have permanent effects into wider culture. it has been documented and known for decades that narcolepsy follows viral and bacterial infections but most doctors wont mention this to you and many of them dont even know about it. every single time you get strep throat, an ear infection, the flu, food poisoning, a bonk on the head, major surgery, sepsis, or cold sores, you have a N% chance to develop permanent disability from it. the 'shit happens' principle of medical science has been seemingly purposefully erased from the public consciousness and im not entirely sure why. american litigiousness and the drug testing process maybe. getting food poisoning from someone not washing their hands before making your meal at a restaurant can not just kill you, but it can give you a permanent chronic illness like narcolepsy, chronic fatigue syndrome, gastroparesis, whatever. instead of this just being common knowledge we have this bizarre concept of diseases as being ineffable and irresistible but simply an inconvenience all good citizens must endure

[moonwoodhollow]

Berry's Oasis Springs Rebuild Project Pt.I (a work in progress) There's something I love about Oasis Springs and it's one of my favourite worlds to build in, even though its climate and architectural styles couldn't be further from home. I've worked on a "complete" Oasis Springs for quite some time and it's a project dear to my heart. First, I obviously want to finish rebuilding one world, which is something I've struggled with and never actually done before. With that being said, finishing Oasis Springs is pretty much the challenge I've set for myself this year. Second, building mcm houses has become one of my favourite pastimes in TS4, and it's one of those architectural styles I've come to love and be good at it.

So let's see how far I got in Oasis Springs until now - and what's still missing! (ramblings after the cut)

Disclaimer: This is not a save-file by any means! I'm not cut out for that, but (!) I've shared some shells before and will share some more in the future. Some of these builds are not originally by me - so they are - for obvious reasons - private.

When I started building in Oasis Springs, I did it without any intention of ever 'rebuilding' it and I used old blueprints of mcm houses to get a general idea of the layouts of the houses and the architectural characteristics. I had to compromise very often as the lots were too small or the proportions were off, but the blueprints have been a huge help for me to get into a groove with mcm builds!

I initially started out with cc builds, as I hoard cc and love to use it, but as I sometimes like to challenge myself (read: suffer) I recreate my builds without cc. Most of the early mcm-builds I shared on the gallery (ID: aeromantica) are also available as cc-versions, but as I never posted them "officially" on my blog as they precede its creation, there's no use in downloading them tbh, there's no cc list either and I'm not interested in creating one.

Let's begin with Bedrock Strait - the most complete neighbourhood, from which I shared 3 builds already. The above image was actually the inspiration behind Begonia Drive 509. Today (after a long break) I finally finished my latest build on the remaining 20x15 lot, which in turn started this whole "I need to write a detailed post about my Oasis Springs project"-thing lol.

And this is the build! A very simple yet elegant build, that some might recognise from my Literary Club post early this year:

So what's missing is the Trailer Park, although I'm not really sure whether it'll stay a trailer park. This was meant to be Johnny Zest's home and I already did the interior, but I might just add another mcm house, though I do like the idea that there's still one lot that isn't so 'polished' in between the mcm houses so I might just keep it. I'd have to add one or two additional trailers though.

Now, Parched Prospect is also almost finished - just one more build for me to build. I dislike the playground right next to that one lot immensely though!

I think the first build I built here was Wisteria Drive and then I just kept going and added the other 2 houses in a record time. The Spanish revival house in this neighbourhood that is also pictured in my header is not mine but is by @/alcearosea-sims. I think it's called Helena Drive... and it's meant for a bigger lot so I had to do some landscaping. For the last house in this neighbourhood I'm still indecisive - another mcm house or a Spanish revival house (which will be difficult on a 20x15 lot I think)?

So that's it for now - I'll be back with a 2nd part at some point to talk about the other builds in this world. I hope you enjoyed this little behind the scenes peak into this project!

[elleaitch22]

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 14: Living in the Quiet

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Sorry this is so short! This was originally supposed to come at the end of Chapter 13, but I was a little depressed 🙃 I’ve used some strategies from my therapist, so we should be back to normal now! Thank you so much for your patience and support; it really means the world to me!!!! I hope you love this little chapter! xx Elle

Warnings: Intrusive thoughts, negative self-talk, mentions of emotional manipulation, and verbal abuse

Word Count: 2.5k words

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Morgan was already waiting at the curb, ready to take Azzi to Four Oaks. The two greeted each other warmly, then they were heading out of the city.

Azzi decided to journal in her wake. Not about the perfect day like Paige had wanted her to, but she needed to mind dump. Or those thoughts she’d talked herself out of would come flooding back in.

For the next 47 minutes, Azzi’s pen tore across pages with no real break.

spiraled again today :) triggers??? it was too still, too quiet after nika and ice left. we were proud about progress, but there’s still too much to be done. i feel like didn’t do enough and didn’t earn them caring enough to help me?

i got a lot done though. finished soleil’s room. little table for her work, the bed, bookshelf. decorations too. we finished couch and rug and coffee table. would be comfortable when we did noon school. feels more like a home than a condo.

they helped, but i did a lot too.

still need to add more…warmth? charm? character? could def be more homey and comfy. would look good at quick glance, but not up close.

is effort enough? did it look as messy as i feel?

^ something grant would say to me

don’t need to earn their help. i’m in their family. i am wanted, not just tolerated.

i am safe.

i am not too much.

i am wanted.

i am loved.

i’m not perfect, and i don’t need to be

what to do so i can be better?

care for soleil

let everybody love me

date paige (?!?!?!?!)

stay

“We’re here,” Morgan called from the driver’s seat.

Azzi closed her journal, slipping into her purse. “Thanks, Morgan. We’ll be right back.”

She hopped out of the car, joining the other families going to the office to sign out their children. She smiled looking at their outfits; she fit in with the rest of them.

Soleil was sitting quietly, legs swinging slowly. Her big blues lit up when she noticed the brunette. She was across the room in the blink of an eye. “I love it hewe! I maked five new fwiends!” Her little face was buried in Azzi’s neck.

“Yeah? You had a good day, Lei?” She giggled, holding the girl to her front.

Short legs wrapped around her waist as Soleil went on. “Miss Wussell teached us about the pawts of a book, and I telled her you alweady telled me about books! And see sayed I was weally smawt.” She paused to take a breath. “We gonna come back tomowwow?”

Azzi strapped her into her car seat. “Of course you can come back tomorrow, Sunny Girl. Do you still wanna do lunch and school with me every day?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed. “We do volcanoes togethew and have fun! Oh and guess! I was on gween all day today, and Miss Wussell gave me a blue smiley face in my foldew. Blue is even bettew than gween!”

“Wow! That’s really good, Lei!” Morgan turned from the front seat. “Your mama is going to love that.” She glanced at Azzi. “Where to?”

“What do you think we should have for lunch, Soleil? Do you want burgers, sandwiches, or noodles?” Azzi asked.

Soleil’s face twisted into the cutest pensive look, “Mmmmm, sandwich please.”

“Okay, Morgan, let’s go to Léa French Café please. Then you can go, we can walk back home. It’s only a few minutes away from the house.”

Their journey to the café was filled with Soleil pointing to every building and naming the shape of it.

The two of them split a croque monsieur and a cranberry apple salad. The little girl asked the woman what they’d be doing after they got home. “We’ll do poetry and history some days and science and art on other day. We’re gonna do French every day though, I know you like the fancy words.” Her blue eyes widened with excitement, and her next monologue started, going on about what she wanted to learn about in each subject. Azzi catalogued the information, already planning the next couple of weeks. Soleil’s rambling tapered off as she finished her portion.

“Okay, Sunny. Ready to go?” Azzi asked.

Soleil’s arms stretched up, and her lips turned down in a sleepy pout. Azzi smiled warmly, lifting the girl to her hip.

Azzi’s chest tightened a bit with anxiety. She should’ve thought through this. The last time she’d had Soleil out of the house, Grant had gotten too close to them.

Paige made sure he wouldn’t be coming back. Soleil is safe. They are both safe.

Azzi repeated the mantra the entire seven minute trek back home, sighed in relief when her front door was closed behind her.

She carried her to her fresh room and tucked her in. She hesitated before dropping a soft kiss onto her forehead.

Azzi closed the door to her room, tiptoeing to the kitchen to set up their volcano experiment. On the coffee table, she set up paints and paper for their art activity. Then she got to work with labeling. Azzi knew that kids learn best through immersion, so she used index cards to label all objects and surfaces with the English word and the French translation.

She padded into Soleil’s room, deciding to organize her bookshelf while she waited for the girl to wake up.

About forty minutes later, she heard it. “Azzi, this is my woom?” A groggy voice called out.

Small fists rubbed sleep out of blue eyes.

“Of course it is,” Azzi whispered with a smile.

Soleil slid out of bed and crawled into Azzi’s lap. The relaxed in comfortable silence until Soleil’s head popped up. “I’m hungwy.”

“How about we eat some fruit while we practice our French?”

Little feet scurried out to the kitchen before Azzi could even get off the floor. She grabbed pink sticky notes and a purple marker and followed her out.

Azzi set a fruit board on the coffee table in the living room and clapped lightly.

“Okay, Mademoiselle Soleil,” she started, “The first thing we’re going to do is label the entire apartment.” She paused dramatically, “If you’re ready, say, ‘je suis prête’!”

“Je suis prête!” Soleil called around a strawberry.

They started with the basics. Soleil would touch a different surface. Azzi would tell her the word in French, and Soleil would repeat it. They would write the word together. Giggles and tricky ‘r’s filled the space.

“La lampe,” Azzi said, touching the shade.

“La lampe,” Soleil echoed, “Just like lamp!”

“Très bien, Lei.” Azzi praised.

Soleil went to touch the rug next, “Le tapis.” Azzi called.

“Le tapis! The rug is le tapis!”

When they got to the refrigerator, Azzi’s heart almost burst with affection. “Le frigo.”

“I’m gonna call it le frigo box!” Her voice was serious, brows furrowed deeply.

The got through eight more objects, la fenêtre, la porte, le canapé, le livre, la chaise. Then Soleil calls out, “I’m gonna sleep on le tapis! No mowe fancy wowds today!”

“Okay!” Azzi said, pulling the book off the table. “Come sit with me and we can read a book.”

Soleil climbed into her lap, curled up with her head tucked under Azzi’s chin. The book balanced against Azzi’s knees showed a brightly illustrated nonfiction story: A Child’s Guide to Pompeii.

Azzi softened her voice as she read, making it half lullaby, half documentary.

“Once upon a time, nearly two thousand years ago,” she began, “there was a busy Roman town full of people—just like us. Kids who went to school, bakers with fresh bread, artists and mosaics. And behind their town was a beautiful mountain called Vesuvius.”

Soleil squinted at the cartoon drawings. “They didn’t know it was a volcano?”

“Nope. It hadn’t erupted for hundreds of years. It just looked like a big pretty hill.”

“What happened?” she whispered.

Azzi tilted the tablet so Soleil could see the next illustration: a cloud of gray exploding out of the mountain, swallowing the town.

“It erupted really fast,” she said. “Ash and fire and smoke. People tried to run, but it was too much. The town was buried under the ash for centuries.”

Soleil’s eyes were wide. “Like a blanket?”

“A very heavy one.” Azzi tapped the screen again. “But then, archaeologists started digging. And guess what they found? Spoons! Paintings! Dolls! It was like opening a time capsule.”

Soleil sat bolt upright. “We have to make our own volcano.”

“Art class it is,” Azzi said, kissing the top of her head.

They cleared the table and gathered supplies from the recycling bin and under the sink: paper towel rolls, cardboard, glitter glue, old tissue boxes. Azzi snipped shapes and Soleil taped them together with great ceremony. The structure ended up looking a little like a very aggressive lampshade, but they both agreed it had volcanic spirit.

They mixed red and orange paint in an old yogurt container, Soleil stirring like a mad scientist. Then came the glitter—too much glitter—and finally, a paper flag at the top reading Mount Vesuvius in blocky, determined handwriting.

Azzi took a breath. “Now for the final touch—”

“I want to make a museum!” Soleil shouted. “Like the real Pompom museum! With signs!”

“I like how you think,” Azzi said. “Let’s make our own Pompeii museum!”

