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frostyharbor · 19 days ago

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warrior / diplomat - chapter five

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

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 ❤️

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emmg · 5 months ago

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Aftertaste

The Emmrook modern Sugar Daddy AU I've been spinning in my brain like a rotisserie chicken finally got its seasoning. Shoutout to @thepalehorsevictoria's WONDERFUL, AMAZING, ABSOLUTELY LIFE-ALTERING The Internship for delivering the motivational slap I needed to actually finish the first stupid chapter. You're all welcome, probably.

She would look exquisite sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? Perhaps he’d drape her in coins, or bills—her choice, naturally, though one suspects she’d opt for the flashiest, the most garish option, something appropriately Rook. And afterward, he’d collapse into her shoulder, sobbing like a maudlin fool, his tears soaking through the remnants of her ridiculous blouse. A tableau of absurdity: him, the tragic romantic, and her, the irreverent Venus, reeking faintly of cheap vanilla.

Read it here, under the cut, or on AO3

-----

Chapter 1: Oysters Are Gross

At fifty-two years and three days old, Emmrich finally surrenders. He grants Bellara—his chirpy, chattering, insufferably radiant assistant—permission to "set him up." Bellara, of course, is all gleaming eyes and endless sentences, a creature so bright she could burn holes in the wallpaper. He agrees because he is fifty-two years and three days old and it hits him: an unbearable, senseless loneliness.

He stares blankly at the wall, realizing that the majority of those who wished him well on this fifty-two-year-and-three-day milestone—up to ninety percent of them—are colleagues.

Happy birthday, Emmrich. Love, Amélie.

Ah, Amélie. His Orlesian once-mistress. The text is a masterstroke of brevity. He allows himself a smile before retrieving his reading glasses and composing a reply.

Thank you, darling. Always a pleasure.

The message is sent. Amélie, of course, does not deign to reply.

Well, then.

His gaze shifts to the bottle of absinthe perched on the counter, a gift from the Dean and faculty, no doubt purchased more out of obligation than admiration. The label gleams mockingly. He frowns, swirls the dregs of his glass, and drains it in a single swallow.

Bellara, that dainty tempest of enthusiasm, is promptly unleashed to do her worst. He delivers his consent carefully, his back turned to her as she flits about the library, slipping borrowed books back onto shelves. Borrowed, mind you, some three—or was it four?—months ago. The real marvel isn't her returning them but the improbable fact that she remembered taking them at all. He phrases his acquiescence in a way that suggests, naturally, he is the one doing her a favor. (Ha. Of course.)

“Ooooh, perfect!” she chirps, a human hummingbird vibrating with unsolicited opinions. “She’s like so, so pretty. Her nose? Upturned—and that’s super trendy right now. People are flying to Antiva for rhinoplasty because it’s cheaper there. Crazy, right? And she’s tall. Well, not as tall as you, obviously, but still tall. And thin. And just… really, really pretty. Like she totally knows it though. Ugh, I’m probably ruining this. Anyway, she’s so pretty, professor.”

Her voice trails off.

He stops listening somewhere between "rhinoplasty" and "tall." He has neither the patience for Bellara’s reverence for the human scaffolding of beauty nor the bandwidth to follow her avalanche of adjectives.

Bellara flutters on, blissfully unaware she’s been tuned out.

****

“What are we thinking, Manfred?” he inquires, addressing the ties spread on the bed as though consulting an oracle. His arms are crossed, his brow raised. “Cerulean or hunter green?”

“Woof,” replies Manfred, the household philosopher and occasional canine.

“Thank you, darling boy,” he sighs, selecting the latter. The cerulean can sulk in the drawer another day.

He assembles himself with meticulous care, a sacred ritual. The three-piece suit is virgin wool, soft, lustrous, perfect. The vest, of course, matches. His hair, combed back with fragrance-free pomade, achieves that delicate balance of hold without crunch. He is not, he assures himself, some adolescent with a tube of glue masquerading as hair gel, desperate to look like he just emerged from a car wash. No, he assures himself, he is a man of taste.

The finishing touch is his cologne: a concoction of galbanum, juniper, violet leaf, and oakmoss. It doesn’t just suggest expense; it shouts it in carefully modulated tones. The sort of scent that might cause an uninitiated passerby to pause and wonder, “Is this man a connoisseur—or simply insufferable?” Amélie, of course, once called it "enticing."

Finally, two of his rings come off. Why? Because one never knows. Bellara’s friend might be pretty, but she also might be a thief. No sense tempting fate—or petty larceny.

He looks in the mirror one last time, adjusts the hunter green tie, and decides he looks exactly like the sort of man who would judge someone for stealing his rings.

Before leaving, he conducts his usual pre-departure sweep: oven off (because clearly, he’s the type to bake a pie and forget it), television off (lest it drone on to an audience of none), no faucets running (oh, the horrors of a dripping tap), and, naturally, no texts waiting to be answered (as if). This exercise in obsessive futility provides him no satisfaction, only the faint assurance that his house won’t combust or flood in his absence.

He realizes he's doing it out of nervousness.

Only slightly satisfied, he turns to Manfred, the sole companion he trusts for an honest opinion. “Not too shabby?” he ventures, striking a pose that could only be described as overly hopeful.

Manfred, ever the truth-teller, responds in the only way befitting such a ridiculous question: he vomits on the carpet.

