#St. John of Revelation

[daemonicdasein]

Satan (the dragon; on the left) gives to the beast of the sea (on the right) power represented by a sceptre in a detail of panel III.40 of the medieval French Apocalypse Tapestry, produced between 1377 and 1382.

[uwmspeccoll]

An Apocalyptic Manuscript Monday

This week we present our facsimile of the 14th-century Cloisters Apocalypse, published in 1971 by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. As described in the introduction to the commentary about the manuscript, “[famine], pestilence, strife, and untimely death inspired apocalyptic fantasies and movements in Europe throughout the Middle Ages” (page 9), and this environmental influence led to the popularity of apocalyptic manuscripts like this French Apocalypse. Made in the 1330s for a Norman aristocratic couple, this manuscript has a few interesting details that set it apart from other Apocalypses, especially in relation to two other manuscripts in London (British Library, Add. Ms. 17333) and Paris (Bibliothèque Nationale, ms. Lat. 14410) that share similar formats, styles, and sequences with the Cloisters manuscript.

The first unique detail is the prefatory cycle of the life of Jesus in the introductory folios (1-2 verso). Since the Apocalypse of St. John the Divine (also known as the book of Revelation) was written by a titular St. John, prefatory cycles in Apocalypses usually consist of his life, rather than Christ’s. The other aspect of this manuscript that makes it distinct amongst its sister manuscripts is the addition of a dedication page on folio 38 verso. This page shows a man and woman kneeling in front of a tonsured saint and the Virgin and Child, respectively, representing the people for whom this manuscript was originally made for.

Interestingly, this manuscript also has multiple pages added to the original manuscript. Pasted on the inside front cover are handwritten provenance notes. The manuscript also did not originally include chapters and verses 16:14 through 20:3, and pages with this text were later added to the manuscript after the dedication page.

The materials used to create this manuscript include tempera, gold, silver, and ink on parchment with a later leather binding. If you are interested in seeing this unique Apocalypse manuscript, you can either use our facsimile, visit Gallery 13 of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Cloisters where the original is on display, or view their digital presentation of the manuscript.

View other posts on our facsimiles of illuminated manuscripts.

– Sarah S., Special Collections Graduate Intern

[ahopefulbromantic]

The Book of Revelation is so fascinating.

Like how John saw the four animal-like creatures in Heaven, praising God. And i found out how many bible scholars understand those creatures as the four Gospel writers (i had a theory they might've also been their guardian angels but let's stick with the boys for now).

Can you imagine?

Can you imagine being taken to Heaven and seeing your own soul in there, not only being there but leading the whole Heavenly congregation in praising God?! A soul so resplendent and wonderful, so holy you can't even recognize it as your own? Struggling to even compare it to anything and settling on a "many eyed soaring eagle"?!

Truly a "What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived - the things God has prepared for those who love him" moment

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Nicolas Poussin (French, 1594-1665) Landscape with Saint John on Patmos, 1640

"I John, who also am your brother, and companion in tribulation, and in the kingdom and patience of Jesus Christ, was in the isle that is called Patmos, for the word of God, and for the testimony of Jesus Christ" (Revelation 1:9). - The Bible

[northemoonduringthenight]

And there was a great battle in heaven, Michael and his angels fought with the dragon, and the dragon fought and his angels: and they prevailed not, neither was their place found any more in heaven.

The Apocalypse of St John (Revelation) 12:7-8 Douay-Rheims Bible.

Artwork: St. Michael the Archangel from the Hours of Henry IV of France late C15th.

[yashayskahson]

A sketch of St. John the Apostle dictating the book of Revelation to his scribe, St. Prochorus

[heavy-nfld]

New music from Tunchelli!

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

When Terry Pratchett and I wrote Good Omens, we put a lot of Christianity into it, with me being the one that had actually read the Revelation of St John of Patmos, and made notes on what we needed to include. Good Omens began as humorous look at The Omen, which was itself a mass market film about the coming of the Christian End Times, so we felt one of us needed to have read it for research. Good Omens was also inspired by a particularly antisemitic moment in The Jew of Malta, John le Carre's spy novels and most of all by Richmal Crompton's William books.