They turned the kitchen table into an exhibit. Soleil arranged the volcano on a folded towel to look like terrain. Around it, she added artifacts: a painted spoon, an old Barbie shoe (“a gladiator sandal,” she explained), and a small pile of pebbles she declared were “Roman gold.”

Azzi helped her cut index cards for signs:

Mount Vesuvius

Ancient Coins

Do Not Touch (seriously)

This spoon is 2,000 years old. Maybe.

The finishing touch was a strip of painter’s tape across the edge of the table. Azzi wrote in red marker: MUSEUM STARTS HERE.

When Azzi stepped back to take a picture, Soleil grabbed a handful of glitter and flung it into the air.

“ERUPTION!” she shouted, shaking the volcano. “KSHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Azzi clutched her heart. “So realistic. I fear for my life.”

Soleil collapsed in giggles.

They sat like that for a while, letting the glitter ash settle. Soleil leaned against her shoulder, catching her breath.

“Next time,” she whispered, “can we make lava that’s real?”

Azzi gave her a sly look. “What about Wednesday?”

Soleil beamed.

Azzi laughed, quietly, and rested her cheek against the top of Soleil’s head.

Their cuddle was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Go to your room, Lei. Close the door.” Azzi said seriously.

The girl scurried to the back as Azzi crossed her living room. She looked through the peephole, sighing in relief.

“Come on out, Lei!” She called. “Mommy’s here!”

Azzi swung the door open. Paige’s eyes trailed up Azzi’s frame. The corners of her lips lifted as she took in the smears of glue on her pants and the glitter on her face.

She couldn’t believe that she lost track of time this much. She looked like an idiot in front of the woman she liked.

 ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige was confused as to how someone could look so perfect when they were a mess. She figured it was because she knew Azzi looked like that because she’d been doing something with Soleil.

Her pretty girl ran around the corner. “Hi Mommy!” She yanked Paige into the apartment. “Come on. I can show you my fancy wowds and my volcano!” Soleil exclaimed.

“Wow! You’re learning French?” Paige looked at the brunette who was still standing by the door. “That’s very impressive.”

She smirked at the blush blooming on Azzi’s cheeks as she let Soleil walk her around the living room. Lei looked at Azzi whenever she came across an object she couldn’t remember, and each time, Azzi reminded her gently.

It was so fucking hot. Seeing how she dealt with Soleil.

“And we maked a volcano too, Mommy!”

Soleil walked her over to the ‘museum’ and smiled proudly. “A long time ago, there was a volcano that blew up in Pompom! And a smoke blanket covered everything. And then the people digged it up and found spoons!”

“That’s such a cool volcano you made, Lei-Lei. You guys did a great job today, baby.” Paige bent to Soleil’s level. “You know what that means, right?”

Her blue eyes widened as she threw herself into her mother’s arms. “MOVIE NIGHT!”

“Yeah, baby,” Paige smiled. “We get to have movie night.”

Soleil started to tug her mother towards the hallway.

“You girls have fun.” Azzi leaned against the doorway.

Paige kept her eyes on the pretty brunette until the elevator doors closed. Her whole body flooded with warmth when she noticed how happy Soleil was.

Outside of the singular sentence about liking her new school, Soleil’s ramblings were centered around Azzi Fudd. The sandwich and salad they shared. The pretty bedroom Azzi had put together for her. The new French words she’d learned.

Paige was comforted knowing she’d made the right choice when she decided on Azzi a month ago.

“Mommy, can we have popcorn and candy and soda?” Soleil asked as Paige washed the glitter off her little body.

She knew she should say no, but she couldn’t, not when those big blues were locked onto her. “Yes, but only a few Sour Patch Watermelons and a cup of Sprite.”

Ten minutes later, the pair are snuggled together on the couch in matching unicorn pajamas Jana had made for them last Christmas. A bowl of popcorn and candy rests on top of the rainbow blanket covering their laps.

“We watch Encanto, Mommy?” Soleil asked as they scrolled through movie options.

They hadn’t watched the film in a couple of weeks, and Paige was more than happy to sing “The Family Madrigal” with her baby.

Halfway through the movie, Soleil climbed into Paige’s lap, thumb in her mouth and the other hand tangling in long blonde hair. Blonde brows furrowed; Soleil didn’t suck her thumb unless she was feeling very needy.

“I haven’t been around as much as I usually am, hm?” Paige questioned, guilt filling her heart.

Soleil didn’t say anything, just shook her head.

A long kiss landed on the smooth forehead. “I’m sorry, baby. You’re right. Do you want to start our weekly Mommy-Lei Lei dates again?”

“Yeah,” Soleil nodded. “We can have a dance party too!”

“That’s a great idea, Sunshine. Maybe we can do one every Tuesday, and another one on the weekend if you have a good week at school.”

Her daughter nodded again, Mirabel grabbing her attention.

For the rest of the film, Paige couldn’t focus on the sweet storyline, only that she had let her daughter down. This was the first time something like this had happened. She knew her developing friendship and relationship was taking a lot of time, but she hadn’t yet figured out how to balance a partner with being a mother.

She was going to do a better job.

She had to.

[a-d-nox]

pac/pap: what practices do your spirit guides want you to do?

take what resonates leave what doesn't - nothing is 100% for you because these aren't personalized so please no angry comments or dms about what i am saying not being a good fit for you or that you "don't claim" just keep scrolling if that is the case. be kind, self reflect, and have fun.

last pac/pap: what’s grounding you and what’s growing?

return to the masterlist of pap/pac posts

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

enjoy my work? help me continue creating by tipping on ko-fi or paypal. your support keeps the magic alive!

pile one

i don't get the sense you are new to the spiritual practice realm. however, your guides want you to reconnect with your beginner's mind - slow down. stop consuming so much info and/or huge concepts. digest what you have read and sit with what you know. going back to a practice you used to do daily (like journaling, nature walks, and/or altar tending). go back to basics or relearning a tool (tarot, reiki, and/or energy work). getting out of your head and back into your who being. it's not just the mind that has to be sharp.

i think your guides miss you!! time for some spiritual reconnection - i mean it could either be with yourself, your guides, or someone physically present in your life of course. the main point is cultivating a sacred partnership. do some mirror work or heart chakra based self-love rituals. deepen your relationship with your guides like you would a best friend or lover: talk to them, leave them offerings, invite them in, etc. practice some heart-opening meditations or breath work.

you may be avoiding routines that feel "boring," but your guides say that's where the magic lies for you and your technique. you don’t need something flashy. you need rhythm. create a schedule - even if it's a loose one - do some cleansing, grounding, and/or gratitude work. stick with it even when it’s boring or you’re not "feeling it." bring your spirituality into your everyday, not just the ritual parts i just mentioned but the mundane parts too. washing dishes? practice a charm. walking? ground with the earth.

pile 2

your guides are gassing up your emotional sensitivity and intuitive gifts. you hold great wisdom through your feeling, not your force. so prioritize your emotions using water rituals, crying as release (that sounds crazy i know), intuitive journaling, etc. tend to your inner world before externalizing - your gut is an important compass.

pause the push. stop pushing through things that bother you. do a check-in: where is your spiritual will is being misused? are you forcing "progress"? practice spiritual surrender - everyone always talks about protection but what about taking all that armor off? figure out your motivation: are you being driven by ego, fear, or expectation? try out a "no effort" day: no rituals - just exist. let fate guide your day.

your guides are also asking you to break away from traditional and rigid spiritual beliefs - even if they are something you've created for yourself. so practice challenging spiritual "rules." practice honoring what feels real for you, not what’s "correct" by the community's standards. try something totally unorthodox: create your own spells, reject a common belief, challenge someone who claims to know all, etc. they want you to practice de-conditioning your spiritual life from authority - whether external or internalized - becoming your own guide.

pile 3

they tell me you've been dimming your fire either due to self-doubt, comparison, burnout, and/or people-pleasing. you’ve forgotten just how magnetic you are when you’re unapologetically you. so do some shadow work surrounding worthiness and visibility - where do you still shrink away from when being chosen? go dancing, dress up for yourself, or just speak more boldly. practice some mirror work or affirmations that are rooted in power and in not performance.

choice. a soul-aligned, heart-led choice. your guides are pointing to a decision you myst make: are you choosing yourself, or are you choosing comfort, fantasy, and codependency? more shadow work: where are you betraying yourself in the name of love or peace? marrying your masculine (doing/asserting) and feminine (receiving/trusting) aspects. another prompt that is coming to mind: what does it feel like to choose from desire instead of fear?

your guides tell me that you’re chasing someone else’s version of fulfillment or you're mourning a vision of yourself that never quite showed up. let go of your fantasies to make room for real joy. write down your old "dream life" or "ideal" vision, then burn it to clear space for what’s truly aligned now. shadow work prompt: what does joy feel like in your body - right now - not as a future goal, but as a present practice? open yourself up in general to joy - allow it to show up differently than you'd expect it to.

[sqgeism]

based on your most recent anaxa post... would he be sad if he found reader's journal entries, full of their misery but unwilling love for him, and in the last one they just write: "he is the knife i turn inside myself." and stop there

(anaxa mental breakdown?)

love mail — 🍒 ⨾ IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY WHEN PEOPLE READ THAT HC POST AND ASK ME TO ELABORATE FURTHER ON IT! not exactly the request but i still feel like it's gut wrenching,, this was acc v personal to me cause that diary entry came from my own poetry lol

after another late night, anaxagoras is finally walking out of the jail cell that is his lab. he wasn't doing anything interesting either, just grading a couple of papers, which brings more dread as he comes to a conclusion that some of his students will definitely be seeing him over the summer break.

but nevermind that, he just wants to be in bed, and by your side. because if he stands for any longer or has to think about another grammatical error, he's going to start pulling his hair out. and at this rate he really doesn't want to die young, and also bald.

as he opens the door, he calls out to you. "dove?" he also just wants to see if you're awake, and considering the fact it's 3am, he's glad to not get a response. quietly walking into the room and towards the closet, he passes by your desk that still has the lamp on and an open notebook. noting that it's probably research or something personal, he makes sure to close it after changing.

when he had already slipped into much comfier clothing, anaxa walks back to flip off the light, when a page from the notebook caught his attention.

the handwriting is messier, seemingly written during an unfocused state of mind. but then he notices his name, and how it seems to be a diary entry written about him.

the date of entry catches his eye and makes him shiver, this was written three years ago. and to sugarcoat it with a bucket of sucrose, anaxa was not a good man. hell, he could barely consider himself one for how he treated you. he was immature, cruel, and worst of all—undeserving. he didn't deserve your kindness or patience with him, for all the nights he knew you cried as you slept alone in a cold, empty bed.

the curiosity is eating away at him, you had forgiven him for his horrible attitude and he had learned to forgive himself, but he just.. he can't explain it. to understand just how much he hurt you will feel like the punishment he deserves, and so he brings the diary close and begins to read.

"ask me about anaxagoras and i'll tell you that the very same lips that kiss my head goodnight would argue with me for hours, that his hatred for the world ran deeper than the love he had for me—that the person he chose, he wouldn't dare to lay in the same bed with.

ask me about anaxagoras and i'll tell you that I know he can be good, that I can see the love he tries to bury so deep inside. but then he'll blow up, his anger gets the better of him, and suddenly we are strangers again. that our time together, our progress, becomes nothing. and his need to be right consumes the caring, loving part of him. even if he doesn't think it's there, i see it. but i'm starting to think that our conversations don't work because he's just a nicer person in my head.

but if you asked me to truly be honest about him, i would say he is the knife that i turn inside myself. i deeply crave his love, but the closer i try to get, the further the blade pierces through my heart.

i admit that i'm soft, but i don't want to have to bleed in order to love you. i need you to admit that you're too rough."

the room is quiet, and anaxa turns to your sleeping form with tears in his eyes. you were always so much stronger than him, and would say you are more deserving of the flamechaser title but he would never want you to suffer the fate he will.

to think that he could have died making you feel so unloved, it makes him sick. though he knows that you, in all your kindness, had forgiven him completely.

but how many nights have you cried for arms that never held you? how many conversations became simple exchanges of hello because you could never speak to him?

how much guilt must he carry for it to purify him?

and so he walks to the bed, quietly. he can't wake you now, not after he's done enough wrongdoings.

