#small mention of Pathologic

[zeevoidlight]

Just finished the Talos Principle 2. I have thoughts on it.

I liked it very much :). Is one of those games that will stay with me for quite a while. I like the world building, the robots, the problems and questions that arise from the story. Just like last game.

SPOILERS My ending was that I unintentionally (because i didn't knew it was a choice) pushed for Byron to become mayor. I actually think it was a good outcome and something I wanted ultimately because the city couldn't possibly survive without him in command for the next election. I liked Byron at first because is almost obvious. But as the story progressed in the game I started to see what the others were talking about when referring to him. I do think he is umm... a bit insane, lol, and later in the game i couldn't but see him as a too rash and unhinged at times, just like the other extreme with Hermanubis. He's clearly a Utopist with big ambitions which wouldn't be so bad if they weren't driven by his own trauma, he cannot see past himself using others necessities to justify and prove his personal point into the extreme. That's why I wanted to side with Alcatraz, which to me feels like the safe option, of not being to rash to take a definitive decision in that moment to completely change reality forever and focus only on the immediate problems at hand. He wasn't opposed to the technology, he was just wary of it, which is perfectly understandable. But... I didn't wanted to admit it but the narrative seems to favor Byron in the very end, even leaving Alcatraz completely out of the picture in all endings, and depicting the "theory of everything" as the only one that gives fruit. maybe, Idk exactly but that's my impression after seeing three endings by myself and the special endings on youtube. Although I still don't know the conditions of the special endings and their variants, and also my impression was a bit different, more balanced when i saw the normal endings by myself. Maybe reddit has a way to skew the truth by deciding to find and choose a "true" ending or "canon" ending, maybe the game is actually biased, idk. The ending i got was, like i was saying before i got sidetracked, I got Byron elected, and I wanted to turn off the machine, not destroy it, to maybe take a bit of time to think about it and study it, and Byron in the meantime could move New Jerusalem out of their stagnation into something better than what they had currently. I was my best outcome because they needed the resources and I think they were absolutely exaggerating by saying that they will destroy the planet if they just basically grow any inch. They were already much better the moment the started making plans for expeditions and gathering resources for their immediate needs, and thinking about creating new things, while at the same time not immediately giving the theory of everything power to them as they were right now because Athena's concerns and Alcatraz concerns where very much real. Is the power to change reality itself! Is Teensy and Tot and the Polyhedron all over again! Don't you see the danger they inherent?! (insert Jeff Goldblum here).

But i feared the game wasn't going to understand me and it was going to give me a bad ending for taking the middle of the road decision, and that's exactly what happened. I took the option to turn off the machine, and apparently that's the worst ending because the mayor is not actually elected, they end up fighting each other, 1K just ends up leaving them to their own and basically exiles himself with Athena and says "fuck this shit I'm out" and leaves them to figure the future out themselves, and the Sphinx tells me that i took a decision that is not a decision. like... *sigh... So, I watched the ending that I think the game wanted me to take in the first place, which is to use the machine to know everything and gain absolute control over reality itself. And i watched it, but to be honest it was still not the good ending, at least for me, even with that Byron super heartfelt dialogue at the end over the scene with 1K creating life in another corner of the universe and the holograms (ghosts? ppl on reddit said it was ghosts) of other AIs and the music and all. I just think that's too much, and as Al and at some point Yaqut said, it felt devoid of meaning, to suddenly have everything and can do anything and know everything, to manipulate life that way. Everything looses purpose. At least that's how i felt.

So, I chose then the other ending where you outright destroy the machine. And I thought the game was going to punish me with something worse than my first ending, complete oblivion. But surprisingly it was the ending i was actually looking for. One where Byron gets elected and he says that he respects my decision without any resentments since he expresses that with respect. I was surprised when he said that! and he was saying in his speech that he was still going to take New Jerusalem to a brighter future worthy of the people that doubt them. It was so much better! And just what i wanted! And then 1K goes into the woods and find a stag, and kneels before it. I don't feel it was in a worshiping way but just in a respectful way. I was just disappointed that I didn't saw Alcatraz in that ending then, because I feel like he would be much more at ease and happy with the results. The only thing he wanted was for Byron to not go crazy, not to stop advancement altogether. But towards the end i feel the narrative started to change Alcatraz into being the opposite of Byron like he was depicted at the very start for you to think that was all his character was. It reverted back into it with little details he says to make you misunderstand what he's saying again...

... I'm happy with that last ending i got being my canon one. Even if it's "the wrong one". Feels like Pathologic all over again. I just cannot win with the choice I thought it was the good one. I hope i'm just tripping and there's actually no bias. But that's why it will stay in the void along with other things as long as the general consensus say there's an actual "canon" ending. At least until the new Talos comes out in a couple of years, if there's another one. Or someone on the team says otherwise. I will have my own canon. And Alcatraz and I can be the forever party poopers.

[ad0rechuu]

۪ ★ ۫ MILKY WAY ୨୧

based on milky way by seohyun

SYNOPSIS. ━━━━━ It’s not everyday that your friends childhood friend turns out to be the girl that you literally have a fan account for, but for Seonghwa, San and Mingi it’s become a reality. being able to get close to your bias is great! even if she does have a raging crush on someone else…

6mar23 | st. 09/03/23 / fn. 31/08/23

pairing. ━━━━━ college students! fans! park seonghwa, choi san, song mingi x fem! idol! reader (x idol! oc)

featuring. ━━━━━ ateez, kang seulgi (red velvet), fatou samba (black swan), park sujin aka swan (purple kiss), shin yuna (itzy), do hanse (former victon) oc, fem oc

genre. ━━━━━ smau, written, humor/crack, fluff, angst, suggestive, love square, idol/college au, strangers to friends to lovers, really slow burn, pinning, secret identity

warnings. ━━━━━ i’m not a native english speaker so my english might be a little off sometimes ! ! ! timestamps/sm numbers mean nothing, sexism/slutshaming, swearing, mentions of food/sex/serious topic, kys/kms and other questionable jokes, use of pictures for yn but only for reference (only of dark skin poc used), cyber bullying, ssngs, mental illness/anxiety, mentions of alcohol/drugs. small age gaps, more thorough warnings in the actual chapters, let me know if missed smth

notes. ━━━━━ the taglist is closed, spam likes are fine but consider reblogging with comments of ur thoughts (not only on my work but on other authors work too!) credits to the rightful owners of all the graphics n music

PROFILES. ━━━━━ SANRIO TRASH (STAR) ᜊ THE VIRGINITY CORNER (ATEEZ + YNS BBGS) ᜊ EXTRAS

PART 1. PRE TIME SKIP :

★ CH 000. prologue: HONGJOONG HAS FRIENDS?!

★ CH 001. CLONE FANTASY

★ CH 002. THE JASPER TO MY SHERLOCK

★ CH 003. SUS, VERY SUS

★ CH 004. DON’T LEAVE ME TALL FUCK

★ CH 005. EDIBLE SCENTED CANDLE

★ CH 006. MY LITTLE MEOW MEOW

★ CH 007. ONE OF THE GIRLIES

★ CH 008. SHES SO PRECIOUS!!

★ CH 009. IS YN OKAY?