Oh, I don't think I've heard the bit anout John le Carré's spy novels before! :)❤

Dear Mr. Gaiman, I saw your Wired interview on mythology support on YouTube, and I would like to ask a question regarding mythological studies if I may: being a British white man as you are, is it okay to study Christianity's mythologies like it's a set of story elements that can be treated as decorationa of commerical products like video games, comic books and novels, or is Christianity something that cannot be toyed with with a light attitude for a Westerner? I'm East Asian myself (my first language is Mandarin and my family is Buddhist) and in East Asia mythological elements are talked about like material to be used in video game design or storytelling, and I know that that can be troubling for the truly Christian communities. So basically what I'd like to ask you is your view on the propiety of using biblical references in commercial fiction or products, especially with regards to taboos like the names of demons, which is often seen in Japanese video games and popular media. Is it okay to view such usage as harmless to the audience such as children or teens?

Good question. I don't know. I was a Jewish kid who was a scholarship kid at a Church of England school, the kind with chapel services every morning, so I was more familiar with High Church Protestant songs and services than with Jewish ones. I was top of the class, always, in religious studies, even though for me they were all just more mythology.

I suspect that my attitude was "if I have to learn this then it's mine to use". If they didn't want me to use it, they were free not to teach it to me.

When Terry Pratchett and I wrote Good Omens, we put a lot of Christianity into it, with me being the one that had actually read the Revelation of St John of Patmos, and made notes on what we needed to include. Good Omens began as humorous look at The Omen, which was itself a mass market film about the coming of the Christian End Times, so we felt one of us needed to have read it for research. Good Omens was also inspired by a particularly antisemitic moment in The Jew of Malta, John le Carre's spy novels and most of all by Richmal Crompton's William books.

I would need a deep dive into what you mean by "harmless" before I could hazard a guess as to whether it was that or not and whether fiction should be harmless or not.

[bedcorpse]

good omens singlehandedly out here curing my religious trauma

[judahmaccabees]

gl in Hell now turds

Perverts suck Mammon's cock for a living and are Damned to Hell for forcing it on you.

Spiritual sloths don't help the innocent but attempt to rape them into conformity.

Matthew 25:41-46

Jude 1:8

CELESTIAL

it's what Doctors do. We Heal.

Surgery too.

---

Sweet oligarchs on thy pedestals, stamping out the innocent for Mammon, saying God's name,

YOU WILL LEARN THE *NAME* OF GOD.

Alam-Alak-Am

Poison, Pain, Panacea

Perseverance Preservation & Possession

Holy Spirit of Truth,

Passion of the Prince of Peace,

Bitter Herb Healing

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Eight: knock knock

tw: non-con kissing, fear, misogyny, violence, minor gore, hurt/comfort, minor homophobia, grief

You wonder what your father would think if he could see you now. 

Not that he would ever be found in a place like this. A saloon. He would never sully himself by putting his body—his heavenly temple—in close proximity to prostitutes and other heathens. It’s the same reason why he always sent you to Mr. Beckett’s to retrieve the wine for communion instead of fetching it himself. Still, you can hear the way he would castigate you. 

First, it would start with his words. They’ve always cut like swords—his tongue is the sharpest blade you’ve ever had the misfortune of injuring yourself with. He would call you a harlot. Some cocotte that enjoys preying on men, yearning for their money for the no-so-simple exchange of her body. 

Revelation whispers into the shell of your ear:

But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death. 

Then, it would be his love. It’s the bending of your spine as he forces you to kneel in the church as if praying, or at the dinner table where you used to help your mother make bread. It’s the splitting of your knuckles as his wooden stick cracks over your hands. He’ll tell you that he loves you while he rips you to shreds, leaving you to be nothing but raw flesh and brine. You think that—maybe—you’ve always been a lamb. Maybe John Price and the wolf that he is doesn’t scare you because you’ve lived with a wolf in your home for your whole life. 

A wolf that likes to punish. 

But is this not punishment enough? This man on your mouth and his tongue on your lips? Are his hands on your shoulder and waist supposed to be any kinder than rice embedding itself into your skin, nettling deep until your epidermis is raw and open? How could you be punished for something you don’t enjoy to begin with—what could be any worse than the hum of vocal cords against your jaw? 