"my sweet dove." he mumbles, barely above a whisper. "please do not wake, don't stir. just sleep and let me carry the weight of the world for you for once."

he cups your face into his hands and press gentle kisses to your temple, your nose, your cheeks, the corners of your lips—muttering promises and apologies that you deserve to hear, but have also heard a thousand times.

he must reassure himself quietly, that his hatred will not last forever. that he is above the high that comes in indulging in these bad habits.

and that you will still be there when he comes back down.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Sickness Bleeds Into the Earth

Kidnapper!König progressively gets worse. I feel so bad for König in this one. That and the reader. And everyone honestly. These people are genuinely disturbed. I feel kinda like a monster for writing this.

I want to make it clear I do not condone anything that happens in this story. This is actively a story about the most messed up kind of person out there, okay? I just want you guys to know that!

With all that said, here's breakfast with König's mom and dad!

Tws: like, everything? Cannibalism references, murder references, abusive family, abuse of spouse, abuse of power, yandere, stockholm syndrome, lima syndrome, horror, psychological horror

Wordcount: 3.5K

Art from This Post

Rest of the Story Below the Cut

Sickness Bleeds Into the Earth

You woke up in the arms of König. You swore you slept apart, but at some point during the night he’d wrapped himself around you. You felt suffocated by him, surrounded by him completely like you were a mouse being crushed in the length of a python. You tried to move his arms, but instead they tightened and choked you.

“König,” you gasped, “please!”

You heard him muttering behind you.

“Wake up,” you wheezed.

He rolled, dragging you over his chest as he sprawled on his back.

Without much of a choice, you shoved your elbow into the soft of his gut.

In an instant, you were pinned under him.

“König?” you squeaked as you grabbed at the hands clasping your throats.

His cold eyes softened.

“Ah,” he gently removed his hands to hold himself up above you, still keeping you caged under his form, “what did you wake me up for?”

“You were choking me in your sleep,” you stuttered as his eyes bored into you.

“Was I?” he laughed, “I’m sorry about that. You know I’d never intentionally hurt you.”

“Do you always wake up like that?” you asked nervously.

“Only when somebody hits me when I’m sleeping,” he said smugly, “you know, there’s much better ways to wake a soldier.”

“I couldn’t breath,” you pouted pathetically.

“I know,” he kissed the tip of your nose with his snarled lips, “I don’t blame you. Just don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” you vowed.

“Good,” he ruffled your hair and rolled off you to pull himself out of bed.

You watched the muscles of his back ripple as he pulled a shirt over himself. He looked back at you and chuffed, “I never thought I’d ever see something so beautiful when I woke up.”

You lowered your eyes to your hands woven together in front of you. You heard him pull on a pair of pants and crack his back.

“I feel so old,” he groaned, “but that’s what the military does to you. Now,” he clapped his hands, “about this morning. I should let you know that we’ll be joining my parents for breakfast. As such, have your teeth and hair done. I’ll lay out an appropriate outfit for you.”

You rubbed your eyes and yawned.

“Yes, I know you’re tired,” he said as he opened the closet, “but trust me, you’d hate me if I didn’t force you to do this. Remember, I’m always keeping your best interests in mind.”

Your feet met the plush carpet and you stretched before you got up. You stumbled to the bathroom to be met with a grisly sight.

In the mirror, twin handprints coated your throat.

“König?” you called out.

“Yes?” he trailed into the bathroom and peered over your shoulder. He looked at your neck and smiled, “Looks like I gave you a pretty necklace.”

“I can’t go downstairs like this.”

His smile dipped, “You can and you will.”

“But what will your parents think?” you hissed.

He clapped your shoulder as he walked off, “They’d be proud of me.”

With that, you were left to finish your morning routine in peace.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, you looked on the perfectly made bed to see a light dress laid out.

“Is this for me?” you asked as you picked it up to examine it.

“I got it for you last time I went to town,” he said as he straightened his necktie, “I thought it would suit you.”

You slipped out of your pyjamas and set them on the edge of the bed. At one point, you had cared about modesty. König had made sure that part of you died long ago. Still, the thought of him in the shower had you flushing.

You slipped on the dress. As you zipped it up, you felt it snag. You cursed, but when you tried to fiddle with it you felt two leathery hands gently take it from your grasp. He zipped the rest of the way and then patted the space between your shoulders.

“Better?” he asked as he leaned into view.

“Much,” you agreed and smoothed out your dress. Looking down, the dress looked more like it belonged to a doll than you. Fluffy, frilly, sweet and bashful. This wasn’t the dress a woman should be wearing.

“Do you like it?” König asked as he put his hands on your shoulders.

You looked into the full length mirror on the back of the door.

“I do,” you admitted, “it makes me look…”

“Innocent,” König finished for you, “perfect for me.” He leaned into your ear to whisper, “Perfect to ruin.”

He laughed as you looked away, humiliated.

“Come on now,” he said, “you know I’d never do anything to hurt you like that. I promise I would never touch you like that unless you asked.”

“What if I never want you?” you asked.

“Well,” König thought for a moment, “if that were the case, you’d just have to get used to me using some of my toys at night.”

“Your… toys?” you asked nervously.

“My little pet,” he crooned, “I’m a man with many needs. If you can’t fill them, I’ll find a way to take care of myself.”

“So, while I’ve been sleeping downstairs…”

“Yes,” he finished for you, “every night. Even last night when you were in bed. Every. Single. Night.”

You trembled slightly. Something about the thought of König jacking off in bed beside you had your insides squirming in strange ways.

“When we’re married, will you expect me to have sex with you?” you asked and looked up under his mask.

He turned down as his eyes twinkled, “I will, but I won’t force you. Nothing unless you want me to.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you that König would grant you this dignity, yet still it helped soothe your nerves. Strange how morals restructured themselves when you only spoke to one person for months on end.

“I need to go down and make breakfast. Do you want to join me?”

It was a demand twisted into a question.

You nodded, and then followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen. There, he pulled out pans and bowls and raided the fridge for ingredients.

“You can sit,” he pulled out a stool at the island for you, “I’ve got this handled.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

His eyes crinkled as he looked over his shoulder at you, “No, you’re helping plenty just by being so good for me.��

He cracked eggs into a bowl and set it aside to chop vegetables into a fine dice.

“Now,” he said, “you must understand some rules before you meet my father. For one,” he glanced up at you, “no staring.”

“No staring?” you asked.

“No staring,” he repeated, “and don’t speak to him unless given permission. That’s not your place.”

“Is that all?” you asked nervously.

“Well,” he hummed, “there’s one more thing.”

“And that is?”

“Between you and me?” he stopped chopping to lean in close and whisper, “don’t trust him.”

He went back to chopping and tossed the ingredients into a hot pan before covering it in eggs.

You stared at König silently as he stepped around the kitchen, whipping up fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon and beautiful sunny side up eggs. On another platter there were sausages, omelets, even french toast laid out before you. Everything you could possibly want for appeared at your fingertips.

When he finished, he put the trays in the oven to warm and wiped down the counters and put out the platters again.

It was then that you saw König’s parents walk into the room.

Mrs. Henker stood tall and proud as she walked in a pristine blue dress. Her lips quirked up into a smile upon seeing you and her son in the kitchen.

Behind her walked a shell of a man.

Mr. Henker was tall, taller than even König, but he walked with his body caving in on a cane that only barely supported his weight. His twisted legs strained to carry his slight form as his clothes billowed around his skeletal frame. You only met his hollow blue eyes for a second before you ripped yourself away to look at König, who gave you a short look.

The sound of the chain dragging across the ground brought back haunting memories.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Henker smiled brightly as she stepped into the kitchen to hug König, “you’ve been busy, haven’t you.”

König leaned down to give her a stiff hug before retreating to your side as Mrs. Henker took a plate in her hand.

“You know, I’m still offering to give you a few of my maids,” Mrs. Henker said as she picked bits and pieces to decorate her plate, “I have plenty in stock.”

“I have my own help Mama,” König said gently, “she’s right here.”

You subconsciously leaned into König’s side as Mrs. Henker stared you down.

“She’s only one girl,” Mrs. Henker mused, “surely one isn’t enough.”

König bristled by your side but said nothing to defend either of you.

“Anyways,” she said as she walked towards the dining table, “I’ll be seeing you both soon?”

“Yes Mama,” König said, “I’ll be right out.”

You watched the pair leave the room, taking with them the tension that followed them.

Suddenly, everything about König made so much more sense.

“I’m sorry you have to see this,” König gently rubbed your shoulders, “I promise you I won’t do that to you.”

“You mean-”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed into your ear, “we’ll talk about this later. Now come on,” he stretched up again, “let’s get you a plate.”

You nearly dropped the dish when he handed it to you. He took your hands and held them. When you looked up, his eyes communicated an unfathomable sadness. He rubbed the backs of your hands and then took a plate for himself.

When you’d finished serving yourself, you followed König back into the dining room. You took a seat beside him as he sat across from his mother. Behind you, a taxidermy moose overlooked your pitiful meal.

“So,” Mrs. Henker cut into her omelet, “what are you thinking we’ll be doing today König?”

“Today I think we’ll be just settling in. I’m going to take my pet out with me to meet my siblings as we play some games together,” König started, “tomorrow will be preparing for the hunt, and the day after we’ll go out at dusk. The next two days will be for the wedding, and after that we’ll hold the ceremony and celebrate.”

“Any plans after that?” Mrs. Henker asked.

Mr. Henker eyes haunted you as you looked at your plate.

“I think we should have a day to recoup, and after that it’s up to you really,” König said and then looked at you, “is there anything you’d like to do?”

“Um,” you dabbed at your mouth with your napkin, “I think I’d like to have a day to relax.”

“Oh,” König laughed, “we won’t be relaxing.”

You thought for a moment and it clicked in your head. You flushed furiously and stuffed another mouthful in.

“You do seem like quite a happy couple, don’t you?” Mrs. Henker smiled as she glanced between you both.

“We have been,” König patted his hand over yours. When you looked into his eyes, they almost seemed desperate.

“It’s been incredible,” you smiled back at him. Immediately you saw his eyes relax.

“So, how did you two meet?” Mrs. Henker asked.

“I met her at a bar when I was stationed overseas,” König said, “after that, it was only natural that I chose her.”

“You went to a bar?” Mrs. Henker’s eyes sparkled, “I wouldn’t have thought you’d go to one.”

“The men in my squad liked to go,” König explained away easily, “I only came along because they invited me. But I’m glad I went,” he rubbed your shoulder, “otherwise I never would’ve met my little pet.”

“She is quite a precious thing, isn’t she?” Mrs. Henker laughed, “Fritz, don’t you remember when you were like her?”

You finally looked at Mr. Henker properly.

“I do,” his slurred voice whispered between crooked teeth.

“I miss those days,” Mrs. Henker sighed and stabbed at her omelet. She shook her head sadly, “You know König, it’s fun in the beginning, but the spark doesn’t last. I mean, if it weren’t for you and your siblings I would’ve done away with Fritz by now. You still want him, don’t you?”

“It’s nice to have him here,” König said blithely.

“Then I’ll keep him,” Mrs. Henker sighed, “you really do ask so much of me.”

“I try to be good for you Mama,” König said quietly.

“You’re little hobby is no pleasure for me,” Mrs. Henker chuffed, “it’s a headache. But the things a mother will do for her babies, you know?”

“I understand Mama,” König cut his eggs silently, “I promise I keep you in mind.”

“Good,” she replied, “you’d better make good use of the meat you get.”

“I plan to serve some for dinner tonight,” König replied.

“Oh really?” Mrs. Henker lit up, “I do love your cooking. You know, it’s so hard to find someone willing to do a good job.”

“I can imagine,” König said as he took another bite of meat, “it’s not a common hobby.”

“Hard to find anyone quite like you,” Mrs. Henker continued, “not many with the right qualities. You know,” she turned to you, “König was quite the wild child when he was younger. When he was old enough to walk, I found him crushing snails on the patio. Later, he went on to go hunting with my brother to deal with his urges. The military was a good outlet for a while, but I’ve heard you’ve gone back to your old ways since leaving.”