****

The restaurant is Orlesian, of course—where else would one go to feel simultaneously underfed and overcharged? He knows the head chef, a relic of his undergrad years, back when dormitory life was a parade of poorly considered ambitions and even worse hygiene. Xavier, once the proud owner of a neuroscience textbook he never opened, had been convinced he would unravel the mysteries of the brain—until the brain, or rather the workload required to study it, unraveled him instead.

His grand response to this betrayal? Elfroot—smoked with dedication—and a catastrophic assault on their shared kitchen that left it resembling the aftermath of a culinary riot. Naturally, a few years later, Xavier inexplicably emerged as a celebrated chef, the sort whose name is murmured reverently in food columns and shouted across crowded dinner parties by people desperate to sound cultured.

It’s a miracle, really, the sort of alchemy only student dorms can produce: turning the least functional among them into the toast of society, while everyone else just gets crumbs.

He’s early, of course. Emmrich is always early, a man cursed with the kind of politeness that borders on masochism. Being late might suggest a lack of respect, but being early? That’s the calling card of someone determined to suffer.

He orders an apéritif because sitting idle feels too desperate, even for him. Something stronger than advisable but, then again, he has no intention of driving tonight—or doing anything particularly sensible, for that matter. A Negroni it is. Predictable. As Johanna had so graciously put it, he’s a “basic bitch,” forever drawn to whatever the masses have deemed fashionable this week.

He's nouveau riche like that. Here he is, nursing a drink that tastes like regret and orange peel, sitting early at an overpriced Orlesian restaurant, the living embodiment of someone trying just a little too hard.

And—oh. Damn her. Bellara was right. Of course, she was right. Why wouldn’t she be? Rook, she’d called her. Pretty, tall, unbearably young. And so very, very pretty—pretty to the point of redundancy. The kind of prettiness that practically begs to be noticed, long pale hair cascading like the overly poetic description she’d no doubt receive in a novel some day.

“Emmrich?” she says, her eyes darting around the room as though she expects a less disappointing Emmrich to materialize from behind a potted fern. Surely, this can’t be the one.

“Indeed,” he says, and because he’s a gentleman—or at least a serviceable facsimile—he forces himself to stand. Hurrying to her side, he pulls out her chair with an eagerness that feels as rehearsed as it is exhausting. She sits, and only then does he allow himself to return to his own seat, feeling rather like an actor who’s just survived the first act of a particularly humiliating play.

“Hm,” Rook says.

She is smiling. This must be good. Surely, it’s good. Someone so young, so lovely, smiling at him. Smiling for him. Or at him? Is there a difference? Does it matter?

“Shall we start with a drink?” he asks, his voice striving for charm and almost, almost getting there.

“You’re grey,” she says, blunt as a hammer. “Like, almost fully.”

“Ah,” he says, because, really, what else is there? Words fail him, but her casually devastating remark does not. It feels as though she’s reached across the table and punched him in the throat with that pretty, unmanicured hand of hers, leaving him gasping for dignity. “I am.” He swallows hard and, for one fleeting moment, wonders if shattering his glass and dragging a shard theatrically across his wrist might salvage the evening—or at least end it with style. “Does that bother you?”

A languid shrug. “No.” She lifts the menu with an air of detachment that makes him wonder if she is reading it or simply holding it to avoid looking at him. “How old are you?”

Fifty-two-years-and-ten-days, not that anyone’s counting. “Bellara didn’t tell you about me?”

“Bellara said you were rich.” Fantastic. His favorite personality trait. “And lonely.” Marvelous. The perfect companion to wealth, like cheese to wine. “And that you smell good.” Well, thank heavens. If nothing else, he’s fragrant—a consolation prize for his apparent lack of other redeeming qualities. “And…” She leans into the menu, her nose wrinkling in what he assumes is concentration but could just as easily be disdain. Does she need glasses? Should he offer her his? Would that be erotic or just pathetically sad? “Not married,” she finishes.

There it is: rich, lonely, perfumed, and unattached. A portrait painted in four brushstrokes, with no room for nuance.

He raises a hand, signaling the server. If he is to endure the rest of this encounter, it will be with a drink in hand, preferably something strong enough to blunt the edge of her candor.

"And what about you, Rook?" he asks, once her cocktail arrives, a vulgar, lurid concoction so bright it might glow in the dark. Her lipstick smears on the straw (a straw... In this restaurant? Did Xavier finally give up?). "How would you describe yourself?"

Her grin is dazzling, predatory. "Not rich," she declares. "Very, very not rich," as though he might have misinterpreted her financial despair. "So you’ll have to excuse me, because I have no fucking clue how to deal with all these." She gestures broadly at the table. "Utensils. That one—yeah, that. Why is there a baby fork?"

"It’s an oyster fork."

"You ordered oysters?"

"I did."

"Oysters are supposed to make you horny, you know."

He tips his head back in silent prayer, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, which sadly offers no escape. "The aphrodisiac effects are largely exaggerated," he mutters, clinging to his last shred of dignity. "They are high in zinc, yes, but otherwise... they’re simply a standard appetizer."

"I mean, yeah. It’s like swallowing unwashed pussy."

He chokes.