So you make a show of your discomfort. You cannot allow God to attempt to think that you enjoy this, so you press your hands against his chest and rear your head to the side in an attempt to break your louche union. Somehow, it works. The stranger’s hands are no longer on you, and a loud squeak cuts through the clamor of the saloon as his chair slides back. Fingers covering your mouth, you stare at him with wide eyes when you realize he’s laying on the floor. 

He does not look at you, but rather John, who overshadows him with clenched fists. 

“Get up,” John says. His voice is low and even, and you’re not sure why that terrifies you more than if he were to just bark the order. 

Glazed eyes stare up at John as the stranger slowly makes sense of his new position on the ground. “The hell did you knock me over for, partner?” 

“I don’t have time for this,” he huffs. Strong fingers curl into the man’s shirt as John reaches down for him, and he yanks his waifish frame off of the floor until the stranger is on his feet. He hollars as John kicks the back of his legs, forcing him onto his knees in front of you. “Apologize.” 

Snarling, the man coughs as he looks over his shoulder. “What would I apologize to a whore for?” 

The sound of knuckles against a cheekbone rips throughout the saloon where it silences the chatter as John punches the man. Groaning, he clutches the side of his face as John’s fingers weave through his thinned hair. He yanks his head until his attention is back on you. 

“She’s not some fuckin’ prostitute, this is my girl—my responsibility—and you had your fuckin’ hands all over her. Now apologize!” 

Though there is a man groveling at your feet, you cannot remove your gaze from John. You’ve never seen him so incensed before—not even when he shot that stranger for insinuating he wanted to breed you like cattle. Sapphire fire burns in the depths of his eyes as he stares down at the pathetic worm at his feet, lips curling in a snarl. 

While the man squabbles with John, a new hand rests on your shoulder, causing them to curl and spasm as you jump. You’re met with Riley’s masked face as he looks down at you, wary eyes flickering to the drunken idiot every now and then. Soap stands  behind him with rosy cheeks and an eager grin on his face. “You alright?” 

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure. 

“What’s the trouble?” 

A new voice smothers your assaulter’s babbling as a man weaves through the crowd. The brim of his hat seems slightly too large for how small his head is, yet he carries himself as if he wears a crown. 

John doesn’t bother to look away from where his fist clenches and yanks on the stranger’s hair. “The trouble is this son of a bitch. You’re doing an awful lot of squawking there boy, and I still have yet to hear an apology come outta your fuckin’ mouth.” 

“Help me, Cass!” the man begs. “He’s talkin’ crazy!” 

The man—Cass—sighs as he takes a step forward. The crowd behind him watches on with curious eyes as he places his hand on John’s shoulder. “Come on, partner. I think he’s had enough.” 

John’s mandible dances beneath the flesh of his jaw, and you swear you can hear his teeth creak. “I’m only gonna ask this once: get your fuckin’ hand off of me.” 

“Please, I really don’t think-” 

The man doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before John’s fist sinks into the side of his face. Cass’s too-wide hat is sent flying as he stumbles backwards and hits the floor flat on his back with a padded thud. If the saloon was quiet before, it’s dead silent now; enough for you to hear the tensing of muscles and widening of eyes. Then, there’s murmurs. Gazes shift from side to side as a few patrons cower away, making room for larger ruffians to weave through the establishment. Simon huffs like a bull as he turns to face the eavesdroppers, but none of them seem deterred by his dark gaze or covered face. 

John shoves your assaulter on top of his friend before addressing the crowd with open arms. “Well?” 

You don’t know who throws the first punch, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. Limbs begin to sail through the air as men lunge at one another, and grunts mark uncomfortable contact as the brawl ensues. Petrified, you watch from your seat as people wail on one another without discrimination. Two men punch one another at least three times each before seemingly recognizing each other and quickly apologizing before turning around to hit someone else. 

John, Riley, and Soap have vanished somewhere into the sea of bodies before you. As you squint in an attempt to find one of them, a viscous spray of blood sends a fine mist into the air as someone loses a tooth. Your stomach twists as you watch the moist bone clatter along the scuffed wooden floorboards. 