König glanced at you, “I do my best to repress it.”

“You always were my little monster,” Mrs. Henker fondly smiled.

You ignored how Mr. Henker shuddered beside his wife.

“Mama, please,” König chided her gently, “I don’t want you to make my little pet try and run away from me.”

“But wouldn’t that be fun?” Mrs. Henker grinned.

He shot her a dark look.

“I know you like your hunts, König. Wouldn’t you want to have a little game with your pet?” she asked curiously as she cut her bacon up primly, “think about it.”

“I am,” König said, “and I think it’s too dangerous.”

“I think you’d have fun,” Mrs. Henker cut into her sausages next, “she looks like she’d put up a good fight.”

You felt König rub a hand over your knee soothingly, “I don’t want any of my siblings getting to her.”

“Then make her your golden stag,” Mrs. Henker offered.

König’s cutlery clinked together.

“I think it would be fun! Everyone puts a claim on a target and you each hunt for your own prey though the woods. Yours would be your pet, of course. It’s only right.”

“And if I lose her?”

Mrs. Henker tossed a dry look your way, “You won’t. She’s not that clever.

You glared down at your breakfast resentfully. Beside you, König cut into his eggs silently. You watched the yolks burst and flow forth like golden ichor.

“We can do that then,” he conceded, “if you think it would be fun, then who am I to stop you?”

Mrs. Henker reached across the table to pinch König’s cheeks fondly, “I knew you’d come around.”

“Anything for you Mama.”

You tried to hide the sheer terror on your face. The sickness raged inside your stomach, begging for release. Your plate was filled with a plethora of rich foods, yet they all seem to spoil into acrid rot. All the splendor died into desert dust and burning gasoline.

Breakfast passed by quickly. With each passing remark made by Mrs. Henker, you felt a little piece of you die. By the end, you suspected that you and Mr. Henker looked much the same.

König shut the door behind you quietly. As soon as he did, you collapsed onto the bed. He watched you shudder and shake as he sat down beside you and petted your sorry form.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, “it’s over now.”

“She’s horrible,” you whimpered into your pillow.

“I know she is,” König sighed, “we all are.”

“What did she do to him?”

“Too much,” König sighed, “she took him on a whim. Unfortunately, my brother became attached to our father, and since then she used him to sire each of us. All the others were given vasectomies.”

“The others!?”

“She had a rotating series of them,” König said, “I don’t remember any of their names. They didn’t stay around long enough to bother trying to.”

“And she’s like that with everyone?” you crawled up into a ball in the blankets.

“Mostly,” König agreed, “but her family was keen on keeping us as the next generation. As such, we were raised mostly by our wet nurses and my uncles and aunts. They taught us basically everything we know.”

“So you were raised like this…” you curled your arms around your knees.

“I’m sorry my pet. When I was born, my blood was already black.”

You closed your eyes and squeezed your knees tight.

“I won’t hurt you like my mother wants me to,” König settled himself beside you and wrapped an arm over your shoulders, “I won’t let them poison you too.”

“But… But how?” you asked tearfully.

König took off his hood and let it lay by your feet. He rested his head against yours and sighed.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, “but I’m going to keep you safe.”

“Are… Are you siblings like that too?” you asked.

“Lisa is a bit like my mother. Friedrich too. Klara, who you’ve met, is more like what my father used to be. Steven is the most like him. That’s why he hates to see my mother.”

“Really?”

“My mother is… She is many things,” König intoned, “but she is my mother. Steven has all but renounced her and the family. I barely ever see him because of her. I…” you heard him sniff, “I miss my brother, pet.”

“Do you think he misses you too?”

König cackled and shook his head, “If he does, it wouldn’t matter anyways. He’s too scared of letting me meet his family. He’s scared of all of us. He’s right to be afraid, but it hurts sometimes.”

You slowly felt yourself lean into König’s side as you asked, “You’re not actually going to hunt me, are you?”

König held you tight, “Of course I will. I won’t disappoint my mother. But… I can make things easier for you.”

“How though?”

König closed his eyes and hummed.

“When we go out,” he began, “you will be blindfolded and stripped of everything. When you’re released, you’ll have a collar and you’ll be told to run.

"When you’re set out, go north as far as you can. You’ll be able to get into the back garden. In…” König’s breath hitched, “well it’s won't matter, you’ll know by then. Go into the shed. You’ll find the key in the mouth of the pot. Once you’re in, take whatever tools you can and prepare yourself. 

“My siblings may not be able to claim you, but they’ll want a taste.”

You felt like your bones would break at the slightest squeeze. Your heart pitter-pattered like song birds singing in a bramble bush.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” you said under your breath.

“I won’t,” König assured you, “but they might. If you can prove your strength to them, they’ll be good to you when I marry you.”

“And if I don’t?”

König barked out a laugh, “I’d be lucky to get you back in one piece then.”

You curled into König’s side and shook like an aspen tree. He gently petted your sides and soothed you.

“You’ll make it,” he assured you, “I believe in you. You can be strong.”

“Why didn’t you tell her no?” you cried, “you could’ve protected me.”

“I couldn’t have,” König’s voice cracked, “it’s not my choice to make. I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m only doing what I must,” he grit his teeth and shuddered, “I don’t get to make these choices.”

“Why do you let your mother do this to you?” you sobbed, “do you really love her that much?”

König laughed and fell back on the bed. He pulled you onto his chest and took you cheeks in his hands.

“I do,” he said, smiling despite the tears leaking out of his eyes, “I do and I hate myself for it.”

You dropped your head to his heaving chest and sobbed pitifully.

“Your mother…” you cried, “she’s… she’s…”

“She’s my mother,” König laughed again, “I love her, but I know I’m supposed to hate her. I know what she is, deep down. I see her for who she truly is.”

“And that is?”

“She’s just like me.”

Konig Dump

Konig Alternate Universe

Kidnapper!Konig

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

What would you say are Silver's biggest flaws? 

I know that, like with the other characters in TWST, he has more nuance than what he at first seems; I've gradually become a big Silver fan ever since he got more focus on book 7, but I feel that I still don't have a good enough grasp of his character to fully talk about him without unintentionally simplifying him to his most known traits. Because when Silver comes up in conversation, most people tend to talk about the more positive aspects of his character, when even Kalim-who is considered another of the more amicable students/characters in the main cast and in-universe-has had his flaws talked about in more depth by fans and meta writers than Silver has. To me his most noticeable flaw is that he tends to blame himself or feel responsible for things that, as far as I could tell, were beyond his control and that there wasn't much more he could do about it, but I feel that there might be more than just that.

I’d say that Silver’s lack of self-worth and overdedication are his most significant flaws. (I’ve discussed the topic at length in this post, so please give that a read, as I will not be repeating myself here.) Some other notable shortcomings include, but are not limited to: being dense/air-headed (which impairs his relationships with peers), limited capacity to think beyond the literal or in relation to combat (he comments that the heels on boots can be used as weapons on a pinch and, when prompted by Vil to think of a beautiful thing, Silver replied “you, Vil.”), tendency to blame himself for issues caused by his sleeping curse, and having difficulty emoting (which leads to misunderstandings with peers).

I think the issue with discussing Silver’s flaws is that people often attribute most of his traits as being positive without realizing how truly bad too much of a good thing can be. For example, Silver is “diligent”, which is usually positive—bur Silver is so “diligent” to the point where he constantly apologizes for things out of his control, adopts extreme methods in an attempt to stay awake, and beats himself up for not being able to meet certain arbitrary expectations he set up for himself, which is negative. I also think another issue is that many players don’t read book 7 (which is where Silver gets his deepest characterization) because they get stuck on the increasingly difficult battles in late book 6. On the other hand, books 4 and 5 are very manageable (and so you’ll have more exposure to Kalim and his shortcomings, but not necessarily Silver’s).

Before I close off 💦 I’d like to gently remind you (and honestly anyone else reading this!) that you’re allowed to “fully talk” about whatever characters you want 🙂‍↕️ You’re bringing up the topic, which already demonstrates an interest in having a discussion about it. If you had never mentioned it at all, then this talk would never be happening and no progress would be made.

Who cares if you “unintentionally simplify” a character to their “most known traits”? Can’t that theoretically be a good thing since you’d be explaining the character in an easy-to-understand manner for others to use as a basis for their opinions? And even if the interpretation you give is the complete opposite of the character in canon, what’s the problem? There is still value and merit in an inaccurate works. It can teach people what they don’t believe is true, which is still useful to know. My point is, there is no right or wrong way to discuss characters and you should “fully talk” as you wish. It’s not like ONLY certain fandom authorities or “accredited” fans are “allowed” to talk about certain things 😭 Don’t be afraid to start the discussion yourself!

[coraltinyrose]

RANKANE Fanfic Data

Prologue excerpt

Nonchalantly, Ranma approached Ryoga and Akane from behind. Or as naturally smooth as you can walk in a wobbling small boat.  “You’re always travelling, so… you aren’t studying through traditional education?” Akane smiled politely at Ryoga. Ryoga puffed himself up. “I’m a fighter. All that matters is how devoted you are to the arts and how strong you are.”  And that you wouldn’t be able to find your way to high school consistently enough.  As Akane looked like she was about to reply, Ranma lightly ran the edge of the energy bar’s wrapper on the sun-kissed skin of her neck. “Iyaaa! Ranma! What are you-” she turned to him, shuddering and then blushing a bit as he sat to her side, much closer than Ryoga. Was he claiming his territory like an ape? Meh. No one called him out over it. Akane eyed him with a good dose of suspicion, a touch of confusion, and what he hoped was a little anticipation.  Ranma shot her a wide, cocky, smile. Isn’t she adorable, blushing but still a little prickly? Before Akane could finish complaining (or elbow him), he tossed energy bars at her and  Ryoga, then smoothly inserted himself into their conversation as he unwrapped his own meal.

READ THE FANFIC

·AO3 - With embedded fanart [Read]

·FF.net - Text only [Read]

OVERVIEW (4-June-2025)

🕙Romance F/M

🕙Canon rewrite (Manga spoilers)

🕙Ranma x Akane, double POV!

🕙+20K words

🕙Teen and up

🕙Key tags: Canon-typical violence, Character development, Dreams and nightmares, Eventual Happy Ending

❤️💙Synopsis: Ranma makes life plans right after the battle in China, but his daydreams crumble when darkness swallows him. Meanwhile, Akane witnesses his decline and is undeterred by his new, closed-off behavior. She'll uncover the root of his change and help him, even if it takes a counterintuitive approach! But will their secret 15-minute deal really work? And can she keep taming her hopes of reciprocated love?

📅Release schedule: No promises! However, the draft is complete. And while edits (and beta help) can still occur, the gradual release is now mainly about creating the accompanying art. Although you may find this post in the future when more is available, or even finished. So just check!

🌙This is my first fanfiction attempt. I’m so nervous! Aaah! Big thanks to everyone who has been commenting on the prep art, cheering me on, mentoring me, and basically helping me reach the release point! Now the shared fun begins.