★ CH 010. NO FANBOYING

★ CH 011. INTRODUCTIONS: PART I

★ CH 012. INTRODUCTIONS: PART II

★ CH 013. SUPER COOL AND HOT (RESPECTFULLY)

★ CH 014. AESPA WAS RIGHT

★ CH 015. GODDAMNIT PARK SEONGHWA

★ CH 016. WHAT THE H*CK

★ CH 017. I’M SO HASTAG SRS

★ CH 018. OPERATION: YNGYU

★ CH 019. HE’S UP TO NO GOOD

★ CH 020. PRAISE KINK ERA

★ CH 021. BAES JUST LIKE ME FR

★ CH 022. NVM Y’ALL HE RESPONDED

★ CH 023. TWO HEART EMOJIS

★ CH 024. RPS LEGEND

★ CH 025. KANG POMPOMPURIN

★ CH 026. BEGINNING OF A CHEESY ROMCOM

★ CH 027. WTFDYM

★ CH 028. IMAGINE NOT TALKING

★ CH 029. BLACK LIST SPEED RUN

★ CH 030. AS LONG AS SHE’S HAPPY

( EXTRA. ASK THEM ANYTHING EVENT:: PART i )

PART 2. POST TIME SKIP :

★ CH 031. BOMBASTIC SIDE EYE

★ CH 032. AS HOT AS I EXPECTED

★ CH 033. MY BABIES (AND KIM HONGJOONG)

★ CH 034. EVEN THE YANDERES

★ CH 035. DONGSAENG ZONED

★ CH 036. A STRANGE FEELING

★ CH 037. OLD FRIENDS

★ CH 038. I DON’T THINK I’M OKAY

★ CH 039. MINGI UR A PATHOLOGICAL LIAR

★ CH 040. LOVELY

★ CH 041. STEP BY STEP

★ CH 042. DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

★ CH 043. OOPS

★ CH 044. WHATDIDIDOTOMYSELF

★ CH 045. LOVE LETTERS TO LEE HYORI

★ CH 046. LOSER DOESN’T EVEN DESCRIBE IT

★ CH 047. IF ONLY SHE KNEW

★ CH 048. LE’ ASTRE

( EXTRA. STAR’S 5TH MINI ALBUM :: LE’ ASTRE )

★ CH 049. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S UNHOLY

★ CH 050. I’M ALRIGHT, I PROMISE

★ CH 051. BUTTERFLIES

★ CH 052. #STAR IS KILLING ME

★ CH 053. OK? OK! OK

★ CH 054. PURSUE HAPPINESS

★ CH 055. WHY DID YOU NEVER TELL ME

★ CH 056. THE TRUTH

★ CH 057. SERA WATANABE

★ CH 058. XD

★ CH 059. MILKY WAY

★ CH 060. LOVE

( EXTRA. ASK THEM ANYTHING EVENT:: PART ii )

ENDING O1.

★ 00i. PERUVIAN LILIES

★ 0ii. THE PRETTIEST

ENDING O2.

★ 00i. WHAT MAKES HIM, HIM

★ 0ii. LOM(OMMY)L



ENDING O3.

★ 00i. FINAL PUZZLE PIECE

★ 0ii. MINE.

★ AFTER WORD.

milky way © ad0rechuu, 2023. do not copy/repost.

[phramboise]

— collector:: simon“ghost”rileyxfemale!reader

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

tags and warnings: 18+, therapist!reader, patient!riley, mentions of names of psychiatric drugs, disorders, self-destructive behaviours and many other labels that are in the nature of therapy, talk of trauma, persuasion, sexual fantasies, kissing; drugging, kidnapping, nudism, Stockholm syndrome, self-pleasuring (f), vaginal fingering, female receiving oral, semi-public sex, vague ending. More like your obsessive situationship kidnapping you. italics are therapy entries, scribbled notes of the therapist written in her POV; the rest is in third POV. In no way this is praising or normalising any behaviour written -read at your own risk, drugging and kidnapping are not consensual.

wordcount: 3k

;;

When Mr. Riley first crossed your gaze, it wasn't amid your session. Across the road, he stood, and there was no mistaking the man. Here near the thicket, scarcely a few people wear long sleeves on summer fierce, and even fewer have masks on. Until you stop making a mental prognosis even for a person who is not your client and come back from your tea break -or until the end of your shift if you don’t notice- he lingers around, waits at the bus stop, though not seeming to wait for a bus for countless have come and gone, in the hours long.

Another man is what you see, he might be any passerby on the street, and perhaps he is. Mr. Riley embodies one of those afflictions, less unique than he imagines, of those pathologies you've encountered before. When you extend your hand to greet him in your office, he offers no response, nor does he ask of you to address him more sincere. Mr. Riley he remains. He's one who knows himself, aware of his inner discord, though its depths remain veiled. From afar, his black eyes turn warm summer, amber in the sunlit pane, his presence yields little beyond the his file's mundane strain. He avoids talking of his past, and names elude the characters as he tells little pieces of his life. No period of self-destructive history, no suicide attempts. No addiction on gambling, alcohol. No signs of wrist cutting, nor drug injections -seems you misinterpreted his clothing choices. Many hospitalisations, all classified military field papers, one particular on teenage period, one he speaks not about.

Mr. Riley's visits to the office seem to transcend the usual reasons of any other patient, not for seeking counsel or solace; they harbour an enigma you can't quite decode. He adamantly requests your final session on Friday evenings, as if bound by some unseen rhythm of his own. There's no poignant trauma he didn't untangle of himself, no platitude of life's hardships to impart upon him. He has already navigated life's currents, seemingly with ease. There's no sign that he needs a therapist to grasp the stark realities, to know life's not to see through rose-tinted veil.

He is a patient who possesses a profound understanding of himself, sparing you the tire of the week's closing session. There's no need for medical interventions, no requirements for Risperidone, Prozac, or Paxil, nor any hint of sedatives to dull his senses. At times, his answers are so astute that the roles between therapist and client seem to blur. In the dynamic of your therapeutic alliance, there is no predetermined mould, because Mr. Riley doesn't adopt them.

Not a traditional pathology, Mr. Riley is one where not the patient being ready for the therapy, but the therapy being not ready for the patient, one who needs of you to be creative and bold to unravel himself. Of no technique, no book nor rule. So, you suggest roleplay -no voice recorders, not a notepad to write down occasionally. Less practical and even less theoretical. You even offer to do it on the skirt of the small lake behind the office as not to create social desirability. -Not that he bothers of it.

He accepts.

Now, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be, you are no therapist, nor he is a client. He’s not a diagnosis, a test to report, a scale. Not an alienation, not a compulsive or antisocial disorder. Only Mr. Riley.

When you ask him about his first memory he recalls, you realise you must play the maternal figure in this intricate play. When you settle on the bench overlooking the pond, he approaches from behind, enfolding your shoulders before walking to your front, resting his head to your lap. He does not know much about gods; but he thinks that the water is a way of semblance, his soul’s double winks off the reflection, whispers in your voice as you offer solace. “Sometimes” you begin, stroking gently the blond locks that nestle on your lap, “one must mourn to heal.”

He rises on his knees, clinging to your body as you caress his neck, crying to your chest as your cloth is now pulled down with the weight of him resting on you. …Like a baby, his resistance just melts away.

Mr. Riley requests that from now on the therapies take place in the backyard of the building, and since this change of nature contributes to the therapeutic alliance more than the office setting did, and now that he is sure of you enough to remove his mask, and since now when he looks at you he sees you, you acquiesce.

Mr. Riley is touch deprived, he has not yet spoke about his father, but he revealed in our role play therapies that his mother passed when he was only a child - his deprivation leads to a relentless need for contact, that is, after he started to trust me. He shook my hand today, and came with only a mask that covers half his face, which he later took off also. I feel for much further developments with Mr. Riley, which is heartening.

He's by your step as you step around the garden, his presence a silent echo of your every move. His arm wraps around your shoulder as you sit next to one another on the bench. With each sensual step, he surrenders morsels of his shadow, weaving them into your shared space. And when he bids the invitation to walk hand in hand along the water's edge, you accept. Not a drug-treatable depression, rather, it's a serenity born from the tumult of excess violence and the rusty imprints of roads taken, reflected in his eyes. A familiarity in his demeanour, a wash of embrace as if he unravels yourself to you.