"But to answer you," Rook says, now smoothing the napkin over her lap with the deliberation of someone unused to starched linens, "literature. I just got into grad school. My brain’s about ready to explode. I’ve spent the last two weeks applying for every fellowship I could find. Leliana—that’s my supervisor—says that’s just how it is. Not much funding for the humanities."

Ah, he thinks, so the sewer of profanity comes with a surprisingly functional brain. Who knew?

"And what will your thesis be about?" he asks. "The broad strokes, of course."

She perks up, her expression suddenly alight with a kind of zeal he recognizes all too well—the sort of gleam he’s seen in his own reflection, mid-tangent, while his colleagues quietly plotted their escape. "The treatment of regional culinary rituals in early Orlesian romantic epics," she announces, her tone brimming with the self-assured pride of someone convinced their niche could save the world. "I’m particularly interested in how feasting scenes reflect class dynamics and metaphysical longing."

"Feasting and metaphysical longing," he echoes. "An underexplored intersection, no doubt."

"It is, actually," she says, unfazed. "Leliana thinks it could open up new discussions about the interplay between consumption and identity in pre-industrial Orlais."

He takes a long sip of his drink. "Well," he says finally, "good to know I will be dining with a pioneer in the field of… gastronomic existentialism."

"Lucky you," Rook agrees.

"And this pioneer," he quips because he simply cannot resist, "despite devoting her studies to the poetic glow of Orlesian candlelit dinners, cannot distinguish a fish fork from a dessert spoon?"

"Emmrich," Rook says, her glass drained, the fuchsia stain of passion fruit now blooming on her lips like some accidental masterpiece. "I read about Orlesians fucking each other with cucumbers, then slicing them up for a salad as if foreplay and vinaigrette belong in the same breath. About butter smeared in places it absolutely shouldn’t be—used as lube, naturally—but no one ever writes about the yeast infections that come knocking afterward. About cream dripping off nipples, thighs, mouths, smeared across banquet tables while someone’s ass is planted squarely in a soufflé. Wine bottles being repurposed into toys, and baguettes going places that would make a priest faint." She yawns, lifting her empty glass to hide it. "That’s what I read about," she concludes. "Not whether the trout gets a dedicated fork."

The evening unravels as such evenings will: chaotically, gracelessly. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine he selected with care—wine she downs with all the finesse of a college freshman, pausing only to declare, loudly and without irony, that her "broke ass is never affording anything like this ever again." He lets her finish most of it, partly because she’s right, and partly because there’s something oddly charming about her bluntness, even if her choice of words makes him long for an eject button.

By the end of the meal, she’s swaying faintly, her steps wobbling like a poorly directed marionette. Outside, as he contemplates whether to purchase a pack of cigarettes or step directly into oncoming traffic, he notices her face in the streetlight: still so, so pretty despite her vocabulary, which might as well be a butcher knife to his sensibilities. He’s always had a weakness for pretty things, after all, even if he insists to himself that he’s far too sentimental for anything reckless or self-destructive. And yet... and yet...

He likes her hair; long, absurdly long, as though she’s been growing it since birth for the sole purpose of draping it over her shoulders at pretentious dinners. It’s pale, but not quite; between shades, as though it couldn’t be bothered to settle on a single identity. Almost brown here, almost silver there, the kind of blonde that pretentious novels would insist on calling “ethereal” or “ghostly,” though to him it looks like indecision with a sheen. He likes the gray of her eyes, too, though “like” might be the wrong word—they’re so washed-out they seem more like placeholders for real eyes, a vague suggestion of color. How can something be so devoid of pigment?

A sharp clink breaks his thoughts. He looks down to see her car keys, glinting on the asphalt. She wobbles as she bends to retrieve them, then squints into the darkness like a drunk sailor searching for shore.

"I know I didn’t park that far away," she mutters, turning in a slow, unsteady circle. "Ugly silver two-seater. Big scratch on the passenger window. Do you see it?"

"You are not driving," he whispers, scandalized, his voice shrill enough to summon pigeons. And there it is: the moment he transforms from potential suitor to overbearing mother hen. Splendid. Truly, the very picture of charm. "Allow me to call you a cab."

"Noooo," she whines, stretching the word to absurdity, her voice pitched somewhere between a tantrum and a drunken lullaby. "I don’t want to trek back up here tomorrow to get my car. I don’t live close, you know."

"Even so," he presses, his tone teetering dangerously close to because I said so.

"No. Not even so."

The key wrestle begins, a ridiculous little tug-of-war that makes him feel like he should be calling her "young lady" and throwing out such gems as "Behave yourself" and "Think of the consequences." All the sort of dreary phrases a man her father’s age might deploy with righteous indignation.

But of course, he isn’t her father. No, no—father figures don’t let their gaze drift, as his does now, to the teasing dip of her blouse, where the faintest edge of black lace peeks out like a taunt. Father figures don’t notice the flush creeping up her cheeks or the sway in her unsteady defiance, nor do they fixate on the maddeningly smug curl of her lips. And they certainly don’t entertain thoughts about how those lips might feel wrapped around—oh, splendid, just splendid. He’s not only lost the moral high ground but seems intent on building a summer home somewhere in the depths of his own depravity.