-crosses fingers others will enjoy it-

—-

-Some behind the scenes: old progress post here

-Ranma ½ is created by Takahashi Rumiko

[gayleviticus]

i saw a post today on r/openchristian where someone asked if people there believe in the trinity and there was a reply that was like 'how could anyone? have people not read the scholarship?'

and i think it crystallised something about progressive christian spaces that has bugged me - and it's not 'people spout heresy' 'people say things i dont agree with', but rather than i think for progressive christians (esp online) there's a bit of a 'problem of theological method'. and by that i dont even mean like, people are using methods of interpreting scripture i dont agree with.

but i think there's a bit of an issue where, for example, conservative evangelicalism explicitly teaches people to read scripture in a v specific way. inerrancy is a clearly defined doctrine. lots of resources model prooftexting and mustering up the bible as evidence for certain positions. there's lots of apologetics that teaches tactics for deflecting errors or inaccuracies in the text. bart ehrman and his ilk are peddlers of lies.

and i think when people step out of that bubble, there isn't really an obvious alternative method for them to read scripture theologically. and so people might often turn to the kind of secular historical-critical work that was forbidden in evangelicalism and go ham with that.

i don't have anything against secular historical-critical academia; i think at best it deepens our understanding of the human side of the Bible and at worst it makes conjectures that are perfectly reasonable from a purely naturalistic perspective if not from the eyes of faith. but it's not an approach designed to nurture faith or approach the Bible as a theological text; Bart Ehrman is not the arbiter of people's faith.

i think progressive methods of reading scripture theologically certainly exist (whether orthodox or not), but i think compared to say, evangelical inerrancy, they are much more implicit and subtle. they aren't as explicitly defined and taught to people, and people can use similar phrasing to mean quite different things.

and i feel like within progressive christian circles that can sometimes put people talking past each other, because one person is reading scripture totally metaphorically, one person is reading it according to a historian who said the last supper is fictional and Paul never existed, someone else is still using an evangelical inerrancy framework, someone else is interpreting through the ecumenical creeds as filters for the core literal non-negotiables of the christian story (what we could call creedal orthodoxy perhaps).

and in a way i think this can be harder to navigate even than like, catholic vs protestant discourse, bc in those debates there's more meta-language around differences in perspective (e.g. sola fide, sola scriptura). but i feel like progressive christian circles lack this kind of consistent meta-language that can lead to people talking past each other entirely

(heck, even 'progressive christian' is vague - i've always used it as the broadest possible umbrella term for christians w left-leaning politics, and 'liberal christian' more for people who deny supernatural elements of the religion etc. but some people will do the total inverse and swap the terms around)

edit: while i'm making this post i'll plug the podcast 2 feminists annotate the bible, which imo does a great job of modelling (if not explicitly teaching) a good solid progressive approach to the bible that isn't just relentlessly ceding ground to secular scholarship but also genuinely tackling the text while respecting it's value. (probably what we might call an inclusive creedal orthodox approach). i think it's pretty goated

[frostyharbor]

F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You're a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you're more of the "ask questions first, shoot never" type. It's too bad military men don't really follow the same creed. tags: slow-burn, canon typical violence, minor character death

CHAPTER FIVE, 6.5K

I could spend all day trying to figure this man out and wind up further from the answer than where I started. You consult the oracle (your best friend), reflect on your changing relationship with John, and have an early-morning conversation.

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MASTERPOST

READ ON AO3 or continue below.

It’s seven in the evening on a Sunday night, and you’re kneeling on your kitchen counter to reach the mixing bowls on your top shelf.

“I’m just saying, no guy is gonna go out of his way for someone he’s not interested in.”

On speakerphone, Chrissy’s voice bubbles cheerfully through the apartment. You pull the bowls down and three orphaned Tupperware lids start sliding out with them. You shove everything back into the cupboard and close the door on the avalanche waiting to pour out. Problem for later.

“You’re thinking about normal people,” you argue, hopping off the counter and shaking the ache from your knees. “These guys make every decision like they’re planning a mission. I don’t think they do anything without an ulterior motive.”

Chrissy hums. “No offense—”

“I’m sure.”

“—but you’re just an entry-level staffer. If they were after something important, aren’t there better targets than you?”

Fair point, you think, nodding to the empty room. Maybe it was arrogant to think you were being picked out specifically. But what Chrissy doesn’t know, what you hadn’t told her, is that you had been doing some meddling of your own. “Yeah, I get that, but I’m also one of the last people in our section left under the age of fifty—thanks, by the way—so the pickings are slim.”

“Only you could whine about making hot friends.”

“I do not whine.” A petulant tone creeps into your voice as you scroll through a recipe on your laptop. The days had only been getting colder, and you had been in the mood for some good comfort food. The result was a battleground of your own making, albeit on a smaller scale. The kitchen counter had been overtaken by vegetables, semolina, and seasonings while a pot simmered on the stovetop.

“Yeah, yeah. Exactly what a whiner would say.” Chrissy pauses for a moment while you chop celery. You wait out the quiet patiently, feeling like there’s more coming. “You don’t like these guys, I get it, but is it really going to kill you to give them a chance?”

It just might. Jack’s warning from before comes back to you. These people know how to get what they want.

But then you think of Ozone smoking lazily out your window, reaching out to feel for rain. Scarecrow and his family. John at sixteen, feeling like there was nowhere else to go. Still arrogant bastards, all of them, but… “I guess they’re not all that bad.”

Her voice sharpens with interest. “Oh?” 

“Don’t read too much into it.” You tip the celery into the pot, knife scraping over the cutting board with a hiss.

Later that night, the glorious aroma of home-cooked food still lingers in your apartment. But lying in your bed alone, the pleasant feeling of a full stomach has soured with anxiety. 

Without any busy work to keep your hands moving and your mind distracted, there’s nothing to occupy your thoughts now but John Price. You sigh into the quiet room, staring up into the shadows of your ceiling. 

It would be so much easier if he were easy to dislike. It had been much easier a month earlier, when you had only known of special forces units in passing, back when they had occupied some distant corner of Constanta that you visited only when the occasion called for it. It’s harder to call upon that old disdain now that you see them every day.

They’re not faceless shadows anymore. They have spouses and families, they like candy and argue over what kind of chocolate is better. You had always known that they were more than a uniform and a weapon, but it’s another thing entirely to experience it firsthand. To be on the receiving end of fond stories of their kids and to witness the easy camaraderie shared between them.

To feel a warm leg pressed alongside your own under a table. To sit out under a tree together like friends and talk about why you’re even here at all.

Squirming, you flip your pillow over to the cool side and try to get more comfortable. It doesn't help. Wary fears of hidden motivations and professional missteps circle you like vultures instead of sheep.

If they’re only just men after all, then of course they have desires. Maybe Chrissy hadn’t been so far off the mark. If he wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t bother. But it’s difficult to ignore the nature of their work. They’re deployed as well—this isn’t some pleasure visit where they have the luxury of free time.

Please. They went hunting for wild pigs and had cookouts.

But even if they did have downtime, you suppose it doesn’t have to mean anything. You could keep up the barrier of professionalism, play the cool companion until John healed and went on his way. A man as worldly and practiced as he would certainly understand.

But the illusion of distance is becoming harder to maintain. You don’t think John would be satisfied with leaving things as they are, and he’s the exact type that Jack had warned you about. A man who gets what he wants.

And you, for whatever reason, have landed square in the middle of his crosshairs.

In the days since your discussion at the picnic table, he’s been tactile and reserved in equal measures. Guiding you into a room before him with a hand between your shoulders, touching your arm briefly in farewell. When you sit together, sometimes he sits close enough to feel the press of his thigh against yours. Other times, he keeps space between you, what anyone onlooker would call a respectful distance. You resent the touch when it’s there and long for it when it's gone.

It’s intentional, you think. He’s an angler giving you enough slack to wear yourself out while maintaining enough tension to remind you he’s still there.

You worry the inside of your cheek with your teeth. How close can you get without being caught? An —God— would you even mind if you were?

Yes, you think firmly, trying to throttle the desire before it grows teeth. Jack already questions their motives, and now he’s watching you too, since John has been dogging your footsteps. You’ve been trying to keep your time with him in neutral spaces, but in such a small area, it won’t be long before your coworkers start to chirp. And if things become too public or too messy, you’re the one with everything to lose.

Plus, you don’t even know yet if that’s the game he’s even playing. Maybe to John, it’s harmless fun; wind up the stuffy diplomat and watch her go. What difference would it make to him? In a few months’ time, he’ll probably be on the other side of the globe. And you’ll still be here, working like nothing ever happened. A cautionary tale for everyone else: don’t mix work and play.

You’re surprised by how much the mere idea already hurts.

Annoyed with your own weakness, you cut off that train of thought before you can spiral through the same argument again. What it comes to is this: play the game, or don’t. You roll to your side, yanking the covers up over your shoulders and staring into the dark corners of the room. But you’ll be pulled apart if you keep trying to play it safe.

Sleep—when it does come—is fitful, disturbed by vague dreams of dark rooms and unseen corners, the smell of smoke and the sound of distant thunder.

----------

At six in the morning, the office is dark and empty. Most will start trickling in at about half past eight, but for now, you’ve got the floor to yourself. You make the most of the temporary solitude. The overhead lights are off and you’ve traded your heels in for an old pair of slippers while you fiddle with the coffee pot. The office is bathed in the soft light of your desk lamp.

While you wait for the coffee to brew, you lean back on your elbows against the counter to take in the empty room. The desks are empty at this hour, of course, but the half-filled cardboard boxes and barren spots where filing cabinets had once stood make the place feel even lonelier than ever. A growing pile of shredder bags sits in the corner, waiting to be burned. 

The smell of medium roast begins to fill the air and you let your head begin to sag, eyes going unfocused. Sleep had been elusive and it was early—it was too tempting to consider leaning your chair back and closing your eyes for the next three hours. 

Head down and lost in the whir of the machine, you don’t hear John at the door until he speaks.

“Mornin’.”

You twist towards the doorway, startled. He’s standing in shadow, one hand resting on the frame. He’s relaxed, like he’d been standing there for some time. There had been no footsteps in the hall, not even the sound of the front door opening and closing. He had simply appeared out of the dark to watch you from just beyond the room.

It’s nearly the same picture as the one he had presented a week before. The roles are somewhat reversed; you might not be injured, but you do feel like the tired one now, while John is looking into the room with keen eyes. His face has mostly healed, with only a yellow bruise remaining across one cheekbone. He’d ditched the sling at some point, but the right wrist is still wrapped in a brace.

Seeing him stand there, softened by the lampglow, the decision to keep the overhead lights off feels intimate rather than cozy. You feel your cheeks grow warm, but you aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of putting you on your back foot.

For a moment, you simply stare at each other from across the open office space. This isn’t a battleground, not in the traditional sense, but if it were, John would have the advantage. The exit is behind him. At your back, the counter is solid.

Still, you lift your chin. He shifts, leaning forward to accept the challenge.

“Should I be worried?” You offer back as a greeting, raising your eyebrows at him. “Weren’t trying to snoop around before anyone could come in, were you?”

John doesn’t confirm or deny—only smiles. “If I were, you wouldn’t know.”

Behind you, the coffee machine coughs and sputters. You roll your eyes, wishing you had something cleverer to say. With sleep still sloshing around your skull, the words are slow to come. You can only watch as he steps into the room, uninvited but not unwelcome.

He takes in the scene as he approaches, from the empty desks to your slippered feet. “Cozy. If I’d known we were dressin’ down, I’d’ve left the boots.” He gestures down to his feet with his injured arm. 

You turn back to the machine, crouching to fish a couple of coffee cups from the cupboard. “If you’d like to file a complaint, human resources gets in after nine.” 

Keeping a cup for yourself, you pass up the other one to John and point out the water cooler beside the counter. “The water cooler dispenses hot water, too. For tea.”

“Didn’t say anythin’ about complainin’.” He takes the cup and shifts over to the water cooler, quiet for a man of his size. You drag the box of tea out of the drawer where it’s kept for the crazy Americans who prefer it to coffee. The brand name—Tetley—is foreign to you, but John looks upon it with a vaguely approving expression.

By the time you straighten up, the coffee pot has filled. “Take anything in your tea?” You slide the box down the counter so he can take one of the teabags. Even as you ask the question, you realize you have no idea what people put in their tea. Milk? Lemon?

“Nothin’, thank you.” You must make a face, because he laughs. “Somethin’ against black tea?”

The deep amber cloud swirling in his cup doesn’t look appealing in the slightest. “Just look at it. Looks like torture in a mug.”

“Builds character.”

You smirk as you fill your own cup, the robust aroma of the coffee drawing you out of your sleep-deprived haze. “You must not have grown up on it, then.”

“Tha’ right?” The brightness in his eyes belies his gruff tone, like he’s pleased you’re coming out to play. 

“Tha’s right,” you mock, retreating to safety behind your desk while John mutters something about Yanks who think they’re clever.

You set your cup down to cool off. “How did you even know I was here?”

He nods towards the lamp on your desk, sitting down in the chair on the opposite side. “Light was on.”

“Could have been anyone.”

“Could have been.” He pulls out the teabag and drops it in your little trash can. It must still be scalding, but that doesn’t stop him from taking a sip. “Wasn’t.”

“Obviously.” You rub a hand over one of your eyes and stifle a yawn.