Mr. Riley abandons the sessions for a while, it takes a lot of strength to pretend to other clients that you are interested in their problems. When you start to wait in your office on Fridays, even though your last session is available, an empty slot, and when you do this for weeks on end, you realise that this bond is a two-way street, nothing professional. For him, you are a person who will listen, for you-

Someone to listen.

;;

When he does return, the birds are flying south. You find yourself consumed by a gnawing unease of thinking that his routine apathy is back again. Once more, -you prayed so- he seats you into the sanctuary of the bench amidst the garden, yet his eyes no longer linger upon yours with their former intensity. When he pushes you into the water with the strength of one arm, you freeze for a moment, and when he pulls you back in before you soak in the reedy river, he catches you unaware and kisses you harder than you dreamt possible.

One thing you cannot deny, is how his demanding yet sensual kiss is turning you on, leaving not one bit of your responsibility, your authority as the therapist as his hand moves over your legs, circling beneath the curve of your hips. Dipping his hand between your warm thighs, you let his firm touch venture between, supple skin heating cold fingers. His other hand gropes a fistful of your slinking skirt, and you wrap his scent around your loins as he falls to his knees again before the bench. Before you.

Never in all your career you thought you’d be getting into this, to abuse someone who is to solace in the first place, even the thought of it appalled you. Now the thought tightens his fingers on your hips, his tongue rubs idly against your clit in unrushed fashion, he slowly feasts you out.

Mr. Riley will no longer attend our therapy sessions – I said to him that our sessions are not helping him, gave him another therapist’s card, hopefully his condition will move for the better. My efforts were useless I’m afraid.

It’s what you wrote down the day after, but you don’t recall him agreeing.

;;

Three Fridays it takes when he suddenly reappears, he intercepts you locking the door of your office. Adorned with the very mask he tells you he came back to get the other one from you, he’s clad beneath a hoodie, zipper drawn all the way to conceal more than just his torso, hood over his head. You’re not sure what to answer, in a vague indecision, with the haunting realisation that his condition remains as unchanged as ever. Perhaps you should have heeded the warning signs, reconsidered the nature of your occupation, and resisted the temptation to immerse yourself so deeply in his plight— perhaps you shouldn’t have given of yourself to something that won’t heal for the better.

He's your shadow down the corridor, a silent loom trailing behind you as you make your way back to your office. You let out the breath you've been holding as you pick up the pace and create a few steps of distance until you reach your door. Yet, even within the confines of your own space, his presence looms large, casting a pall of uncertainty over your every thought.

In your room, he follows, his silence heavy in the air. As you retrieve his mask from the drawer, he catches your wrist as you turn.

One word leaves your mouth, he’s on you again. Pressing your back against your desk, one hand winding tight around your arm as the other tips your chin up for you to meet his height as he looms over you. The caress of his lips draw tingling heat to your cheek, your lips, your neck. You feel his body against yours deeply as he clines closer, hand on your jaw tight as he tries his way in with his tongue, both hands cupping your head to his, leaving nowhere to lean but him.

His mouth feeds something inside yours, a smooth little dragée that leaves a ragged earthy taste each second you refuse to swallow down, his mouth is on yours to keep it on your tongue, raw liquorice and a sickly sweet taste in your pharynx, your nose tightens in its taste as you try to pry away with a doleful cry — he only pulls away as he feels it down your throat with his thumb, the other wipes the tear on your cheek as he pushes his forehead against yours, cooing it’s okay as you shudder in trepidation.

You leave the room, try to cough it out your mouth.

A hit behind your neck is enough to knock you out.

;;

The sound of spinning tires piercing a howling like a restless banshee against the asphalt wakes you, worn leather feels eerie against your back as you sink into its contours, laid sprawled on the backseat in a short slip gown you don’t own yourself that pools around your hip as the car you’re in hurtles towards the undying disquiet. Cool leather surrounds you, as if offering a hug from the owner on the driver’s seat. The sight outside is a blurred panorama of shifting shadows of a transient night and neon lights racing by in dragging lines before your surly hand moves to feel the ache nestled behind your nape. His gaze grazes your body through the rearview mirror. Deliberately slow is his hand resting over the open window as he drops the stub of his cigarette down, he pulls his mask down before dividing the cold night air mixing with the smoke through the misty window. You don’t know where this road leads, where he’s taking you. Of what he forced into your mouth or when he wore this negligee on you.

Gentle engine lulls you, to some elusive and ephemeral warmth, starts below your stomach, sprouts where you fear it. You were right when you thought, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be. Now he’s to lead, and you’re to follow this fleeting respite of surreal blend. Something in your blood that gets you warm, or it’s the adrenaline of this unknown place. Only Mr. Riley and you. You’re scared, you’re intoxicated. You enjoy it.

You turn your head to his side, wind blows your hair, trails over, snakes through your legs as your hands move to pull the skirt down to cover your hips, holding the satin tight between your thighs. Your own skirt is gone. So are your sheer tights, so is your underwear – he must’ve taken them off before he carried you in his car.

The sultry heat pulsates between your thighs, a yawning chasm that stirs an ache inside. Though, there’s no trace of wetness that already paints your groin, only the searing fire deep within. Your insides burn but you don't feel any strain anywhere except the pain in your neck. You still smell like your own perfume, untouched, without an intrusion of cigarette smoke on his fingertips or the weight of his hands grabbing your skin. Not a single mark marrs your flesh, not even the faintest imprint that dry, rough fingertips as they graze on supple skin. He seems to only changed you in silk, a whisper-soft fabric that clung to you, only piece that’s shielding you from the cool grace of the air. As your fingers brush over the tender swell of your breasts, a shiver dances down your spine. The satin wrapped fabric weaves you into a life that is not meant to hurt, and with each breath, a soft moan threatens its way out your parted lips, a melody of surrender to the lethargy that he trapped you in. You now have a few ideas about the pill he gave you.

Leather smells varnish, aroma intertwining with the haze of his cigarette smoke that hangs in the air. His masculine presence stands as a silent challenge to your frailty. With a delicate touch, you place your hands on your kneecaps, the tip of your tongue running over your teeth as your knuckles leave the skirt of your dress, not holding it over yourself anymore. He must’ve done the same, you imagine his fingers tracing a similar path, grazing against your inner thighs as he lowers your panties, taking them off. Grounded by a thick, scorched, labdanum base, a dark and brooding charred wood and burnt sap, floods through you as the air carries his cologne to you, your nose picks up whatever it is that gets your body wanting more, you caress yourself. 

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

You wish you fingers were to be rougher, thicker and that your fingertips would smell of tobacco. Of something grainy and rugged instead of this slipping silk between your legs for you to rub against. Did he made you sit on his leg as he clad you in this dress that leaves none to imagination, had he rubbed you against his trousers as he put you down? 

Your breathing gets heavier, he changes the hand that steers the wheel, now the car decelerates to keep it in control, now slow enough, a person on a sidewalk would have a flash of image if they were to be as the car glides by- you know you’d do this even if there were no tinted films on the windows- you search for his gaze over the rear mirror, laden with unspoken want. You clench around nothing, mutter words of no meaning, but he knows. You whine deeper breaths, and they soon turn to lilting whimpers. 

You think about him feeding you the pill with his tongue - does he feel as you do right now? You wriggle your hips, let a moan to get yourself going, his eyelids flutter close before yours do slowly. He’s watching you; did he watch you when he stripped you naked? How long was he watching you? Your heart races with the writhing pulse between your legs as you rub your arm along your nipple, your hand moves to your core, brushing against your clit as you move your fingers against your lips, the breeze of the interior now seeping on the slick you play with your fingertips. The car sways a little out the road as you cry out a louder whimper, pebbles rolling under the tires, vibrating the seats, adding you on. 