But she would look absolutely divine sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? No doubt a far cry from whatever bargain-bin monstrosities she sleeps on—some threadbare polyester set reeking faintly of last week’s takeout. She could lie there, all flushed and glistening, while he buries his mouth between her legs, tasting her like a man starved. And then, if he whispered it sweetly enough, maybe—just maybe—she’d straddle him, her nails dragging down his chest, leaving scratches he’d probably pretend not to admire later.

And afterward, he would probably cry into her shoulder, his tears dampening whatever remains of her ridiculous blouse. They could discuss Orlesians committing atrocities against food and sex while she smokes one of his cigarettes and he, in his most pitiful depths, silently composes a thank-you note to Bellara for orchestrating this grand act of self-destruction.

He takes the keys away from her at last and summons a car with his phone. Even an old-timer, tradition-bound relic such as himself can marvel at the efficiency of these cursed apps.

"I will return them to you tomorrow," he says, holding them out of reach. "May I have your number? You can tell me where to meet you." He pauses, catching himself mid-fall into the abyss of creepy old man territory. Don’t ask for her address, Emmrich. Don't be weird. "Or, if that’s too forward," he adds with a touch of forced charm, "I can hand them off to Bellara. She would probably love another excuse to meddle in our lives."

"Fine, fine," Rook mutters, snatching his phone and jabbing at the screen with the grace of a caffeinated woodpecker before handing it back.

When the car arrives, she leans in for a half-hearted hug, her small breasts brushing against him briefly, her cheap, aggressively synthetic vanilla perfume wafting into his nostrils like an attack. It smells like something one might spritz on a cupcake, and yet—Gods help him—he finds himself wanting to drown in it.

Ten minutes later, his phone pings.

blra said it was your bday. hppy bday

#lol idk i mean this man was made to be a sugar daddy #and im not sorry hehe #emmrook #rook x emmrich #emmrook fic #emmrook fanfic #dragon age the veilguard #datv #emmrich volkarin #my stupid writing lol

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shallowseeker · 5 months ago

Text

THE LORE

I'm Shal. I watched SPN off and on as a teen, but I didn’t join Tumblr or the fandom until late 2022, when I was bedridden due to a heart condition.

That’s when I started reading fics like american oracle by @handsliketruth & @whiskeyjuniper, The Black Dog Ache by @winchester-reload, and Redux by @valleydean... and I was hooked. Ficlets, meta, shitposts, the whole nine. (I'm still obsessed with all of these stories, if you care.)

I'm happy to say that my heart condition is much more stable now, and I’m no longer bedridden, but I’m still on Tumblr and still having an amazing time!

ao3 @ shallowseeker

blue.sky @ shallowseeker

pillowfort @ shallowseeker

pinterest @ shallowseeker

dreamwidth @ shallowseeker

discord @ shallowseeker

///

TAGGING / WARNINGS

I’m not anti-anything, but I have a real soft spot for imperfect characters. If they come across as too polished or boring, I love digging into their flaws and exploring their Achilles' heels. (For example, I’ve paralleled Lisa Braden’s struggle with understanding grief against Jody Mills’s deeper, lived understanding of it.)

Anything I think could be challenging or a bit of a downer, I tag with #complex at the beginning—#complex john, #complex sam, #complex dean, and so on.

///

META

The meta-organization will go here... eventually. (I'm working on a #shal spn rewatch.)

Over the past couple of years, I’ve written a lot of opinions, some of which people still request. My meta tends to focus on later SPN seasons, with deep dives into Jack Kline—aiming to add variety to the ecosystem by highlighting the real, complicated Jack over the "fanon (toddler) stereotype."

A few people have called me TFW-positive, and I genuinely love Team Free Will, even when I'm mentally wringing their necks. My core focus is on Sam, Dean, Castiel, Jack, Mary, and Rowena/the MacLeod family.

Side Goals: @spnwin-reader @wheretheloveisstored

///

FICS

I post my fics on Ao3 under shallowseeker, and the new Tumblr page for them is here. (I post a lot of rapid-fire ficlets and ideas in my Tumblr posts, too.)

I write to improve my cognitive dysfunction, and I’m fascinated by religion and natural phenomena (avalanches, sinkholes, etc). My writing style has been described as chaotic, random, and weird—"like one long manic episode."

PSA: My meta thoughts = / = my fic. Sometimes fic is just me goofing off, or horny drivel, or melt-in-your-mouth cotton candy. Don't expect that My Thoughts (TM) will align with it. I reserve the right to be lame and incomprehensible. TY~

= O N G O I N G =

For your crimes against the most high (5 of 14)

= C O M P L E T E D =

Blackout on the eastern seaboard (2/2)

Truth & despair (15/15)

Mirror, mirror (1/1)

I will not be diminished (1/1)

///

OTHER STUFF

👬 pro-DeanCas (I have eyes) // 🤩 Mary stan //⭐ Jack stan // 📚 Sam / Donatello / Metatron-coded (and was told by a friend: Kevin Tran-coded)

My username @shallowseeker is a type of fishing lure, so I thought a Dean and Jack fishing theme would fit perfectly this time around!

#pinned post #navigation

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cryptowealthnet · 3 months ago

Text

As we enter 2025, the cryptocurrency market is poised for significant growth and innovation. With numerous options available, it can be challenging to determine which cryptocurrencies are worth your investment.

In this comprehensive guide, we will explore the best cryptocurrencies to buy now, focusing on their unique features, growth potential, and current market trends.