It isn’t until the cool night air hits your skin that you realize you’ve left the building. The waning moon offers little illumination through the darkened streets, but you manage to stumble along the sodden mud anyway. Your heart pounds so fiercely in your chest that you find your hand covering your sternum as if it’ll burst free from your body and run off to be inside of a better host. 

What a mess you’ve created. 

Torpid legs drag you to the only place that feels remotely close to home—Little Wood’s church. The windows are pale, and instead of brimming with life, it sleeps soundly in the midst of town, blissfully unaware of the violent ruction taking place just a few buildings down. The gravel path twists and winds through a well kept lawn before abruptly ending at the edge of the stairs that leads up to the entrance. 

Lacking the tenacity to enter through those doors, you instead find yourself sitting on the porch. Gold weighs heavily on your neck as your crucifix pendant burns a hole into your chest. Still, its searing brand is nothing compared to the tingling sensation of your lips as if you can feel the way filth penetrates your body until you’re rotten to your very marrow. Your fingers twitch with the urge to pray for forgiveness, but your tongue is not sure what it would say. Sorry doesn’t seem sufficient. You don’t think a single word will be capable of cleansing you. 

You sit and ruminate in front of that church for what feels like hours before you hear heavy footsteps cut through the darkness. Eyes flickering up away from your lap, you are not surprised to find John moseying up to you like a tired shepherd after a long day of wrangling animals—you are his last little lamb to grab. His hat rests in his hand while his fingers press at the bridge of his nose with a huff. It isn’t until he’s standing right in front of you that you realize the faintest spots of blood soak the front of his shirt, and there are some stray scabs caught on the facial hair of his upper lip. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he muses. He’s not as upset as you expect him to be—really, he doesn’t sound upset at all. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, throat tight. 

He wipes more stray blood away from underneath his nose before nodding. “Oh, I’ve had much worse than this before, Lamb.” 

The wooden steps creak and move beneath his weight as he sits next to you, long legs stretching out down the stairway. John rests his hat on the deck and continues to rub at the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m sorry about the mess,” you say as you stare down at your hands. “H-He just came out of nowhere and I just…” 

“Don’t apologize for his actions,” John mutters. “It’s not like you were asking for him to throw himself at you like that.” 

“I just—I don’t know—it’s not proper.” 

“Proper?” he repeats. 

“I shouldn’t have been kissing anyone like that. Not while I’m unwed,” you explain. Your arms cradle around your stomach as if your guts might spew if you don’t. 

John shifts next to you as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Do you only think that because your god told you to, or because your daddy said so?” 

Blinking, you look away from your lap and stare at him with narrowed brows. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, I don’t think god gives two shits about any of that,” he explains bluntly. “Animals fuck without being wedded, and we’re no better than any swine or mouse on this earth. I think daddy just fed you that because he’s a sick bastard who has nothing better to do than make you squirm.” 

His blasphemous words have your eyes widening so violently that you feel them strain against your skull. Chapped lips part to speak, but your tongue shrivels up at the sight of him smirking through the numbra of the evening. 

“Sex isn’t all that serious, sweetheart, no matter what that silly book or your daddy says,” John continues with a chuckle. “You can fuck anyone you want and just ask for forgiveness afterwards if it makes you feel any better. Maybe we can find you some man-whore to bed with in Grand Hollow and-” 

“It means something to me!” 

The volume of your voice surprises not only yourself, but John, too. Though you can’t bear to look at him anymore, you feel the way his gaze penetrates through the side of your face as your knees curl upwards and you wrap your arms around your shins. You’re not sure why this choler grips you so fiercely, but it cuts deeper than grains of rice and burns worse than the snapping of any stick against the back of your hand. 

“It means something to me,” you repeat, voice impossibly small. “Even if it wasn’t for God, or for Daddy, i-it’s for me. I don’t expect you to understand but—goodness—I’m so tired of lectures! I’m so tired of sermons!” 

Laughter explodes somewhere in the distance—back down by the saloon, you’re certain—just as tears begin to streak down your cheeks. Sniffling, you do your best to hide their existence as you wipe them away just to soil the dry skin of your hands. You’re tired of crying. You’re exhausted of dealing with this never-ending brine that always seems to percolate through you somehow. 