Some part of you wants him to pull the car to the side, come to join you, grab you by the ankle and yank you out the car, do whatever he wants to you against the asphalt. Some part likes this piercing gaze through the reflection, of him biting the insides of his cheek as he groans lowly and shifts himself on his seat. From the little frame of the mirror, his free hand is out your sight, but you hear it.  Hear his belt loosening as the metal hits the strap. You hum as you increase the pressure, circling your much thinner finger around your hole before sliding in, clenching around them as you slide the latter finger. 

If he were to tell you to call him by his name before, you’d moan it. Now, all that leaves your mouth is loud and lewd sounds as the saliva clicks against your tongue, synching slow with the in-and-out of your motion, trying to reach your g-spot with the tips of your fingers. 

This won’t last long, are you sure if this is what you want?

Open your eyes, where are you going? Did you even ask? Pill wears off slow in time, fear stings beneath arousal’s guise, your slick skin sticks to your hair, to the now warm and wet cushion under you. Everyone seems to be asleep but you two, as he takes you into the unknowns of the lovers. Your fingers demand release, rubbing and rubbing hastened than your breath, ill imagery fills goosebumps on its way down to your spine, in texture of his icy fingers. Your teeth sentinels at your lips, hard against skin, against the impulse to speak his name— a bare boundary to still not cross on your book. Maybe you could’ve stopped it if you wanted, but you’re not the one driving. Truest valour lies not in defiance, but in surrender. So you do, let it all out.

It's a hushed stillness of something trembling under, the radio scratches before it turns a sepia-tone song spilling cadence, a gentle sway as you massage and pull your soaked legs to your chest, laying on your side as the road keeps hurling forward to an endless terrain.

[moanz111]

✩°⋆｡ system error ⋆｡°✩

synopsis ✧ you've always dreamt of having your fantasy-like love story. naturally, hearing the sweet melodic ring of your love alarm was what you wanted the most, right? until it actually happened. four times.

pairing ✧ uni student! choi san x fem! uni student! reader

featuring ✧ ateez; huening kai, choi yeonjun, choi beomgyu (txt); huh yunjin (le sserafim); i.n (stray kids) + other side characters who appear sometimes or are mentioned

genre ✧ smau + some written chapters, university au, soulmates au, humour/crack, fluff, mutual pining, slow burn, enemies (???) to friends to lovers

warnings ✧ occasional swearing, mentions of parties/alcohol, lots of teasing between beomgyu and reader as a love language, questionable jokes, small age gaps + english is not my native language so there might be some mistakes!

any other warnings will be put in each chapter! please tell me if i've missed something! ♡

start date ✧ 5.06.2023 ♡

end date ✧ tba

status ✧ ongoing, updates will resume soon

notes ✧ hi everyone! i'm very excited (and nervous) to post my very first work here! i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoy writing it! lmk if you want to be added to the taglist! can't wait to start this journey with all of you! ♡

credits for all the used graphics belong to their rightful owners!

chapter list ✧

profiles - lo$ers, teezers, more side characters

ch 1 - would you still love me if i was a worm?

ch 2 - drunk tutor meeting

ch 3 - lost in the lights - written

ch 4 - message not delivered.

ch 5 - that's what she said

ch 6 - a pathological liar

ch 7 - family activities

ch 8 - stare back

ch 9 - a shift in the universe

ch 10 - that's my other bro

ch 11 - i stayed loyal

ch 12 - my ears are burning

ch 13 - character development

ch 14 - just be more confident

ch 15 - what rhymes with loser?

ch 16 - lover boy

ch 17 - what's going on in the universe

system error, © moanz111

please do not modify, copy, repost, or translate.

[inblackwoods]

While I'm posting about my pathologic transcription, I'll make shorter posts about my takeaways. About the literal health of the environment around town, we get a couple people on day one to give context. The most obvious is Aspity, but to get an idea as to why things are as she says, you have to talk to a drunkard, called a Carouser, and a Tot.

The Tot mentions a "Rotten Field," and when asked what that is, he says:

"It’s where they bury the bulls’ bones. The place is covered with fur instead of grass, and it’s all bones bones bones underground. Bones and horns. Yeah."

Why are so many bones and horns and hides being thrown into a field instead of being used in some way? Either for jewelry, clothes, or for tradesmen's tools, these things have a variety of uses.

The Carouser, when asked about the Abattoir, says:

"Hundreds of bulls are being slaughtered there- what else is there to know? It is our humble town that provides the whole Northeastern region with beef! Or even the whole country mayhap."

It's because of the massive scale of the Bull Project that so much excess material is being produced and then thrown into the fields and rivers as waste products. Nothing is in higher demand than meat, nothing is needed as regularly, and perhaps the people in the Capital and in other towns are less interested in buying blood or bone. It's not profitable, the Olgimskys don't view it as anything but by products of more lucrative things.

Aspity says:

"All that water comes from the Steppe and it isn’t exactly clean. Yesterday I inspected all the springs in the area; there seems to be no more clean water around. That salty taste is everywhere, it’s reddish in colour, and there are disgusting clots in it."

And when Bachelor asks for more information, she says:

"The towsnfolk store water in home-made reservoirs. This modest supply should be enough to help us last a little while, but afterwards we’ll have to drink that bloody mixture."

Bachelor reacts to this with disgust, and can even insist she is lying, perhaps because he had been benefitting from this disgusting reality in his life in the Capital.

Aspity's whole point in starting this conversation is to make blatantly clear some of the side effects of the Steppe's occupation, which is that the waste material of the Abattoir is dumped into the river and land. This problem would be lessened in severity if the community was manufacturing meat not for the sake of providing for the entire country, but just for the local population and what's necessary to export in exchange for other essential imports. Obviously, this would be less lucrative for the Olgimskys (who don't care as long as they don't suffer any loss) but it would mean that the people who live here would better be able to care for themselves and the land with no need to think of supporting an entire country off the backs of one small community. The occupation of the Steppe, the running of the Bull Project, will not only destroy the Kin and lower classes, but will also eventually kill the town, the higher classes and even the Olgimskys as well. When the water runs out, it will run out for the lower classes first, but it will eventually run out for everyone.

More on Fat Vlad trying to talk about this all as if it were an inescapable, natural reality (and the Bachelor's fighting against this notion) later. Sort of how some people think that the way the world works, capitalism and such, are natural laws instead of constructed ideas (horrible fallacy).

[blossomwritesthings]

𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞. | 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 →

pairing: felix x fem!reader (afab) // chan x fem!reader (afab)

genre: nonidol/collegegrad!felix. waitress!reader. college au. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. smut - MDNI, 18+ only. reader pov. friends to enemies to lovers au. slowburn romance. lots of pining. cheating. abusive boyfriend/ex. drama galore. the sexual tension is REAL in this one.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. very thematic elements. felix is reader's estranged childhood bestie. chan is low-key an asshole in this ngl. heavy topics are mentioned such as: abusive/toxic relationships, cheating, and pathological lying. the summer vibes are real in this one. there will be humor/fluff throughout to balance everything. and ofc smut too because who am i if not a whore for filthy felix smut. 😉

word count: 4.7k

summary: ever since you were born, all you've ever known is living a simple life in the small australian coastal town of bridgeport bay. you're content with working at your parent's beachside restaurant angel waves for the rest of your life, and you're happy with your place in the world - you have good friends and an even better boyfriend. that is, until everything comes to a standstill when a familiar face from the past visits town for the summer. and in the wake of his return, lee felix upturns everything you thought you were content with here in your comforting little beach town.

a/n: ugh I'm FINALLY starting to write/post this... it feels like I've been stewing over this single idea for MONTHS lmao!! 😩😭 a big thanks to all of my amazing stay writer friends in the writer's club... ya'll are so fucking lovely and I adore you're continual support of my work!! 🥹 I have no idea how many parts this will be, but I'm anticipating for it to be at least 20.k words so... there's that haha! hope ya'll enjoy, and lmk what you think - your thoughts are always welcome! 💞

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). ©ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

“Hey Y/N, can you please get the next table? I think Jordan just seated another customer.” Your best friend Yeji asked you in a light, cheery voice. She was walking past you into the kitchens, both hands full of dirty dishes, her midnight black hair blowing in the breeze that rushed into the restaurant from the open windows that lined the entire place. 