Best Cryptocurrency to Buy Now in 2025

Based on recent research and market trends, here are some of the best cryptocurrencies to consider investing in now:

Before investing in these cryptocurrencies, you need to know how to invest in the Primary Crypto Market.

Bitcoin (BTC)

Bitcoin remains the most recognized cryptocurrency and is often considered a safe investment due to its established reputation. As the first digital currency, it has paved the way for others and continues to dominate the market with a significant share of total market capitalization. Its limited supply of 21 million coins creates scarcity, which can drive demand and increase its value over time.

Ethereum (ETH)

Ethereum is not just a cryptocurrency; it’s a platform that enables developers to build decentralized applications (dApps) using smart contracts. With its transition to Ethereum 2.0, it promises lower fees and faster transaction speeds, making it an attractive option for investors looking for growth potential. The growing number of projects built on Ethereum enhances its utility and value.

Polkadot (DOT)

Polkadot aims to facilitate interoperability between different blockchains through its unique parachain technology. This capability allows multiple blockchains to work together seamlessly, making it essential for future blockchain development. As more projects adopt Polkadot’s technology, its value is expected to rise significantly.

Solana (SOL)

Solana has gained popularity due to its high transaction speeds and low costs. Known for its efficiency, Solana is becoming a favorite among developers in the DeFi and NFT spaces. Its ability to handle thousands of transactions per second without compromising security makes it an appealing choice for those looking to invest in innovative technology.

Avalanche (AVAX)

Avalanche is making waves with its unique consensus mechanism that allows for high throughput and low latency transactions. This scalability makes it an attractive option for developers looking to build decentralized applications without sacrificing speed or security. With a robust ecosystem and increasing adoption among various projects, Avalanche is carving out a name for itself as one of the top cryptos for 2025.

Cardano (ADA)

Cardano takes a research-driven approach to blockchain development, focusing on sustainability and scalability. Its commitment to peer-reviewed research sets it apart from many other cryptocurrencies, making it an attractive option for long-term investors. Cardano’s strong community support enhances its credibility in the crypto space.

Chainlink (LINK)

Chainlink plays a vital role in connecting smart contracts with real-world data through oracles. As more projects rely on accurate data feeds for their operations, Chainlink’s importance continues to grow within the blockchain ecosystem. Investing in Chainlink could be wise if you see the value of decentralized finance expanding significantly over the next few years.

JetBolt (JBOLT)

JetBolt is emerging as an exciting player in the cryptocurrency space with its innovative zero-gas technology! This feature allows users to make transactions without incurring gas fees—a game-changer for many crypto enthusiasts. Its successful presale performance indicates strong investor interest, positioning JetBolt as one of the most promising altcoins to watch in 2025.

Ripple (XRP)

Ripple focuses on facilitating cross-border payments efficiently and at low costs. Its partnerships with financial institutions enhance its credibility and potential for growth as digital payments become increasingly important globally. Ripple’s unique technology allows it to process transactions quickly while keeping fees low—making it an appealing choice for investors interested in practical applications of cryptocurrency.

Kaspa (KAS)

Kaspa stands out with its instant transaction capabilities using the GHOSTDAG protocol! This unique feature positions it well for future growth as users seek fast and secure transactions without long waiting times. As more people become aware of Kaspa’s advantages over traditional blockchain technologies, its popularity may rise significantly in 2025.

Emerging Cryptocurrencies to Watch

In addition to established coins, keep an eye on emerging cryptocurrencies that show promise:

Sei (SEI): A new player focusing on scalability.

XRP: Known for cross-border payment solutions.

Pepe (PEPE): A meme coin capturing community interest.

Bonk (BONK): Another meme coin showing potential growth.

Aave (AAVE): A leader in decentralized finance lending.

Beam (BEAM): Focused on privacy features.

These coins may not have widespread recognition yet, but could offer significant growth potential as they develop their technologies and communities.

#crypto #bitcoin #btc #ethereum

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fan-clan-fun · 1 year ago

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Hello! I love this blog and always come to it for inspiration!

Right now my current fan project takes place in a post apocalyptic future where cats are going through their own Stone Age and using tools, very simple like clay bowls, antler and stone knives, learning to control and use fire, etc.. (I wanted to get rid of humans as the idea of sentient humans owning sentient cats doesn’t sit well with me) Instead of Clans they’re called Guards, and they each protect a small place of power within their territory from outsiders, relations between guards are actually pretty good and they allow cats to move Guards when necessary and encourage friendships and rivalries between cats.

Their leadership is loosely based on British Monarchy, with a ‘King and Queen’ (called Commander and Consort) and a ‘parliament’ of skilled cats who advise the commander (usually the Commander ends up picking his mentor and his parents perhaps some friends but his choices have to be approved by the Oracle so they don’t choose untrained or unliked cats) they do have a ‘Deputy’ but they are now called ‘Second’, Seconds are usually the oldest most promising heir from the Commander and consort, or a cat the Oracle and Advisors (elders) choose.