John catches it, raising an eyebrow. “Bad dreams?”

Quite the opposite. You hope that he can’t see your flushed cheeks in the lamp glow. “Something like that. What are you doing up this early?”

John rolls his neck and purposefully flexes his shoulders a bit. “I’m on military time, love. Six is late.”

Rolling your eyes again, you pick up the stack of paperwork you had neglected yesterday afternoon from your inbox tray. Sorting through it will at least give you something to do. Not urgent. Not urgent, but people will pretend it is. Actually urgent. The busy work keeps your hands moving and your eyes focused on something other than the man sitting two feet away.

Still flipping through the mail, you sit down, mindful of the coffee near the edge of your desk. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see John watching you, occasionally throwing a shadow across the floor when he raises his arm to drink his tea.

You’re nearing the end of the stack when you notice something unusual. Sandwiched between a battered manila envelope and a memo from the economics office is an elegant piece of stationary addressed to you by name in a flowing script. It has weight to it, hefty in your hand considering its modest size.

Curious. You didn’t think the U.S. government went in for expensive cardstock. At least, not for lowly peons like you.

The letter is sealed in wax with a familiar symbol—a crowned golden eagle holding scepter and sword against a blue field. The Romanian coat of arms. 

There’s only one upcoming event you can think of that would require the use of such pomp, and it wasn’t one you would have anticipated being invited to.

“Go on, then.” John’s watching from his chair, the steaming cup of tea looking absurdly small in his hand. “Or did you want me to read it for you?”

You’re already reaching for your letter opener. “Trying to figure out what something like this is doing on my desk, to be honest.” The metal tip glides under the seal, prying it up with ease, and the gilded invitation slips out into your hand. 

The top of the invitation is embossed with the same coat of arms as the seal, the front of it written entirely in Romanian. You catch the heading —Guvernul României, Ministerul Afacerilor Externe— before flipping it over to the English side.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Government of Romania cordially invites you to the International Winter Gala in celebration of our diplomatic partnerships and international collaborators.

Collaborators. You snort. Fancy way of saying top campaign donors.

Still engrossed in the invitation, you try to blindly replace your letter opener but miss the decorative mug where you keep your office supplies. Only a firm grip on your wrist keeps you from driving it point-down into your desk as John guides your hand to the right place.

His hand is large and rough against the thin skin of your wrist. Warm. Deliberate.

You let go of the letter opener, but John doesn’t let go of you. Not right away. He relents only after brushing his thumb against the back of your hand, the motion is so subtle you might have imagined it. John only blinks at you innocently when you pull away with an incredulous look.

“What’s it say, then?”

“Impatient,” you tut, reading down the rest of the letter and trying to ignore the searing handprint he’s left behind under your skin. “It’s an invitation to the IWG. International Winter Gala,” you add, remembering he probably isn’t familiar with the acronyms. “Fancy party for the city’s diplomats and politicians. Happens every year.”

“Ah.” John picks up his tea again from where he had set it on your desk. “Anythin’ fun?”

“Don't know—never been.” You had only been here for a few months last year when the invitations had been issued. You take in the location printed at the bottom of the announcement. “The Corinthia Grand Hotel?” You have to cover your mouth to hold back a disbelieving laugh. “But they’ve got an entire ballroom at the Parliament!”

“Romanian government doesn’t do subtlety,” John replies with an air like he’s quoting somebody else. He holds his hand out for the letter. You pass it over, still shaking your head at the government’s dedication to showboating. Anything to impress, I guess.

John looks through the invitation, skimming over the Romanian side before flipping to the back. His posture is relaxed, the hand holding the tea draped casually over the back of his chair. But he’s reading the invitation with more than just a passing interest, you think. His brow is furrowed and mouth set in a thoughtful line as his eyes move across the paper.

Catching your look and smoothing his expression over with a smile, he returns it to you. “Reckon it should be interestin’.” He gives you an once-over, obvious enough to be seen but swift enough that it doesn’t feel like a leer. “Bet you scrub up nice.”

He had made the mistake of resting his good hand within retaliating distance after handing the invitation back. You rap him across the knuckles with it. “I do. Not that it’s any of your concern.” You tap the heavy cardstock against your palm. “Doesn’t matter anyways. It’s probably a mistake.”

He cocks his head, making a show of cradling his sore knuckles with his other hand. “Think that little of yourself, do you?”

You give him a piercing look, folding the invitation closed and sliding it back into the envelope. “It’s not about thinking little of myself, I’m just being realistic.” You toss the closed letter next to your inbox. “It’s been a rough couple of months. Jack’s going to want the best with him. His most perceptive. And there are dozens of people still around who are more qualified than me.”

“Maybe it’s not about the most qualified.” John sniffs and crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Maybe it’s about who he trusts.”

You snort, certain that you’re nowhere near Jack’s shortlist of trustworthy individuals these days—John’s seen to that. But you only smile and lean back, unconsciously mirroring his posture and folding your hands on your lap. “Sounds almost like flattery.” You reach for your coffee and take a bracing drink. “One would almost think you want something.”

A flicker of some emotion passes over his face, there and gone between heartbeats, before he deadpans, “Can you bring a plus one?”

His directness startles a genuine laugh out of you, and even John looks surprised at the sound, though a smug little grin quickly finds its way onto his face. You let yourself be entertained for a moment with the mental picture of John Price in a suit and tie—what did his hair even look like under that hat?—but then shake your head. “Behave,” you say, aiming for sternness but unable to smother the growing fondness in your voice. “And I just might.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Conversation lapses into a companionable silence. While you both contemplate your cups, you let your imagination run away from you, envisioning John standing in a sea of suits and looking polished in a room of marble and glass. 

Somewhere downstairs, the front door opens and slams shut. You both tense, waiting, but the footsteps bypass your office and fade further down the hall.

You glance at the little clock display in the corner of your desktop. Not even seven yet.

John follows your gaze, but can’t see the time on his side of your monitor. His eyes flick up to the wall clock instead. “What’s got you comin’ in so early?”

Ah—a question you had been hoping to avoid. Rolling your chair over to your keyboard, you put your screen between the two of you. “Work to be done, you know.” You peek at him owlishly over the top of your desktop and try to turn the conversation. “Someone’s been taking up a good piece of my time, lately.”

The deflection simply bounces off of him as he sits up taller. With him sitting at his full height, you can’t hide behind your screen from his watchful stare. “Work that brings you in three hours early?”

Scoffing, you reach for your coffee again. “Is it so hard to imagine that I might have important things to do?”

And you do have things to do. Inspired by Jack’s earlier command to get with your contacts, you had reached out days ago to a journalist you knew in the city. Doina Marinescu, a woman in her early fifties, had been in contact with the embassy since before your arrival there, and you had inherited a polite yet distant relationship with her from your predecessor. A writer for a small publication in the city, she had contacts in every sector, from the Palace of the Parliament to the streets of Ferentari.

Well worth her weight in gold, you were certain she could break through the uneasy silence in Bucharest to tell you what was really going on in the city. 

The only question was how much to tell John.

Nothing was the obvious answer—you didn’t owe him anything, and this was your job. But you doubt he’ll be satisfied with a brush-off. 

“Things to do? Such as?”

Clearing your throat pointedly, you turn your attention over to your computer screen and choose not to respond. 

John takes the cold shoulder in stride and nettles you playfully. “They got you refillin’ the coffee and tea?”

You’re so invested in pretending to read your emails that the comment doesn’t immediately register. When it lands, you poke your head around your monitor, scowling. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? “I’m not some kind of intern, John. I do work.”

He leans forward, crossing the imaginary line between his side of the desk and yours. The blue light from your screen cuts through the soft lampglow, casting sharp-edged shadows over his face.

“So it’s work, but it’s secret.” He smiles, infuriatingly calm. “Hidin’ things from your boss?”

You feel a tightening in your gut. Maybe it’s about who he trusts, John had said. The memory of Jack’s narrowed eyes following you out of his office stings. You thought you were trustworthy. You are trustworthy. “I wouldn’t hide things from Jack.”

“But you’re hidin’ things from someone,” John deduces, elbow on your desk and chin resting on his fist. The pose is casual, but his eyes are sharp. Calculating. “Wouldn’t be me, would it?”

You open your mouth to reply, but no words come. As John sits there, still smiling and utterly unflappable, you realize how neatly you’ve been outplayed.

You can only hope he’s talking about your afternoon errands, and not about you hiding anything else.

Working your jaw, you wonder if it’s worth it to backpedal. Too late; you’ve already given yourself away. John, always watching your every movement, is no doubt just as capable of reading silences as he is words.

“It’s just a meeting with a friend,” you admit at last, squirming in your seat. 

“A work friend?” John presses, raising his eyebrows. 

Annoyed that you’ve been read so easily and unsure of how to sidestep his questioning, you give up the pretense of working. Smoothing a hand over your hair, your answer is begrudging. “A local contact of the embassy.”

John’s interest sharpens, shifting from the satisfaction of the cat who caught the canary to a hunter on the prowl between seconds. “A contact ? What do they tell you?”

It’s hard not to bristle at his tone. He sounds insultingly surprised, like he thought that the military were the only party good at intel-gathering. “I don’t know the specifics, obviously.” You let a small bit of waspishness seep into your voice. “That’s why we’re meeting. But,” you add at his unimpressed look, “they do help provide us information on local issues and the current…social atmosphere.”

“And what prompted this meeting?” Abandoning his casual posture, John crosses his arms again, leaning back to regard you with an inscrutable expression. The smile is gone, but his expression is contemplative rather than condemning. 

“Nothing has to prompt it,” you snap back, although in this case, something certainly did. But you’re not about to admit that you’re digging into the city’s reaction to the shadowy presence of the SAS stalking their streets. Not when you’re sitting alone in a dark office with their captain. “We meet at least once a month.”

From his narrowed eyes, you think John recognizes the non-answer for what it is. He lets it slide, but what comes out of his mouth next is even more horrifying than a continued interrogation. 

After he considers for a moment, he nods like something’s been settled. “Well, seein’ as how the threat level to the embassy is still high, it wouldn’t be safe to send you without an escort. And I—” he lifts his injured wrist “—am lucky enough to have the time to go.”

Oh, fuck me. You’re already shaking your head. “That’s not necessary.” More like not possible. You can’t imagine what Doina might say in front of John that might set off alarm bells. “I’ve never needed an escort to meet with them before.”

“Reckon the embassy’s never had an IED launched into it before, either,” John says, already pulling out his phone and typing away one-handed. 

“Then send someone else with me.” You try to keep your voice from wavering. Your fists are clenched on the desk and you’re weighing the pros and cons of pitching your coffee at his head.

John’s smile is wolfish now, not quite reaching his eyes when he looks up. “And here I thought we were gettin’ on so well.” He slides his phone back into an inner coat pocket. “So desperate to keep me outta your business, hmm? You are hidin’ things from me, aren’t you?”

There’s an audible click in your throat when you swallow. You really need to stop giving yourself away.

Fortunately for you, he doesn’t press the issue. He only stands, tea in hand. “What time are we leavin’?”

You can’t believe that just five minutes earlier you had been fond of this man. You want to do something to defend your wounded dignity—backpedal, deny, argue. But he’s backed you into a tight corner, and there’s nothing to do but concede the round. “Three o’clock.”

“Very good.” He touches the brim of his hat in farewell. His eyes are gleaming again, and the little grin on his face tells you he knows he’s won this time. “I’ll see you in the front. We’ll take one of our vehicles.”

He turns to leave. Unable to think of anything else to say, you can only spit at his back. “Subtle.”

Laughing, John only lifts his good hand before he disappears back into the hallway. As the echoes of his mirth fade, he leaves in the same fashion as he arrived—silently. You listen for the sound of his footsteps, for the creak and slam of the main door opening and closing, but hear nothing. 

Punching the keys of your keyboard harder than necessary as you go back to your emails, you silently amend the conclusion you had reached the previous evening.

Play the game, but never forget he has teeth.

----------

Hours later, you’re still simmering, perched on a low wall by the front gate.

The days are getting shorter and colder, and you’re bundled up in a heavier coat and scarf. At the gate, the local police mingle with the Army reinforcements. They inspect the stopped vehicles awaiting entry methodically, checking undercarriages with long-handled mirrors and looking through windows and opening trunks. When they’re satisfied, the guards wave the vehicle through and move on to the next.