 “Sure thing babe!” You gave her a playful wink, offering up a faint smile before you finished helping ring up another customer’s order. 

 Just like every other weekend, your parent's restaurant - Angel Waves - was bustling with activity, as a solid line formed outside the doors with patrons waiting to snag a seat in the popular joint. A mix between a tropical tiki bar and a fish shack, Angel Waves - or AW for short - was located just off of the beach. With a wrap-around porch and huge bay windows that offered stunning views of the beautiful cerulean sea just a few feet away, AW had been a critically-acclaimed restaurant by the locals for decades. 

 Initially, it had been your father’s dream to open up a restaurant. But then he married your mother, and things took off soon after the wedding. In no time at all, she was pregnant with you while simultaneously helping your father build the restaurant from the ground up. To date, he had added three more parts to the place, making it rather expansive. With the bright neon signs and fire-burning torches that lined the perimeter of it, AW could be spotted on the shoreline from miles away. The inside was decorated rather plainly, with bright pops of tropical colors here and there and wooden chairs lined throughout the area. 

 But at night, the vibes of the restaurant came to life. As the patrons at the seated bar grew louder, the tropical music increased in volume and added to the overall atmosphere of laid-back tourists and locals alike. 

 Having grown up in Bridgeport Bay, which was a small seaside town in the East part of Australia, you were used to the leisurely way of things. But to some, it would seem like everyone around was just lazy. When in fact, people knew how to have a good time - and that was all that mattered to a lot of locals. 

 Including yourself. 

 Your parents had raised you in the small house that was just off the backside of the restaurant, so the tropical way of life had always been the only thing you had known. You didn’t mind living the same daily routine - waking up early to help with chores, then attending classes at the local university, before arriving back at the restaurant in time to help with the night shifts. Plus, it helped that one of your best friends, Yeji, had been working with you at the restaurant since she was a young teenager. 

 Now, at the tender age of twenty-two, you were well acquainted with your surroundings. You were set in stone about what you wanted to do with your life. And after you finished getting your degree in Environmental Science, you hoped to aid in the environmental impact of Bridgeport Bay, since environmental efforts were one of your biggest passions in life.

 As you stared around the dimly lit restaurant that was busy with customers and servers alike, you felt yourself come alive under the energy of it all. And getting a hint of the salty sea breeze on your tongue, you made to help the newest customer in placing their order. 

 The early June sun was just beginning to set over the horizon of the ocean, painting the brilliant light blue sky in shades of violets and fuchsias. Your attention was momentarily pulled away from your task at hand, as you were completely captivated by the look of the rippling water shining underneath the fading sunlight. 

 But you quickly snapped yourself out of your daze, already grabbing hold of your notepad and pen as you came up to the new table you were waiting on. Without looking up, you began to write down the time and your name on the top corner of the paper, like you always did before taking an order. “Hi, welcome to Angel Waves. My name’s Y/N and I’ll be your server. What can I get started for you tonight?” 

 There was a pause on the customer’s end, and the noise of the restaurant overtook all of your senses for a few moments, but then everything dimmed out into a faint hum as the customer spoke. 

 “Hi… Y/N.” 

 Immediately, without even giving it a second thought, your head shot up from the piece of paper on your notepad that you had been previously staring at. 

 Heart hammering in your chest, throat constricting in anxiety, with the flush already clawing up your neck and pooling in either of your cheeks. 

 All at the sight of… 

Him. 

 Lee Felix. 

 The boy that you had grown up with. The one that had moved in next door to your restaurant when you were five years old. The one who had attended preschool, middle school, and high school with you. 

 The boy who had been your best friend in the entire world for over a decade. 

 And also, the single most person whom you hadn’t talked to in over four years. 

 But no- he was no longer a boy. 

 No- as he sat there, peering up at you with that familiar face of his, you suddenly came to acknowledge the years that had passed between the two of you. 

 Evidently, his time away at university for four years in South Korea changed him. Drastically. 

 From the long, sandy bleached-blonde locks that fell across his forehead, to the milky, blemish-free skin. His eyes were darker, too. More intense. And the sharp lines of his face were almost startling - with a jaw that could cut through steel, a proud nose, and prominent cheekbones. 

 He was no longer the awkward and geeky boy he had grown up with. The boy who had short, cropped black hair in his senior year of high school and braces for three years, and cystic acne that lasted well into his junior year of high school. 

 He looked… 

 Like a fully grown man. 

 And you didn’t know how to feel about that. 

 It made your stomach turn in a sickening kind of way. Made your heart pound against your ribcage painfully. 

 He was staring up at you, watching your blatant perusal of him in silence with a ticked-up, perfectly manicured dark eyebrow. 

 But some things hadn’t changed, at least, as he flashed you that tiny, easy smile he always seemed to have plastered on his face. 

 “F-Felix- wow, hi. I-” You began, stammering over your words in your utter surprise. You felt your eyes widen from your stupid blubbering, and the panic chilled down your spine from the way that he laughed heartily at your reaction to him sitting in front of you. “It’s uh- good to see you again, holy fuck.” 

 “Yeah, you too…” He finally pulled his gaze from yours, offering you some respite from the intensity of his matured eyes. You took in a deep breath as his focus scanned over the restaurant all around you. “Glad to see this place hasn’t changed one bit since the last time I came around these parts.” 

 “What brings you back to the coast?” You asked, rocking onto the backs of your heels like you always did when you were nervous. Bridgeport Bay was a small town that was connected to a set of other ones similar to it, which all lined the same coast of Eastern Australia. 

 After all, soon before he left to study in South Korea, he had vowed to you that he’d never step foot in ‘this hellish beach town’ ever again. 

 Obviously, he had proven himself wrong. 

 He shrugged broad shoulders, making you realize how much his physique had changed too. He was fitted in a loose t-shirt and faded jeans, but you could just barely make out the outlines of muscles underneath the baggy fabric. His back was proud and he sat up completely straight in his chair, the opposite of how he used to be in your childhood - always slouched and with thin, frail limbs. He was still petite in stature, but now made up for his lack of height with muscle. Even so, he still outranked you in height by a good three inches. 

 He was acting like it was no big deal - like none of it was a big deal. Not him coming back to Bridgeport after such a long time and looking so different from how you had known him as. “I just graduated, so I decided to spend the summer back at my parent’s place before I decide what I wanna do with my life.” Felix leaned over in his seat then, leveling you with that stare he always gave whenever he was trying to get a read on your feelings. “What about you? I see you’re still working for your folks…” 

 His voice trailed off. And if you didn’t know him any better, you’d assume that he had a pretentious air about him. Sure, he was the scrawny boy that had shipped off to South Korea, only to come back four years later looking hot as hell with a solid education and most-likely loads of crazy stories to tell to everyone who’d listen. 

 You, on the other hand, were still stuck in the same position that you had always been in. Living in Bridgeport Bay, in your parent's house, and helping work the restaurant while attending school at a nearby university. 