I tried to base the culture heavily on succession and mentorship, passing knowledge down, so it’s considered an honor to be given the same or similar suffix as your mentor. Cats are also apprenticed differently, becoming apprentices at 3 moons, early into training is just going over the code, games that teach them skills, and when they reach 7 moons they choose which guild they want to join (they can change their mind whenever but it’s uncommon)

The Guards are larger than Clans in general and have unique ranks, Guardians are warriors, a focus on fighting and hunting, regularly do patrols, switch amongst the territory camps to help protect them, especially camps that may not have a lot of fighters. Next are Crafters, cooking falls into crafting, but they also make satchels, knives, rudimentary traps, toys, as well as den maintenance. Then I have Ambassadors, I condensed them with one of the healer positions, ‘Speaker’ as they essentially do the same thing, Ambassadors are outside relations and Speakers were inside relations, but now they’re basically the guard therapists that also mediates with other Guards and groups. Mentors are pretty self explanatory, while every cat should get the chance to experience the bond between mentor and apprentice, these cats spend a lot of time with the young cats before 7 moons and pick their mentors according to personality and desired skill. My personal favorite are my Keepers, they keep track of history and familial relations, they’re essentially Perma-queens with a huge role in keeping bloodlines clear and recording history, they’re rarely storytellers but often parents. Lastly I have a sort of unique rank for each guard, usually something to do with the unique dangers each territory presents, (ie Mount Guard has an ‘Avalancher’ who after mountain slides they take a count of all the cats and go out searching for those missing)

I hope this isn’t too long, I got really excited seeing you pop up on my notifications again, I might send another ask going over healers or some of the unique customs the Guard cats practice.

I'm so sorry this took me so long to answer, truth is I've been answering most of these on mobile, so the longest ones have taken me a lot longer to get to, thank you for your patience in that!

I'm always curious how people plan on going about settings with cats and tools, as it's something that could be very interesting. Ultimately it requires a liiiittle suspension of disbelief, but I find sometimes that can be more fun.

Some of these concepts I've actually used or considered using myself before, so I am perhaps a bit biased when I say I enjoy them. I'm curious, do the commander and their consort often fulfill certain roles? Is it exclusively to produce kits for the next generation of leadership? Or is it more of a partnership than that?

I do have some clarifying curiosities, are the Guards the replacements for Clans? Or are there both?

So many fun different roles, and I like that you call them guilds. Once upon a time I wanted to do something similar, with a bunch of different ranks, each with their own little group of suffixes to denote their rank/guild, and when you apprenticed, you chose which guild to join. Seems like you could make it work well with your system.

I also think apprenticing that young, as long as they aren't fighting, makes sense. The bigger kits would likely require extra effort to keep busy, as they are pretty large at that point, so adding a few moons of education in camp before going out makes perfect sense.

Thanks for sending this in! Sounds like you have thought this all out pretty well, keep working hard and having fun!

#warriorsworldbuilding #warrior cats #warriors #non-canon clans #clan culture #warriors oc #warriorsocs #warriorscats

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kovacs-of-courage · 2 years ago

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Legend during the Roman-era Horrors

--------------October 3rd, 79 AD-----------

----------Eruption of Mount Vesuvius-------

Legend palmed his hands through the descended barrages of smoke and ash, sprinting through streets of splintering pavement and burning civilization. The panicked crowds of civilians ran from the ruins of their homes, thinking their fate punishment from the gods.

A fair assessment; one that Legend didn’t fault them for. When the shadows of hades blotted out the sun, and it’s armies rampaged your torched streets; It was hard not to take it personally.

The truth of the matter was far less grandiose; the truth of the matter was that those behind this atrocity were hijacking Mount Vesuvius for their vile rituals, and Pompeii had the unfortunate position of being the first city caught in the crossfire.

And by the names of all that’d perished today; Legend would ensure it’d be the last.

He tried not to blame himself for the death and destruction before him, for the countless people he’d be unable to save. It tore his heart asunder to ignore the plight of so many, to not help in their hour of need. It was his uncle all over again; cradling his dying body in his arms, his sorrowed guilt snowballing into a crippling avalanche of regrets and newfound responsibility.

But he couldn’t spare a moment, as much as it pained him. If he didn’t slay the source of this darkness soon, then there’d be nothing short of divine intervention able to stop it from rolling over all of europe--and then the world. The whole of humanity rendered extinct in less then a week.

To say the stakes were high would be the understatement of the millennium; an impressive feat considering that the current year hadn’t even reached the triple digits.

At least he didn’t have to go it alone.

Legend, having reached the city’s central plaza, stopped at the cremated remains of it’s marketplace--seeing a familiar face--just the person he wanted to see, in fact.

“Legend! I just got the southern districts evacuated, how is it on your end?”

It was Traveler, and by the look of the tar-like blood soaking his boots; he’d gotten busy.

“Not good, sorry to say,” Legend explained, frustration evident, ”I barely escaped the northwest before it got cratered, and the northeast has more moblins than citizens.”

Traveler recoiled at the news, his face souring to a scowl not unlike Legend’s, “Why does our rain always pour?” Traveler said.

“I’d tell you if I could, but that’s for later. What’s the word on the Captain? Have you been able to contact him?” Legend asked.

Traveler shook his head, “He’s either out of range, or can’t pick up a stone.”

Legend narrowed his eyes, confusion overtaking him, “Wild made their ringing sound like a flock of keese going through a Wizzrobe’s windpipe,” Legend exasperated, ”How in Din’s name can he not hear i--You know what, you know what, he can explain himself later-” A chorus of ear splitting explosions ruptured the air, deafening the rest of Legend’s words. Miles upon miles of smoke spewed from Vesuvius’s peak, blistering waves of primeval fire and lava-coated meteors hailing down to the already destroyed city.