The heightened security measures make your skin crawl with unease. In your push-and-pull game with John, it’s easy to forget about the quiet threat looming on the other side of the wall, but watching the soldiers patrol near the gate with their M4s brings the reality crashing back down. 

But that’s why I’m meeting Doina. The chill bites at your throat, and you pull your scarf tighter around your neck. We’re going to figure out a way to fix this.

You check your phone. 2:55. John should be here any minute now. The mere thought of him is enough to send a fresh wave of frustration crashing over you.

You wish you could say that your aggravation came from a place of principle. That tricking someone to get answers was wrong. But that wouldn’t be true. You weren’t upset because your feelings hadn’t been hurt—you were angry because John had outmaneuvered and embarrassed you. He’d used your ego as bait, getting under your skin with his little jab about the coffee, and then picked you apart with ease.

If you could figure out his weaknesses, you might have tried to do the same. But after your conversation this morning, you don’t know if that’s even possible. He’s made a career out of this. You? You’ve been thrown in the deep end without knowing how to swim.

But I can learn. Next time, it won’t be so easy.

Right on time, you see John round the corner of the temporary barracks the SAS has claimed for themselves. He sees you sitting on the wall and waves you over to where one of their SUVs has been parked by the curb. Gathering your coat around you, you hop to your feet and cover the distance at a brisk pace, hoping that the car’s heater kicks in fast.

John greets you fondly, showing no indication of his earlier little victory in your office. You suppose he can afford to be magnanimous about it—he hadn’t been the one up against the ropes.

He’s wearing a dark fleece pullover and has traded in the floppy hat for a black beanie that fits snugly over his ears. The parts of his face not covered by hat or beard are red from the cold, and his breath puffs in little clouds. You fight the urge to be charmed by it; it’s terribly easy to forget the machinations going on behind his expression when he looks so human.

You see that he’s carrying two travel cups stacked on top of each other in one hand. He offers out the cups to you and you take the one on top. It has a message scrawled on the side in boxy black ink:

Sorry fer bein’ a right bawbag :(

It doesn’t seem like something John would write. You peek up just in time to see his lips twitching. 

“Soap—tha’s MacTavish—caught me makin’ coffee. Knew it wasn’t for me and wouldn’t shut up about it. Told him I mighta ruffled your feathers a bit.”

“A bit,” you echo, voice clipped. But you take the cup anyway, immediately grateful for its warmth. John slides right back into the role he had been carving out for himself, opening the door for you and guiding you to the passenger’s seat with a hand placed lightly between your shoulders.

The nerve of this man. You climb in without protest and he closes the door behind you. As he circles around the back of the car, you scowl down at your feet—in heels now, not the slippers from this morning. Talking circles around me one minute, being nothing but polite the next. If you weren’t sitting down, the emotional whiplash would be enough to sweep you off your feet.

You study the cheeky apology dashed on your cup. How much of the sentiment was Soap’s, and not John’s? He had gone out of his way to make you coffee and acknowledged rufflin’ your feathers, but made no effort to voice any actual apology.

You probably won’t be getting one, either. 

John slides in behind the wheel as you’re fussing with the heat controls. The car had already been warm when you’d gotten inside it, but part of you thaws—literally—when you spot the heated seats. John chuckles when you turn yours to the highest setting, so you max his out too, just to be petty.

He shifts into drive, pointedly turning off his seat warmer in the process, and the car glides smoothly away from the curb. The line to exit the compound isn’t as long as the one waiting to come in; the guards don’t seem overly concerned with who’s leaving. 

As he drives up the lane towards the main road, John glances at you. “You’ll have to talk to me eventually, love. Need directions.”

You answer, but keep your gaze fixed on the windshield. “Turn right when you get to the Alley. It’ll turn into EIN Street after we cross into Pipera.”

John doesn’t ask for clarification, so he must have familiarized himself with the embassy’s unofficial street abbreviations since his arrival. The main road that ran past the embassy was Aleea Privighetorilor , Nightingale Alley, which most shortened to just “the Alley”. Strada Erou Iancu Nicolae , another street with a mouthful of a name, was the EIN.

The silence stretches out between you again, not nearly as companionable as the quiet interlude from earlier that day. John tries to catch your eye every now and then in the rearview mirror, but you only purse your lips, watching out the window.

He might think that it’s acceptable to slip an interrogation into casual conversation and then act like nothing’s wrong, but you aren’t going to let it go so quickly. 

The traffic carries you down the Alley, through the sprawling jungle of shopping centers and housing developments. Though still a neighborhood of Bucharest, it would be easy to look at areas like Băneasa and Pipera and think that there was absolutely nothing wrong. The districts were wealthy, dotted with luxury apartments and spacious villas, and were untouched by the unrest that had sprung up deeper in the city. 

You’re admiring a particularly grand villa peeking out from behind a stand of trees when John clears his throat softly. “So, who’s the contact?”

Oh, now you want to ask direct questions? Still nursing your hurt pride, the instinct to be snide nearly overpowers you. But clawing at him won’t help, and letting him rile you up was what had gotten you into this mess to begin with. “A journalist.”

“A journalist?” There’s a derisive note of judgment lurking in his tone. “Interesting.”

Tension coiling in your gut, you whip your head around to glare at him. “And what’s wrong with—” 

Christ. You recognize the trap this time, biting your tongue before anger can loosen it further. Irritated at almost being caught out again, you hiss between gritted teeth. “If you want to know something, ask.”

John’s expression is devious, his mouth quirked and his eyes narrowed. His low huff of amusement is barely audible. “Clever girl.”

The compliment is as grating as it is gratifying. You let out a humorless bark of laughter and massage your temples. “God, you’re exhausting. I can’t believe—take the next right. No, not here, the next one—you thought that would work twice.” 

“Dunno, it worked pretty well the first time.��

He’s laughing at you now, but it isn’t a mean sound. It’s warm and rich, and he shares a look with you like he’s bringing you into the joke; laughing with you and not at you, as they say. You stare back at him, curious and more than a little confused. Is this his way of saying sorry? 

He navigates the turn you had pointed out, steering the car down a narrow road shaded by trees on both sides.

You reach for your coffee to sip at it for the first time, not really surprised that it tastes exactly how you would make it; he must have been watching you make yours this morning. 

He shows up early to have tea with you and lures out your secrets. You take another drink, deeper this time, closing your eyes and letting the dappled sunlight throw shadows across your eyelids. Now, you’re in his car, drinking coffee he made. He could mock you for being so easy to fool, but he just draws you in again and…lets you win this round?

You crack one eye open to peer at him suspiciously. He’s not looking over at you for once. Just watching the road with that smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John had dropped his line of questioning the moment you had caught him in the act. A learning experience? You don’t know whether to feel condescended to or relieved.

With a sigh, you shrug off the remainder of your frustration. I could spend all day trying to figure this man out and wind up further from the answer than where I started. “It’s this driveway on the left.”

The home is modest for the area but would still fetch a pretty penny on the market. All sharp angles under a red-shingled roof, it casts a long shadow over the driveway as John pulls in.

“I got a cover?” John asks, parking and pulling out his phone to shoot off a quick message. You drain the last of your coffee and replace the cup back in the cupholder. You’re not about to throw it out; it’s possible that the message is the closest thing to an apology you’ll ever get from him.

You pause, pulling your coat around you and picking up your bag from the floorboard. “You can be a new staffer at the embassy. Limited understanding of the language.”

“That mean I get a pass if I accidentally say somethin’ rude?”

The look you give him is something between amused and exasperated. “It means you get to sit there and be quiet.”

He only smiles and makes no promises.

----------

notes

There are so many long street names in Bucharest; the abbreviations are my invention.

Thank you all for reading and for your remarkable feedback. I love hearing from everyone, so even a short response with just emojis or a single sentence means so much ❤️

taglist

@enfppuff

[nabi-unveiled]

Nabi Notices (June 4, 2025)

We have a slew of BL stuff airing, but I'm not fixating on anything. Which means...I'm treating shows like a buffet. Basically sampling everything. I'm not admitting how many different shows I watched this week. But suffice it to say -> I'm taking full advantage of the buffet which means I'm probably gorging myself more than I should.

The Things I Noticed This Week:

Fabulous Fit

The looks that caught my attention this week were not full outfits but rings and necklaces.

The Next Prince

I'm intrigued by this necklace that Paytai wears. It's a bit hard to tell, but it might be a green rose which are symbols of the cobra clan. I really need a better shot of it to be sure though.

Did Ramil give it to him? If so, is it a version of a day collar? Or is it more like the other gifted necklaces we see in BLs. Because a lot of information about their dynamic could be hiding in that necklace.

Also in the category of "Does this mean anything", choir boy Jay not only starting sporting a ring after he started getting close to our hidden prince. He started wearing a necklace too. One with a ring style pendant (although it seems too small to be a ring).

Trapped in Osaka

And the necklace that's actually about "fit" rather than symbolism. I didn't realize a man wearing pearls would be a big deal for me. But now I know that I like it. I like it a lot.

Fascinating Find

I'm breaking my rules and repeating a show (and rehashing a post). I haven't researched a lot of new stuff this week. But this throw away line in The Next Prince triggered a bit of research about the cost of ambulances in different places around the world. I'm truly glad for all of you who get free or low-cost ambulance rides. That's wonderful. But I'd be giving the same look as Jay if someone asked me this question. Speaking from experience, those rides are expensive here.

Fantastic Frame

I'm cheating this week in this category too. I'm choosing scenes rather than frames.

The Untamed

I've made it to episode 10, and there are numerous beautiful frames. But I particularly enjoyed this scene. There's symbolism with the rabbits and multiple levels of underlying meaning to the dialogue. And I appreciated the framing too with a noticeable separation between Wei Wu Xian and the siblings. We already know that something bad goes down in the future to wreck this picture of harmony. They may be dressed the same. They may be representing the same clan. They may be enjoying their time together, but there's still a distance between them.

Followed by Lan Wang Ji looking up to say farewell. We know he wasn't just saying farewell to the rabbits.

Knock Out

Just like the other one, this is more about the scene than any particular frame.

I appreciate the chemistry between this pair, but they also keep subverting the norm. Keen is upset about the ex calling and interrupting what was a really good time, but he doesn't pitch an absolute hissy fix. And Than chooses to let Keen have his feelings while still showing that he's there for him. The hard moments are the test of a relationship, and I loved how this was handled. For a show that features boxing and some darker themes, this pair has been much softer than I anticipated.

Fun Flourish

Reset matching Armin's outfit to the poster in his room was a great detail. The movie Rebel Without A Cause has a lot of symbolism for Armin. There are so many potential quotes and parallels that could apply. It'll be fun to see exactly which ones are relevant as the show progresses.

I loved The Little Prince cake in Moon and Dust. Honestly, this show is probably my favorite thing I watched this week. References to the Little Prince already get me, but this one was even a bigger grab than normal. Enough so that it triggered a reread. After all, if we're going to have dialogue references (which we already have) and use it symbolically, I don't want to miss any of the connections. I'm almost certain big bro is our rose and there are so many delightful implications in that. Plus, the imp is majorly unhinged. I'm here for it.

Favorite Fragment

It should not come as any surprise that my favorite dialogue segment this week was the one between Kenta and Kim in Pit Babe 2. Like many people, I live for the crumbs. Would I even be watching it if this pair wasn't in the show this season? Maybe, but I make no promises.

The delivery of this line just worked. Just a simple statement of fact to show Kenta's resignation that he is unlovable 😭 and Kim's disbelief to remind us that he really did grow up in a completely different environment.

Feral Fan

The special category that only comes out every so often when a moment either just really shocks me or causes a very very strong reaction from me. And this week there were TWO. I appreciate my mutuals that let me hash out all of my thoughts on these scenes.

The Next Prince - There's an essay here.

My Stubborn - I enjoyed this lift. I also really expected them to cut away, but...they never did.

People have had very different takes on both of these scenes. But regardless of whether you loved it or hated it, it had an impact.