 It was comforting, in a sense, to have the same daily routine. But you could also acknowledge the fact that Bridgeport Bay was a fairly quiet place - in other words, not much happened. Most people your age had already moved away as soon as they graduated from high school, either traveling to the big city of Sydney to get a degree or going overseas to bigger and better places.

 And there you were… still stuck in the same turquoise-walled bedroom from your childhood, with the same group of three friends, and waking to the same view every single morning. The brilliant pinks and oranges of the sunrise against the ocean water got old in about… two days. 

 Folding your arms across your chest, you almost felt like you were trying to protect yourself from him. Lee Felix, who had been your childhood best friend. But who, unbeknownst to you, had turned into this ethereal, untouchable beast of a man in the absence of your friendship. It felt foreign and odd, to have him studying you so intently with those dark eyes. “Yeah, I’m still living here in Bridge… same friends, same habits, you know how it is around these parts.” You tried to laugh off the awkwardness you suddenly felt, but your tone came out all flat and warbled. 

 Felix was still staring up at you, but this time, his gaze melted exponentially. So much so, that it suddenly felt like you were the one staring into his soul - picking apart his emotions as he sat there in front of you, head tilted up in curiosity. And the feelings you saw dance across his eyes, for just a split second, made your heart tumble in the pit of your chest. 

 “Same friends, huh?” He asked, but it wasn’t a question he was seeking an answer for. After that, his focus was yanking away from you, as he looked down at the menu before him on the table. You watched his adam’s apple bob up and down, throat constricting as he took in a sharp breath. 

 You could feel the air shift around you as soon as you mentioned friends. Because besides Yeji and Felix, the only other person you had truly had a connection with in Bridgeport Bay was… Christopher Bang. The two of you had met during your freshman year of high school and had been quite inseparable ever since. You had a raging crush on him, and apparently, he had one on you too - since he had asked you out on your first-ever date at the start of your final year in high school. 

 By the time you all were graduating from Bridgeport Bay High, you and Chris were the it couple. With him being the popular soccer jock, it was only right that you started to get popular as well - since you were the ‘hot girlfriend’ who was always hanging on his arm. Chris was nice and funny and was friends with literally all of the high schoolers in the area, so you liked being around him. 

 But the more time you spent with him, the less you spent with Felix. And by the time graduation rolled around, your friendship had suffered big time from your new relationship with Chris. Felix didn’t approve at all of the two of you guys dating. He had always waved off your swooning throughout the years as ‘hormonal imbalances,’ but as soon as the two of you became official, his entire tune changed. 

 All of a sudden, he was getting angry at you. With such a short temper, he would have outbursts during most of your hangouts. And it wasn’t until the night of your graduation that all of the building tension finally broke, like a pinprick to a fragile balloon full of water. 

 The night had ended in a colossal blow-up on both of your ends - with Felix’s anger exploding in your face and making him out to be some ugly, dark boy. And definitely, not the kid you had grown up to love and care for. During the argument, he had finally admitted that he hated Chris' guts - that he saw right through his little scheme, and he thought the guy was a horrible match for you. 

 Of course, you retaliated tenfold by throwing his singleness in his face. Since, during the entirety of your high school years, he had never once dated any girl. That insult was low for even you, and soon had him storming off the scene, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat from your stubbornness. You hadn’t listened to him the whole time, only registering the fact that he didn’t approve of you and Chris being together. Like he was your fucking dad and he needed to give his consent to every man you loved and dated. 

 And that turned out to be the last time the two of you ever saw or talked to each other for the next four years. Since just a week after graduation, Felix had completely vanished from Bridgeport Bay. When you went over to his house to make things up, his parents informed you that he’d already left for South Korea earlier than expected. 

 His absence didn’t fully register until you tried to call and text him that night, only to be left with an error message in return. Since he was moving to a different country, he needed to change his phone number. He had already informed you of such a thing weeks earlier, and the two of you had planned on setting up a special app where you could text. But the two of you had forgotten about such a detail in the business of graduation season, so there was no way to contact him. 

 Instead, you were faced with living in the wake of his departure - you were forced to relive the big fight between the two of you for months after that, rehashing things and stewing over all of the feelings again and again. And finally, after a year of being heartbroken over the shattered friendship with your best friend in the entire world, you decided to move on. 

 To bigger, and better things. 

 Like the friends you still had in Bridgeport Bay, going to university, and working at the restaurant. 

 And, Chris too. 

 Since your relationship had only blossomed from there, having quickly turned into a four-year ordeal of fun dates and long night chats and walks along the sandy beachside in the late afternoon sunset. 

 “I’ll have the salmon bowl with brown rice, please.” Felix’s deep timbre pulled you out of your daze of thought, shocking you back into the present. You were still standing there at his table, in the middle of a busy dinner rush, waiting for his order. “Oh, and a side of fried pineapple rings too.” 

 “Okay, and what kind of drink would you like with all of that?” You asked, mind turning off and zoning into work mode as you wrote down his order. “We have all kinds of-”

 “I know what you guys serve, Y/N. I’m not a complete idiot.” 

 His deadpan retort came out in that unfamiliar voice of his, automatically ripping your eyes away from your notepad. 

 And there he was, peering up at you again. 

 But this time, his eyes were a lot more hooded - darker, even. Swimming with tension, his sharp jaw pulled taut in what appeared to be annoyance. 

 Before you could even get another word out, he was speaking again. In that raspy, deep tone, and you had no idea how you could get used to all of the changes at once. “I’ll take a coke- if that’s okay.” 

 You nodded, once, your tongue feeling like lead in your mouth. It was heavy and hard to move to form any more words, so you decided against talking and just flitted away from his table altogether with his order. 

 As you were passing by the open bar, you tossed Jordan, one of your coworkers, a pointed look. “Take care of table seven for me, will ya?” You motioned with a slight tilt of your head to where Felix was sitting across from the window. 

 Jordan frowned, eyes turning to slits as soon as he registered who was sitting at the table. The two of you had never been particularly friends, since he was a few years older than you. But he had been working as a waiter/bartender at AW for the past seven years and knew all of the regulars who came by. He also knew who Felix was, and what he meant to you. 

 “The little bastard giving you any trouble, darling?” He asked in a low voice as he slid a full glass of craft beer across the porcelain countertop to a waiting elderly man. “I can take care of him if you-”

 “What? No, no,” you said frantically, waving your hands in the air to stop him from going any further. Eyes shifting back to Felix, you registered the way that he was sitting there, shoulders slightly slumped in his seat, as he stared out the large window to his left side, examining the lapping waves of the seashore. “No- I just… I can’t handle all of… that tonight.” 

 Jordan gave you a soft smile, flashing a wink your way before he was back mixing another cocktail for a new customer. “You know I’ll always cover for your ass, baby girl.” 

 You giggled quietly at his absurd pet names. You knew that he was never seriously calling you any of them, but it was more in an affectionate, brotherly kind of way. Plus, he was viscerally gay, so you never had to worry that the nicknames were ever alluding to more than just a coworker-to-coworker friendship. 

 By the time you left the bar where Jordan was busily working and filed into the kitchen, you were once again swept up in the chaos of it all. Servers and managers bustling about, chefs shouting orders out at each other. And in no time at all, your mind was drowned in your work and you no longer could hold any space for the thought of him. 

 Yeji failed to catch sight of him in her busyness, which you were thankful for. She and Felix had been friends in high school, but no one had been as close to him as you had. At least, until your colossal fight on graduation night. Then, even you weren't close to Lee Felix.

 The night passed by rather quickly, as you heeded your parent's commands and helped out with the dinner rush as best as you could - taking orders, scrubbing dishes in the back of the kitchen, and cleaning up tables after customers had left their spots. 