“-...We’ve got bigger fish to fry,” Legend said,

Legend put a hand in his adventuring bag, scrounging around, eventually pulling out a slender staff, prismatic light twinkling from it’s crystallized tip; gusts of frigid wind emanating forth from it’s cerulean body.

“Fire and brimstone aren’t the only things that are going to be crashing. You need to find Warriors, and stem this tide before it hits other settlements,” Legend said, his scowl pointed at the mountain.

“I understand but what about *you?* I’m not going to just leave you to fight all of that alone,” Traveler responded, placing a concerned hand on Legend’s shoulder.

For a split second, Legend’s expression softened, the care of his brother not lost on him.

“I’ve beaten Onox before, and I can do it again. Just because he has the strength to capture an oracle, and wrangle a mountain--doesn’t mean he’s anything close to intelligent,” Legend said, “And we aren’t going to leave the captain to the wolves, nor the people of rome.”

Traveler nodded, a pang of distress flashing over his focused gaze, “Your right..I’ll get going.

The younger hero went to leave, stopping to turn back at his brother, resolute, “When the smoke clears, I’m coming back to get you--one way or another.”

Legend cracked a smile, the direness of their troubles briefly washing away.

“There wasn’t a doubt in my mind; now go! This armageddon isn't gonna wait around for any one of us."

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #i call hyrule traveler this is not a negotiation #oneshot #lu hyrule #lu legend #drabble #blurb #short fic #fanfic #linked universe fanfic #light angst #eclipse au #kovac fic

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doctorslippery · 1 year ago

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d200 Single Word Starship Names

Completed List

Intrepid

Longarm

Midsommer

Protos

Worship

Calador

Philosopher

Santera

Castillo

Dragoon

Horizon

Windswept

Aurelian

Resolute

Corinth

Trimaran

Titan

Olympia

Watcher

Matador

Sleuth

Herald

Halcyon

Buccaneer

Flagstone

Respite

Monarch

Sumere

Zemnoi

Polaris

Angkor

Halogen

Pathfinder

Wildfire

Altair

Lamplight

Falchion

Vega

Archimedes

Copernicus

Helios

Hypatia

Cypress

Northumbria

Celeste

Calliope

Carpathia

Vengeance

Remembrance

Nightingale

Sidewinder

Saphrax

Terminus

Deadlock

Tuscan

Vitalis

Cascade

Acolyte

Lockstone

Malkuth

Ætheris

Kaiser

Ascent

Parallax

Saudade

Stargazer

Hephaestus

Proteus

Columbia

Silence

Panama

Harmony

Conqueror

Cromwell

Chimera

Nemesis

Emissary

Syracuse

Lancaster

Nautilus

Dauntless

Reliant

Tranquility

Remus

Romulus

Vanguard

Artemis

Firebrand

Defiance

Renault

Observer

Providence

Stalwart

Tortoise

Leviathan

Covenant

Inquisitor

Claymore

Pursuit

Facade

Bonus Names:

how would you roll Midway

Tenacity

Halacion

Trimaran

Spitfire

Magus

Ravenous

Idalia

Rutledge

Stockton

Errant

Hylacomylus

Mercator

Meridian

Cartographer

Azimuth

Vohlonen

Tyrolian

Vizier

Sahara

Alexandria

Eddystone

Aperture

Fresnel

Ambrose

Rodionov

Iikon

Roanoke

Croatoan

Terracotta

Mercurial

Thermopylae

Odessa

Sunrise

Agamemnon

Atreus

Mastiff

Demeter

Corsican

Tarascan

Gibraltar

Genoa

Ironclad

Ulysses

Malachai

Tortuga

Nexus

Requiem

Solstice

Paragon

Empyrean

Relic

Tempest

Oracle

Mirage

Nomad

Onyx

Valkyrie

Ascendant

Endeavor

Reverie

Calypso

Epoch

Apogee

Odyssey

Rasmussen

Aerostar

Convair

Clarion

Sevastopol

Aralsk

Mentor

Nautilus

Sanctity

Autumn

Primavera

Inquieto

Myrrddin

Tartan

Pendragon

Mezzanine

Troubadour

Pelican

Matador

Armstrong

Chesapeake

Strider

Eloquence

Bastille

Bastion

Algernon

Kingfisher

Evergreen

Avalanche

Sovereign

Solitude

Maktoub

Charrería

Vaquero

Sublime

#nondenominational rpging #d20 #rpg #gm #game ideas #role playing game #game on #play on

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alyjojo · 2 years ago

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Past Life 🗿 Karmic Spread August 2023 - Aries

Gender I’m Picking Up On (in the past life): Young Asian Male, 10-12 years old

Who You Were: 2 Wands

What You Did: The Hanged Man

How It Ended: The Fool

What Karma Was Brought With You: Ace of Wands

Who You Brought With You: 3 Swords

Additional energy: 8 Cups

Past Life Oracle: Asia & Monk or Nun

Dreaming Way: Letter, Sun, Bear

Charm:

Red Moon 🌙 on 10 Swords (both)

Dagger 🗡 on King of Wands & King of Swords rev

Crab 🦀 on 6 Cups

Snowflake ❄️ on The Chariot - Past

Snowflake ❄️ on The Emperor - Present

This life was a very unfortunate experience for you, one with a deep & very painful betrayal, and you’ve carried this same experience with you into this life, with a different face. Still betrayal. While shuffling your cards, I saw an avalanche ❄️ and heard Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic” - specifically the line “he waited his whole damn life just to take that flight, and when the plane crashed down he thought, well isn’t this nice?” I don’t pick the messages 😮‍💨 Cruel irony seems to be the gist of it, because you did wait your whole damn life to make a long & arduous journey, probably to a monastery with Monk being highlighted. The Chariot came out to clarify that it was the journey itself and you never made it to where you were going.