Instead of barking—instead of unhinging his maw and biting you right where it’s most tender—John Price comforts you. He soothes you in a way you didn’t even think was possible for a man as roughened and crass as him. A well meaning hand slides along your back as he scoots closer to you on the deck before he pulls you into his side. Tobacco and whiskey washes over you as he rubs the side of your arm. You attempt to hold back your frustrated sobs, but they bleed through your lips all the same. 

“I know. I’m sorry, Lamb,” he whispers. “It’s a long road, but you’ll get to live your life the way you want to someday. Even if it’s the quiet life.” 

“I’ve been waiting for someday for my whole life,” you lament. 

“I know,” he repeats. “Just a little longer, love.” 

Neither of you speak until your shoulders stop shaking and you’ve run out of tears to spill. It’s a long, quiet walk back to your horses, and an even more excruciating ride back to camp. The others are already there, huddled around a campfire as they compare wounds and bruises from the night’s scuffle with the local townsfolk—Kyle almost looks a little heartbroken he couldn’t have taken part in the brawl. 

It takes you some time to settle in. For once, not even the whispering cracks of the fire can lull you to sleep. You find yourself curled on your side, eyes flickering around the sleeping forms that circle around the pit like a fairy ring. 

Riley and Soap are curled up together on the same tarp. Their legs tangle together as their arms hold one another close like ivy growing up the moistened, dark side of a tall tree. If your father were here, he would condemn them for such an ungodly union—a man embracing another man and laying together as if they were lovers. But you hear the way Riley coos in the night to Soap as the man drunkenly groans about his sore cheekbone, and you witness firsthand how even someone like that masked stranger can melt into nothing, and you find envy rooting deep enough in your soul to startle you. 

Eventually the dark call of your slumber pulls you beneath a thick, misty veil, and you find yourself dreaming of your mother. 

Well, you’re not really dreaming of her. Not in a way that allows you to reach out and hold her as if she were still alive. Instead, you dream that you’re sitting in bed facing the wall directly behind your headboard. Hundreds of crucifixes line the old, scarred wood, but there is a single patch free from obstruction. It calls to you until it roots deep into the grey matter of your brain. Reaching out, your knuckles tap on the wall. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

You wait a moment, and the sound returns. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Each sound that rattles your room sends a crucifix barreling to the floor, but your heart swells. It’s your mother. You know it is. Locked away in the bedroom, far from your view and reach, she lies just beyond this wall rotting away in bed. Smiling, your knuckles rattle against the wood paneling once more. 

Knock, knock… knock-knock!

And again, it returns back to you:

Knock, knock… knock-knock!

More symbols of your savior clatter to the ground, but you do not find yourself mourning the simple wood. Full to the brim of effusive excitement, you once more knock on the wall. 

Knock, knock.

There is nothing. There is no response to your call. So you do it again. And again. And again. There is nothing. Each time your fist makes contact, another cross plummets, and you continue to tear them down as you desperately try to make contact with your mother. They all fall one by one until both the floor and your bed are littered with them, but there is one that refuses to let go of the wall. It clings like a child does to its mother, or how blood stains white cotton. 

Moss on a headstone. Scar tissue on skin. 

When you beat against the wall so fiercely that it comes crumbling down, you do not find your mother on the other side. Instead, you only find a necklace resting atop a casket. It glistens like tears streaking down cheeks or rainwater on lilies. It vibrates and rattles as the muffled voice of your mother sings out from inside of her coffin: 

“There is no sickness, toil, nor danger, in that bright land, to which I go…”

She sings, and sings, and sings. Beautiful like a mockingbird. Sweeter than honeysuckle. And still, with the hands of a child, you find your palms cupping over your ears as you collapse onto your mattress, face burying into the old quilt she made you all those years ago, until the sound of her voice is nothing but a mere memory. 

After all, isn’t it lamb-like of you to do this? To run after something so fervently just to cower the moment it’s within your grasp? 

You wake with the sun as it leaps over the horizon. 