 By the time closing hour was nearing at eleven o'clock, most of the customers had left for the night - save for a few couples dispersed throughout the place and a rowdy group of men who had steadily gotten drunker on their liquor as the hours passed. Jordan was somehow managing them swimmingly, playing into their flirtations and pouring them drinks that were ‘on the house,’ but really, just made a bigger cut in his tip paycheck.

 You were so invested and focused on your work at the register, as you sorted through all of the orders from that night, that you failed to notice the shadow that was slinking across the wall, coming towards you steadily. 

 But finally, the dark figure was upon you and snaking two strong arms around your waist, pulling you away from the front counter and pressing your back against a chiseled chest. 

 Already sensing who it was, you giggled softly and turned your head up to look into the eyes of your boyfriend, Chris, whom you had been dating for the past five years. He had always said that he didn’t want anything ‘too serious’ and that he was happy with just dating you until the last of his days. And to be honest, you weren’t complaining all that much. 

 Although, you sometimes got bothered by the thought of never getting to marry the man you had loved for so long. Once in a while, you’d get into this odd annoying spell where you’d be angry that he never wanted to make a complete and solid life with you - and instead wanted to continue dating happily like the two of you were still in high school. 

 But in the end, you always managed to push those frustrated thoughts away, deeming everything to be alright since you could do anything if it meant living the rest of your days out with the love of your life, Chris. 

 “When did you get here?” You asked, as you reached up and twisted a few fingers through his midnight coils. They were curly and stood up at all different ends, something you had always loved about him. That, and his killer body. 

 “Just a second ago- thought I’d surprise you and take you out to dinner after your long, hard day at work…” His voice trailed off, as his hands squeezed down on your shoulders, long fingers massaging the aches and pains away. 

 You felt a sly smirk already starting to spread across your mouth as you leaned into him and pressed a wanting kiss to his lips. When you pulled away, you were talking in a quiet voice. “Give me a few minutes, I’m almost done with my sorting.” 

 Just as you tried to escape from his grasp, Chris tightened his hold over you, arms encircling your waist and pressing your ass into the front of his sweatpants. You could feel the hardness there, just through the line of the thin fabric. 

 Oh, so we wanted the night to result in that kind of date. 

“Nah- I’m not letting you go,” he mumbled in a deep voice, mouth coming close to your ear as he whispered into it, warm breath fanning against the exposed span of your neck. “Been thinking about you all day baby, want you so bad tonight…” 

 He let the rest of his words trail off, forcing an ugly blush to bleed into either of your cheeks. Then he was spinning around so that he was completely facing you. The darkness of the restaurant cast a shaded glow over his broad shoulders, as he pressed into you with a sardonic smile plastered across his face. 

 “What’s so funny, mister?” You asked, tracing a finger over the line of his jaw as he tilted down into you and gave your nose a light peck. 

 “Nothing, just… I love riling you up like this when you’re at work. Feels… exhilarating.” 

 Then you had no time to react, as his face was moving and capturing your lips up in a lustful kiss. His mouth was plush and familiar against yours, and immediately, you were melting into his firm grasp, moaning softly at the way that one of his hands trailed down the curve of your ass, squeezing the covered skin there. 

 You guys were practically making out at the front counter of the restaurant, for everyone else to see. And in most normal circumstances, you’d feel embarrassed. But at the moment, you just felt overwhelmed with love and desire for your amazing, handsome boyfriend Chris. 

 As your fingers carded through his curly locks, bringing his face closer to yours as his tongue swiped across your bottom lip, asking for entrance, your eyes shot open. Scanning the entire room, your focus caught on the front door, and the person who was slipping out of it in silence. 

 And there he was, once again.

 Lee Felix. 

 Your once-best friend, 

 Your once long-time neighbor, 

 Your once-classmate for more than ten years. 

He was standing there at the front door, halfway stepping through it. But his body was turned around so that he was staring straight at… you. As you were practically getting groped by your boyfriend in the middle of Angel Waves, as your mouth was getting absolutely devoured by Chris’ lips. 

 And the look he gave you then, as your gazes locked in a shocking bout of tension, left you feeling both furious and confused all at the same time. 

 His eyes studied your form, which was so tangled up with your boyfriend’s at the moment. And even from across the room, you could see the feelings that crossed his coffee-brown irises as he watched you in silence. 

 There was sadness there, 

 And pain, too. 

 But also… 

 An irrevocable amount of… ire too. 

 The heat of jealousy that you found there burned like fire in the back of your throat, making your heart tumble around in your chest and the butterflies to flicker around in a frenzy just inside your stomach. 

 The sight of it all forced an agonizing zap of energy to course through your veins, rising your spine and causing gooseflesh to erupt across your skin. 

 Then, as quickly as you had registered it, it was all gone. 

 And he was leaving out the front door, the bell at the top of the glass jingling in the remaining trace of his departure. 

 There you stood, having to deal with the confusion that bled through your mind and the anxious jumbling that floated around your entire body. 

 And the worst part about it? 

 Was that the entire time, you had never stopped kissing Chris. 

 Never stopped yanking on his locks, allowing Chris to take parts of you in front of everyone else. 

 In front of… him. 

 You had continued to feverishly make out with your boyfriend, all the while your attention had been distracted on Lee Felix, and the way that he had stared at you so wholly and starkly. 

 Almost like, the two of you were playing in a silent battle of the wits. 

 With him, having always disapproved of your relationship with Christopher Bang. 

 And you, having been in love with Chris for the past eight years. 

 In the end, you had chosen your respective sides - what with you dating the love of your life, and Felix sitting on the sidelines, giving you an air of rebuttal as he stared on in barely masked disgust. 

 But you didn’t care what he thought. You weren’t living for him and you didn’t give two shits about any of his opinions. Especially after everything that had happened and from the way that you hadn’t spoken in literal years. 

 Yeah, you definitely didn’t care about what he thought. 

 So why, then, did the look he give you just before he left the restaurant, cause your heart to race so much? 

 Why did it cause a cold sweat to break out across your brow?

 Why did it flood your mind so much, that you could no longer focus on anything else? 

 Like an intoxicating drug, like the most lethal of poisons, he was infecting your entire being. 

 With his changed physique and persona and voice and… everything. 

 But especially, the way that he had glanced at you so sardonically. 

 So darkly. 

 So painfully. 

 So… 

 Sinfully. 

To be continued...

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[wmarximoff]

omg now that i read the dftr headcanons i can’t stop thinking about r sitting on her bed watching wanda doing her makeup and after a while asking wanda if she can do her makeup too when she’s done. i can imagine wanda being like “really?!” with a cute smile on her face; she doesn't even finish blending the eyeshadow on one of her eyelids when she is already sitting on r's lap asking her to close her eyes and stay still

(seriously dude, i can’t tell you how much i love this fic)

-🦇

pretty girl | w. maximoff

summary: sometimes even you and Wanda have your good moments.

warnings (18+): serial killer!reader, stalker!Wanda, strangely fluffy (as soft as they can be, at least), mentions of toxic relationship, drugging, brief somnophilia, brief cockwarming, maybe a hint of innocence kink.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 1k

main masterlist| series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

Faced with the white light of the square lamp above your head that filled the four walls of the room, your vigilant eyes watched her cautiously. It was as if, in that small moment, the light engulfed and pushed any and all obscurity away from you and Wanda. As if she glowed within your dimness.

Something in the atmosphere was light, like snowflakes sprinkled over your eyelash extensions. Maybe it was the Christmas weather getting closer and closer and the winter zephyrs already around the corner, or even the fact that you and Wanda hadn't exchanged shoutings and swearings in about a week and a few more days beyond that, and for a while you had that appetizing taste of a truly healthy relationship branching out between you. Despite being a little boring, maybe even monotonous in the broadest sense of the word, normality was a good experience, just for a change.