My Queue for the Coming Week:

As always, this is up to whim and fancy. I'm going to watch a lot of things that are NOT on this list. But here's the ones that I'm fairly certain I'll watch.

Moon and Dust (Ep 3)

My Stubborn (Ep 8)

Two Husbands, One Wife (Ep 9)

The Untamed (at least a few more)

LFLS -> Finishing up Ep 6

[krokusplays]

// hsr spoilers // hsr leaks

.

.

.

What if the Flame Reaver is actually 'the good guy'?

And I mean the protagonist and hero kinda good guy.

Hear me out because I know this sounds rather... odd after the events so far.

Everything below the cut because it contains spoilers and some minor leaks(for the Flame Reaver's new description in 3.4 and Phainon's animations and 'identity') and it's gotten a bit longer than I anticipated too.

Now, we got the new description for him so we know that he's born from the Black Tide and he is "Phainon"(or rather, Khaslana)...

And we also know that the Black Tide is related to Phainon because a lot of his animations include effects that look exactly like it(and are as destructive as the Black Tide).

So ... what if the Flame Reaver is a fragment of Phainon, created by Phainon in his original form, with all the knowledge of the truth about Amphoreus and all the powers he has, to "infiltrate" each new cycle to try to break the cycles?

After Cyrene's appearance at the end of 3.3 we know she's involved in the cycles somehow. And we also know that Mem is related to her.

So, if his description states he's "born [...] to hunt the Coreflames", why did he go after Cyrene? Why kill her when she's not holding a Coreflame?

We know that before 3.3 his condition was... better than it is in 3.3. He was coherent, his mind still clear enough to hold conversations.

And, after Cyrene's death he hasn't been active either until Mem showed up.

So maybe that's why he killed Cyrene? Get rid of her in an attempt to prevent her from getting involved in this cycle? Because he thinks (or even knows?) that this would stop them?

Until Mem showed up and suddenly everything was continuing the same way as in the cycles before, so he began hunting Coreflames to start anew?

We don't know at this point how much TB/DH have influenced the current cycle but even so, the Era Nova is drawing nearer, the cycle is about to be reset.

And in 3.3, that's all Flame Reaver seemingly thinks about.

Flame Reaver is trying to gather the Coreflames, to reset the cycle to start anew while the Coreflames in his hand are taunting him that "all is futility" and his attempts to stop the cycles won't ever succeed.

"Cycles... can't be broken"... He says in 3.3 and it's as if he has succumbed to just the instinct - the hopelessness and desperation of this futile situation - to hunt the Coreflames. Essentially losing himself, his mind gone, not capable of a coherent thought as before.

But even so, even with his mind gone, this purpose will lead to a new cycle, supposedly resetting him as well... and a new chance to break the cycles perhaps.

If he is a fragment of the "original" Phainon, then the Flame Reaver cannot truly fail. Either he finds a way to break the cycles or he gathers the Coreflames to reset them and start anew.

Just maybe, along the way, after countless cycles, he has truly lost himself, his form crumbling, his mind deteriorating the further the Flame-Chase progresses.

Phainon even acknowledges that they're seemingly on the same side.

But with Flame Reaver's mind succumbing to his purpose of hunting Coreflames he's only obstructing the current cycle's attempts to usher in a new dawn despite ultimately following the same goal at this point.

The only semblance of coherency was when Imbibitor Lunae showed up. It was the only time Flame Reaver did not repeat how the cycles can't be broken, how everything must be reset...

And if initially the Flame Reaver really was driven by an instinct or goal to break the cycles, him saying how unfamiliar Dan Heng's power is, not knowing who he is, it almost feels like... a glimmer of hope?

Not for him specifically even but for Amphoreus? We've been through the "new variable" thing multiple times before and we know this is how it's gonna be here too, but it's almost like the Flame Reaver is acknowledging it too.

That is... if I'm right about all of this to begin with though.

But Idk, it somehow makes sense that the "original" Phainon(or well, Khaslana) was powerful enough to split himself and use the Black Tide's power(or maybe that's just his own power to begin with) to influence and infiltrate following cycles in an attempt to one day break them.

And given how 3.3 played out it becomes clear that our goal will be to stop the cycles and save Amphoreus (and hopefully all the characters)

[kirkwallguy]

crazy how we can criticize the racism and bigotry in DAO and DA2 without being bothered but if we DARE criticize the same shit in DAV suddenly it's an issue. The old games are good I love them, they also have a lot of weird and gross issues. There are many many ways they could've handled XYZ better to genuinely improve the games, not even just the representation but like story and character choices they made, DAV is not different. Weird way to word this maybe but 'DAV Looks more 'woke' so therefore it is and any pushback on that is anti-woke.' As well as the game being as deep as a puddle, it says nothing and everyone loves each other, the game itself tells players not to think too deeply and that every companion or good guy is just good and all the people you have to murder are faceless and purely evil don't worry about it, no nuance here. (like it's pointed out in DA2 that bloodmages are generally people pushed to that out of fear or desperation, the abominations we kill were mostly scared mages backed into a corner, you still have a lot of the faceless enemies but because there's nuance to the companions and main npcs it feels less bland.) DAV has issues with it's rep and to ignore that or worse, get mad at the criticism, is genuinely weird and ends up wrapping back around to being a form of bigotry. I'm repeating what you said but different atp but it's just weird!!! To an extent I can understand being so defensive over something you care so much about and put so much of yourself in (like a AAA game where you can be trans and that gets (barely) acknowledged, very cool I get it) but when it's being pointed out that a AAA game has some issues, you kinda just gotta acknowledge that or you're cringe and lame idk what to tell em. also crazy crazy that people who will defend the game so hard end up being bigoted shits towards its (mostly queer and ND) critics. Like are y'all woke or not?

tbf i DO still see pushback when people point out the racism in the other games, i think it's typically just one of the unfortunate things you'll find across all fandoms where white fans place their enjoyment over the comfort of fans of colour (+ other oppressed people/forms of bigotry). i agree though that the fact that veilguard appears progressive and makes an attempt at being diverse means people are just that much more unwilling to examine it properly, and there are so many reasons behind it that will definitely be familiar to anyone who's seen the denial of bigotry in supposedly progressive spaces.

imho if people were more receptive to valid criticism then half these arguments wouldn't happen. some people definitely get weird / mean with their criticisms of things that don't matter (the fact that the game is bad) but as an adult on the internet you should be able to differentiate when it's time for a fun fandom spat (and sometimes it is! who among us hasn't enjoyed some petty discourse) and when someone is having a proper serious discussion.

[the-calico-kitty-cat]

Since I'm currently doing a art project that's it's due tomorrow but I have to wait for it to dry I'm going to ramble about the dynamic duo 2.0

I think that dick would be decent to good in art depending on the medium they are using cause things like chalk ohh he would not be a fan he would accidentally smudge the lines if he moved to reach for something and that would kill him inside but he would be great at water markers anything that can be affected with movement he hates yet he still constantly draws with chalk

Why

cause it's what Damian uses the most and when he noticed Damian fixation with art he wanted to use it as a way to bond so he endured the horrors of chalk as long as he gets to spend time with his little brother (almost son)

I like to think that when Bruce was lost in time and he was still struggling to understand Damian he would sit beside him and ask Damian to teach him how things like shadows in different things work or he would arrive home with some new art material and quietly present it to damian and they would just sit drawing together Damian would occasionally mention things he's doing wrong or right

For other people that may not seem like much but for dick oh he thrived he was so happy that his relationship with Damian was progressing that he made sure to keep this moments in a special place in his heart and memories

Anyways my water color probably dried already so this is as long as it gets I'll probably will make another art and family Damian related post

That one calico kitty cat is once again forced to do work

This is me

[letsdosciencetoit]

WIP Wednesday - BuckTommy AU - I'm Where the Spiders Go

Another snipped from my Season 1 Canon Divergent AU.

BuckTommy - finally fleshing out their first meeting, but still very much a work in progress.

Premise: Tommy never left the 118 and Buck was assigned to the 122 instead.

Tommy is ten hours into his four days off, and he’s feeling restless.  He’s cleaned his house, picked up groceries at the local farmers market, and changed the oil on is truck.  He’s been contemplating working up the courage to head out to West Hollywood to try his hands at one of the clubs/ He’s still having trouble wrapping his mind around being out in public, even in a relatively safe place.

He bites the inside of his cheek while he contemplates the takeout menus in his drawer.  It would be easy to order something, pick it up, and spend first his evening off watching one of the Hallmark Christmas Movies he has saved to his DVR from December.  He’ll watch something comforting and predictable and wake up in the exact same place he is right now.

His phone pings with a message – he opens it immediately and see’s Sal’s messaged him.

Sal: Silver Spoon at 7:30.  Few of my shift are going out. You in?

Tommy considers it, and he already knows he doesn’t want to spend the night at home alone.  He’ll go out, have drinks with a friend, and get out of his head for a few hours.  He even likes some of the people on Sal’s crew.  It’s a solid, non-nonsense group, quite unlike the family Captain Nash is starting to bring together a the 118.

Tommy: I’m in.  You’re getting the first round.

He has an hour to get ready before he needs to head out.  He takes a quick shower, adds some gel to his hair, and throws on a henley and a pair of dark jeans that don’t have grease stains.  He makes a quick protein shake, and chokes it down before he has to head out the door.  He’ll have something more substantial when he gets to the pub.

He drives to the pub, only planning on having a pint or two. The drive is easy, and he pulls up to the bar right at 7:30. Sal already has a table in the back, but the pool tables.  He recognizes Gabriel, Osar and Maria from the 122.  There’s two empty chairs, and Tommy claims the one next to Sal.

“I got you your fancy fru fru beer,” Sal comments, sliding full pint down the table to him. 

Without question, Tommy takes a sip. It’s strong with fruity notes.  Tommy can tell Sal’s ordered him a double IPA, which while very good, is going to mean he’s only nursing the one drink for the evening.  One day he’ll make a point of downloading Uber, but tonight is not that night. 

He makes a note to ask the server what the beer is after he takes a second sip.  He actually really likes it.  Sal would rather drink whatever domestic brand they have on tap, and Tommy is certain that’s what’s in the pitcher on the table.

Leaning back, Tommy takes in the rest of the bar.  He’s about to ask if the remaining seat is saved for someone when he clocks movement at the entrance.  The kid walking in is wearing tight ripped jeans, boots, and a leather jacket that is definitely too warm for the weather they’re having.  Tommy clocks the birthmark above his left eye, and the way his whole face lights up when he spots his team at the table.

The kid practically bounces over to the table, and Oscar calls out, “Probie!  If it isn’t the hero of the hour!”

The probie ducks his head, and his whole face flushes.  Tommy already knows he’s in trouble.

[taintedsoul-if]

There’s just something about posting demos on Mondays. 🙂‍↕️

Hi everyone,

I’m currently 6k words into the second part of Chapter 3. I won’t be mentioning the Gledir Academy enrollment, as that scene had already been drafted when I began rewriting TS, so I’ll be doing some light tweaking here and there. Only paid patrons who played S’s route will know this, but the MC needs a Heartseed in order to heal S. Because of that, I plan to include a time skip.

For this week, my writing process is fairly straightforward. I plan to finish the entire scene where the MC kicks Yesenia out of the house that once belonged to the OH. After that, there will be a visit to the palace, as the MC will be invited by the Emperor. Somewhere along the way, I’ll also work in S’s mission.

After the time skip, there will be the reenrollment scene—which is going to be a pretty big one.

I intend to release the second part of Chapter 3 on the last Monday of this month. Sometime next week, I’ll put up a poll to see which character readers would like to interview. It’s not much, but it’s honest work. Here’s to 50k more words! 🥂

As I’ve mentioned before, the public will get access to this update once everything is completed and polished to perfection. Just think about it—y’all will be eating good.

I also plan to jump straight into Chapter 4 afterward, which will open with the masquerade ball. Yes, I changed my mind about placing it at the end of Chapter 3. It’s too big of an event to be glossed over. Anyway, this is just a random progress report to let you all know I’m still scribbling away.

And a question for all readers: how do you feel about random characters having sex?

There’s a scene coming up between Yesenia and the Emperor, and I’m debating whether to leave it as a fade-to-black... or just let y’all witness her getting pounded into the mattress, lol.