When your eyes flutter open, you’re met with the faint memory of the moon as it lingers in the heavens. It sits pale and sickly against the periwinkle sky, yet it pulls a smile on your lips all the same. 

“Morning, Mama.”

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[theonion]

In the first-ever union of the Word of God and the Synthesizer, the Catholic Church’s College of Cardinals voted unanimously Monday to incorporate the lyrics of Yes into the New Testament. The resulting new Bible, the Revised Standard YesScriptures, will replace the Jerusalem Bible of 1966 as the standard accepted record and vehicle of divine revelation.

“Let us rejoice in this momentous occasion,” said Pope John Paul II in a special service at St. Peter’s. “And let no man be unmoved, remembering the words of Jesus: ’In and around the lake, mountains come out of the sky, and they stand there.’ Amen.”

Full Story

[talonabraxas]

"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him." — Rev 6:8 Four Horseman of the Apocalypse Talon Abraxas Apocalypse literally means ‘an unveiling’, 'a revelation’. But it is the description of the Book of Revelation of St John (the final book of the Bible) as 'apocalyptic’ that gives us the definition of the word which we use today: of or relating to the end of the world. In the book, John relates a series of vivid, often frightening visions that he experienced on the Greek island of Patmos. They relate to the Second Coming of Christ and the Last Judgment. Verses 1–8 of Chapter 6 relate how John saw four horsemen: “And I saw when the lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see. And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him; and he went forth conquering and to conquer. And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see. And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine. And when he had opened the fourth seal I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with the sword, and with hunger, and with death and with the beasts of the earth.” These riders have been interpreted as Christ himself conquering the earth. But they are more usually seen as personifications of War, Famine, Plague and Death.

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Hans Memling (German-Flemish, 1430-1494) Triptych with Saint John of Patmos, 1479 Memlingmuseum, Museum St John’s Hospital, Bruges The Book of Revelation or Book of the Apocalypse is the final book of the New Testament. Written in Koine Greek, its title is derived from the first word of the text: apokalypsis, meaning 'unveiling' or 'revelation'. The Book of Revelation is the only apocalyptic book in the New Testament canon.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Accidentally On Purpose

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: none

Paring: Paige Bueckers x !non-athletic fem reader

Fandom: Women's basketball

Summary: was it really an accident ....

Alright the one shot as promised! I hope you all enjoy it!

For the past two years, Paige and I had been quietly building a life together while keeping it low-key on social media. It wasn’t that we were hiding; we just preferred to let people wonder. The occasional soft launch—her hoodie on me in an Instagram story, my hand visible in her post-game meal pic—had fueled plenty of speculation, but we never confirmed anything.

But this past week changed things.

Paige had sprained her knee during the January 5th game. It wasn’t serious, thank God, but her coach had benched her and banned her from practices to ensure she healed fully. That left her with more free time than either of us were used to, and she spent most of it at my apartment, lazing on the couch with her leg propped up.

“Coach is going to regret this,” she joked one evening as we watched a movie. “I’m getting too used to being pampered by you.”

“Pampered?” I snorted, handing her a cup of tea. “You’ve been milking this injury for all it’s worth.”

“And you love it,” she said smugly, taking the mug and flashing me a grin.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. Having her around more often was nice, even if it meant dealing with her teasing 24/7.

By the time January 15th rolled around, Paige was cleared to play in the UConn vs. St. John’s game. She was practically bouncing with excitement, even as I made her promise to take it easy.

“I’m not going to push it,” she assured me, pulling me into a quick hug before heading to campus. “But I’m not sitting out any longer than I have to.”

“Just don’t forget who made your recovery bearable,” I teased, poking her side.

“How could I forget? You’re my favorite nurse,” she said with a wink before disappearing out the door.

That evening, I watched from the stands as Paige played like she’d never been injured. She wasn’t at 100%, but her movements were sharp, her energy infectious. UConn won, of course, 71-45 to be exact and I cheered louder than anyone else as she jogged off the court with her teammates.

After the game, I was scrolling through my photo gallery, deciding what to post. It had been a while since I’d done a photo dump, and I had plenty of new material: blurry candids of Paige from the past week, a shot of my coffee from earlier, and a cute mirror selfie I’d taken that morning.