I don’t get that you actually wanted to BE a monk. I can’t gauge a time period, not at all recent, but not super ancient either. I do see a cart being loaded up for the journey. And you having to wait for a specific age. 10, 11, and 12 seem to be the focus of your ages here when you started realizing who your father really was, and what he was making you do. If you ever truly realized, I think there were just moments of cruelty that gave you intuitive signs and red flags, but you still didn’t know the full extent of him. There was anticipation for this journey, you were excited for something new, and you wanted to please your family, who seemed to be the ones planning this whole thing for you, specifically the father. You waited years for this, both excited about taking a step towards “manhood”, honoring the plans of your family, and a lot of heavy pressure, sadness, and burden on your shoulders because you had to leave them, and didn’t want to. That thought hovered in your mind the whole time you waited, years, and it only made you feel very sad. It’s like you knew.

Your past father comes up as a man with two faces 🎭, King of Wands being someone sociable, a leader, someone charming that’s able to win people over to their side, they had a lot of contacts in your community, and thrived off of positive attention, respect, status & praise…but they were also someone that could be heartless, narcissistic, and extremely selfish, only out for themselves at all times. Had anyone even spoken up about this, no one would’ve believed them. He had that kind of power, and was well liked & respected. He knew the difference between right and wrong and he knew how to mask his true nature. You were to train to be a monk because it would make him look good, give him bragging rights, not because he had some deep faith & respect for the position, or genuinely cared about your well-being or future 😞

Your father was behind your death, I can’t see the specifics whether there was actually an avalanche…what I saw, because whatever it was, was HIS fault. Can people cause avalanches on command? I don’t think so. I really don’t know, he has the dagger charm on him. I feel more like it was a set-up, a scheme, maybe he said it was some “freak disaster” after the fact. I don’t get him ever receiving Justice in that lifetime, he got away with it. It could be either with The Tower here, a sudden disaster is possible. I just don’t see it 🤷‍♀️ Your cards of Letter, Sun & Bear are describing the moment where you received “news” that you could join, make the journey, you were “accepted” but I get that all being fake. It was all planned to lure you away from the home, and I don’t get any reason at all except that this man was a selfish & cruel individual. There is a snowflake ❄️ on this Chariot, I’ve already seen snow, this is showing snow, maybe you set out in a snow storm or something…the decision doesn’t feel right from the very start, like others besides the father should’ve known better and just didn’t speak up or do anything. Like taking a trip in the dead of winter, in a snow storm when it could’ve easily waited a week, a month, etc. to someone with decent intentions.

In this life, you’ve brought three karmic situations with you.

1. 10 Swords, twice, with Red Moon on both is a feeling of intense fear, paranoia, thinking the worst of something, which for some is a big problem, but for you it’s RIGHT. You’re right 💯 Your intuition is 1000% on point, if you feel people are working against you, they probably are. There is someone here, a lover, possibly a Cancer or has placements, that has betrayed you in this life. The lesson is to listen to your gut, and The World shows you’ve already learned this lesson, ended this connection & it’s all been completed.

2. Issues with an emotionally cold and distant father figure have followed you into this life, he may have abandoned you, or you feel forced to do this to him. He also has a snowflake on him, and there could be some story with you two about being trapped in the snow or a blizzard of some kind & it being a difficult experience for you. In this life 💯 To clarify, it’s not the same father, and this person isn’t cruel, they just don’t show up for you, they don’t feel comfortable in “a fatherly role”, and they’ll take initiative with anything in their life except when it comes to personal development and relationship building. Very emotionally unavailable, and you justifiably have deep wounds from him for that. Sending you so many virtual hugs & love rn.

3. Because you passed young, I get this a lot for these younger stories and especially with Aries placements, your SOUL is eager for new experiences! You cannot waaaait to jump into new things, try new foods, travel new places, do everything you’ve never done just to say you have. But Wheel of Fortune is both a blessing and a curse. When it works out for you, it’s an incredible experience, but there are probably long pauses, delays, reasons you can’t do this all of the time, in between. It’s like in your life, Spirit will knock down a whole tree to keep you from escaping your town for the next 6 months, so have a seat. You can’t explain it, but you’re not crazy, and you’re not someone that just gives excuses either, it’s often literally out of your control. You could feel like a slave to fate at times because of this. When luck is on your side though, take advantage, you can have some incredible experiences where everything goes in your favor too 💜 Trust that your blocks are blessings & you’re just not meant to know why, but it’s for your highest good.

#aries tarot reading #past life #karmic #karma #past life reading #august 2023 #Aries #tarot

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lisaward867 · 4 days ago

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