As I uploaded the photos to Instagram, I included one of Paige and me kissing—something I’d meant to keep private. I was too distracted tagging locations and adding captions to notice until it was too late.

When I refreshed the post, my heart dropped. There it was: a clear shot of Paige holding my face as she kissed me, her other hand resting on my waist. And the kicker? I’d tagged her.

“Crap,” I muttered, staring at my phone in horror.

The comments were already rolling in:

@uconnfan23: OMG WAIT IS THIS REAL??

@basketballbae: so y’all really been soft launching for TWO YEARS??

@team_pucker: someone call TMZ 😭

@kamoreaarnold: I see we got the @trufur run in here

Paige’s name popped up in my notifications seconds later.

@paigebueckers: Are you serious right now??

I groaned, typing out a quick reply.

@yourusername: It was an accident! Calm down 😩

Her response was immediate.

@paigebueckers: Accident my ass. You’ve been plotting this.

@yourusername: Oh, because I’m the one who’s been hinting for two years? Sure, Paige.

@paigebueckers: Don’t deflect! This is a hard launch! A HARD LAUNCH!!

The back-and-forth continued, drawing more attention to the post. Fans and friends chimed in, most of them thrilled by the revelation.

@azzi35: Finally, geez. We’ve all known.

@williamskayla_: Y’all arguing in the comments is the real entertainment here.

@janaelalfy8: @paigebueckers we all knew this would happen someday. You’re just mad you didn’t get to plan it.

By the time I put my phone down, the post had thousands of likes and hundreds of comments. I was half expecting Paige to storm into my apartment, but instead, she called.

“Are you serious?” she asked, her voice somewhere between exasperated and amused.

“Dead serious,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Look, I didn’t mean to post it, but...is it really that bad?”

She sighed dramatically. “No, it’s not bad. It’s just...sudden. We’ve been low-key for so long.”

“Too long,” I pointed out. “And the reaction’s been good so far.”

“I guess,” she said, the smile in her voice now evident. “But if anyone asks, I’m telling them you planned this.”

“Deal,” I said, laughing.

By the next morning, the post had gone viral, with news outlets and fan accounts picking it up. Paige leaned into it, sharing the post to her story with the caption:

"Well, the cat’s out of the bag. @yourusername, you’re lucky I love you."

I reshared her story with my own caption:

"Love you too, drama queen 💕."

From that moment on, there were no more soft launches—just the two of us, unapologetically in love and finally out in the open. And honestly? It felt perfect.

---

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       -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[violettathepiratequeen]

The Writers of BtVS

So because I'm a nerd, and because I was curious, I compiled a list of the credited Buffy writers and their episodes, mostly to check for their own consistency, haha. And because I thought it was interesting enough to share:

WRITERS:

Joss Whedon

Welcome to the Hellmouth

The Harvest

Nightmares (with David Greenwalt)

Out of Mind, Out of Sight (with Ashley Gable and Thomas A. Swyden)

Prophecy Girl

When She Was Bad

School Hard (with David Greenwalt)

Lie to Me

Ted (with David Greenwalt)

Innocence

Becoming, Part 1

Becoming, Part 2

Anne

Amends

Doppelgangland

Graduation Day, Part 1

Graduation Day, Part 2

The Freshman

Hush

Who Are You?

Restless

Family

The Body

The Gift

Once More With Feeling

Lessons

Chosen

Dana Reston

Witch

David Greenwalt

Teacher’s Pet

Angel

Nightmares (with Joss Whedon)

School Hard (with Joss Whedon)

Reptile Boy

Ted (with Joss Whedon)

Faith, Hope, and Trick

Homecoming

Rob Des Hotel & Dean Batali

Never Kill a Boy on the First Date 

The Puppet Show 

The Dark Age 

Phases 

Killed By Death 

Matt Kiene

The Pack

Inca Mummy Girl (with Joe Reinkemeyer)

Ashley Gable and Thomas A. Swyden

I, Robot… You, Jane

Out of Mind, Out of Sight (with Joss Whedon)

Ty King

Some Assembly Required

Passion

Joe Reinkemeyer

Inca Mummy Girl (with Matt Kiene)

Carl Ellsworth

Halloween

Howard Gordon

What’s My Line? Part 1 (with Marti Noxon)

Marti Noxon

What’s My Line? Part 1 (with Howard Gordon)

What’s My Line? Part 2

Bad Eggs

Surprise

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

I Only Have Eyes For You

Dead Man’s Party

Beauty and the Beasts

The Wish

Consequences

The Prom

Living Conditions

Wild at Heart

Doomed (with David Fury and Jane Espenson)

Goodbye Iowa

New Moon Rising

Buffy vs. Dracula

Into the Woods

Forever

Bargaining, Part 1

Wrecked

Villains

Bring on the Night (with Douglas Petrie)

Elin Hampton

Go Fish (with David Fury)

David Fury

Go Fish (with Elin Hampton)

Helpless

Choices

Fear Itself

Doomed (with Marti Noxon and Jane Espenson)

The I in Team

Primeval

Real Me

Shadow

Crush

Bargaining, Part 2

Life Serial (with Jane Espenson)

Gone

Grave

Sleeper (with Jane Espenson)

Showtime

Lies My Parents Told Me (with Drew Goddard)

Thania St. John

Gingerbread (with Jane Espenson)

Jane Espenson

Band Candy

Gingerbread (with Thania St. John)

Earshot

The Harsh Light of Day

Pangs

Doomed (with David Fury and Marti Noxon)

A New Man

Superstar

The Replacement

Triangle

Checkpoint (with Douglas Petrie)

I Was Made to Love You

Intervention

After Life

Flooded (with Douglas Petrie)

Life Serial (with David Fury)

Doublemeat Palace

Same Time, Same Place

Conversations with Dead People (with Drew Goddard)

Sleeper (with David Fury)

First Date

Storyteller

End of Days (with Douglas Petrie)

Douglas Petrie

Revelations

Bad Girls

Enemies

The Initiative

This Year’s Girl

The Yoko Factor

No Place Like Home

Fool For Love

Checkpoint (with Jane Espenson)

The Weight of the World

Flooded (with Jane Espenson)

As You Were

Two to Go

Beneath You

Bring on the Night (with Marti Noxon)

Get it Done

End of Days (with Jane Espenson)

Dan Vebber

Lovers Walk

The Zeppo

Tracey Forbes

Beer Bad

Something Blue

Rebecca Rand Kirshner

Out of My Mind

Listening to Fear

Tough Love

Tabula Rasa

Hell’s Bells

Help

Potential

Touched

Steven S. DeKnight

Blood Ties

Spiral

All the Way

Dead Things

Seeing Red

Drew Z. Greenberg

Smashed

Older and Far Away

Entropy

Him

The Killer in Me

Empty Places

Diego Gutierrez

Normal Again

Drew Goddard

Selfless

Conversations with Dead People (with Jane Espenson) 

Never Leave Me

Lies My Parents Told Me (with David Fury)

Dirty Girls

So the conclusion I've come to is... in my own fanfic writing projects, I sometimes have works that I know are very good and are received well. And there are some that I know just stink, and the lower interaction reflects it. It's pretty comforting to know that for professional writers, the same thing is true.

Jane Espenson, for instance, beloved by Spuffies everywhere for being our man on the inside, ALSO co-wrote "Gingerbread," my least favorite ep ever.

Douglas Petrie is, in my opinion, absolutely an undercover Spuffy, or at least understood the assignment well enough to fake it. And I love him for being the first to write Wesley, for breaking Bangel up one of the times in S3, for writing "Fool for Love," for strengthening Spike's character in every ep that included him.

And David Fury... look, I know he gets a lot of flack, but I think he doesn't actually hate Spike as much as it seems. Looking at his list of episodes and the messages I know to be in them, I think he's just VERY pro-soul, and can't wrap his head around a vampire being good without one. But once Spike does get his soul... well, we need look no further than "Showtime."

But really, let's all bow down to Rebecca Rand Kirshner. For "Out of My Mind." For "Tabula Rasa." For "Help." For "Touched." For some of the sweetest Spuffy moments in all her other eps.