Wanda, who was your girlfriend, that pretty figure with her narrow back turned towards you behind her long strands of ebony hair, was so naively positioned in front of the wide, rectangular mirror on your dressing table that took up half the wall next to the left of the double bed, where you saw yourself seated against the expensive satin sheets — your spine leaning forward, both your elbows supplanted by your close kneecaps, bared by the café-au lait-colored dress in which you had threaded yourself in.

It wasn't too early, and it wasn't even too late into the night also—it was just the perfect time for a perfect date at a reserved restaurant whose Wanda had arranged and you, sullenly grimacing, agreed to go with her because it would make her stay quiet for a while. It was like negotiating with a child.

Your silence within the room was diligent, circumspect, and linear as you just stared at her in quiet care, the creamy tip of a dark eyeliner coming and going masterfully across the waterline of Wanda's right eye, the dark smoky makeup serving as a backdrop that accentuated the piercing green irises that heightened the sweetly pathological look she used to offer you. That somewhat disconcerting look, lacking that tiniest spark of sanity, worthy of someone who's just killed somebody (so different from yours, who normally had actually been the one who'd just killed somebody).

But Wanda was dressed in a short black dress, loose but not too loose, that sheathed her figure and was accompanied by skinny tights and heavy boots tied around her ankles. And she looked lovely that night, even though she had been so in all the other predecessors to this one—the brown hair, the luminous tree-leaf-colored eyes, and those just-grabable hips reflected in the mirror like an innocuous little set of something that you could destroy, crush through your fingers if you must.

The image of a distracted Wanda, oblivious to the other happenings around her, had always been a small delight found in the core of you, something you always wanted to slurp up to the source, until you ran out, until she ran out; after all, it was in those little stolen and encapsulated moments that the other girl seemed so candid and immaculate, abnoxious to the evils of the world that had bruised her throughout her life. She was a victim, but she could also be your sweet little victim. As you were hers too.

The mascara lengthened and darkened the jade-colored expanse of her eyes even more. A tiny sliver of skin had been creased between Wanda's dark brows as your girlfriend studiously moved her right wrist up and down, applying very little dark makeup to her pale face against that reflection in the mirror that also captured your image a bit behind her, sitting right at the foot of the bed — trembling, pent-up, lonely desire in your lowered eyes, so lowered to stare at your girlfriend putting on makeup, the arch of her spine, her hips so bland.

“You look so beautiful...” was a dreamy sigh hissed under your breath that you didn't even realize you'd said until your own voice resonated in your ears, but by then it was too late because Wanda had already her wrist stagnated in midair, a pair of green eyes turning to your reflection near her hip.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You look beautiful too, baby,” Wanda smiled small at your face in the mirror, just one eye of hers carpeted by a layer of dark smoky eye shadow, “You always look pretty.”

“You,” there was a second of hesitation on your part, so uneasy in the face of such a beautiful figure, “Can you do… do my makeup after you're done there?”

And then, there was a sigh. One of those happy sighs of someone who doesn't believe the good news they've just received, holding the air behind a smile with lips, but no teeth. That genuine little smile that no one notices when they give (that little smile you knew so well how to emulate).

“Really?” Wanda glowed like a Christmas tree, a wide smile gracing the commission of her pearly lips, “Are you serious? You want me to do this for you?”

“Of course I'm serious, geez,” you mussed in a bad way, hoping to sound more grumpy than passionate, “I wouldn't ask you to do this if I wasn't serious, would I?”

But Wanda was already coming towards you before she even finished the act of making up her own pretty face. It only took a second for her legs to be bent on either side of both of your hips, landing on the top of your lap as if she had always belonged there. Amidst the weight of pale legs draped across your lap, the hem of her dress rose slightly to reveal a pair of thighs tucked into those thin tights. The length of her dark locks of hair, as close to your nostrils as they were, gave off a sweet, artificial scent of strawberry shampoo. You could devour her alive.

“Okay baby, close your eyes and stay still for me,” a thin, soft-bristled brush was wielded by Wanda with the same wit a knife would be wielded by a homicidal maniac.

But at the height of her left collarbone, where the faded scar opened into her skin in the shape of the first letter of your name, almost partially covered by the strap of her dark dress, your eyelids remained open, just staring at her skin. Wanda's legs were shaking a little, her knees were bent at the sides of your hipbone, and under the slanting tips of your fingers you could feel the layer of fabric that was taking hold very lightly along the length of her thighs. And then you tilted your face and placed a warm kiss against the scar on Wanda's collarbone.

“You're beautiful,” another kiss placed against the vibrating artery in her neck, “You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen,” and your lips almost met hers, both of you breathing the same warm air, “You’re the only one I need to have in my life, Wanda. And I mean it.”

Wanda smiled against the outline of your parted lips, that glow of love lighting up the green inside both of her irises, “I love you, Y/n. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you.”

You responded in a satisfying grunt, and Wanda kissed your upper lip. Your hands splayed possessively over the fabric of her dress at her lower back until the girl turned her face away from you, your noses almost touching in midair, she smiling so simply and chastely, so pure and sweet, like if she had never even threatened to sink the sharp edge of a knife into the middle of your chest during one of her periodic bouts of mental imbalance.

“Now let me do your makeup, baby,” black-painted nails smoothed the outline of your right bicep, “I don't wanna be late and miss our reservation.”

The truth is, Wanda loved these little couple moments (a real, true couple) between the two of you. Your sleepless nights all spent in the living room sofa accommodations watching black-and-white sitcoms and long-running movies no one else remembers the name of, the times you took her out to dinner at that expensive restaurant in Lower Manhattan that had an exquisite wine list and a beautiful view of the night city, or even something as frivolous and casual as when the two of you washed the dishes side by side, your elbows briefly brushing in midair after eating the dinner she went on the whole afternoon preparing.

Wanda loved being your girlfriend and all the experience that was imbued in the title; the ups and downs, the threats and the declarations. She just didn't love it when you spent more time looking at other girls on the spot behind your wineglass, hatching a thousand and one ways in your brain to rip them alive, to make them bleed and agonize while you rip off their skin and their flesh, than actually paying attention to your girlfriend's monologue about how her Social Psychology professor was "such an asshole".

So she did what she had to do. A glass of water and a small bottle of sleeping pills that had been prescribed for her, to stop her nightmares from leaking out of her head through her eyes and ears. And it was Wanda's self-proclaimed chore to do that when it came to making sure you were feeding your kidneys with doses of water properly. Just a glass of water, a peck placed in the corner of your mouth where your lips connected, “Love you, baby”, and in fifteen minutes you'd collapsed on the bed without even wiping off the makeup Wanda had put on your face.

But carefully she cleaned you and calmly she dressed you, like a porcelain doll or the most fragile of crystals, a child playing dress-up with a life-size toy. And she soon proceeded to tie that red silicone strap-on, her favorite, around your hips, and then to sink into it as she slipped into a crimson lace nightgown with no panties to be found underneath. With the toy extension wrapped inside her walls, Wanda snuggled into your chest that rose and fell heavily beneath the pajama shirt she'd tucked you into.

“You're not going after anyone tonight,” she mussed against a flash of skin on your chin, “You're not going to get away from me. You won't leave me tonight, Y/n. Not tonight. Tonight is supposed to be about you and me.”

 Wanda's head was then placed at the length of your left collarbone (the warm aura of your chest enveloping her icy body), one hand straddling your waist, the length of the strap nestled neatly deep inside her cunt.

“I love you, Y/n. But if you keep trying to leave me I might have to break your legs, baby.”

[hannigramslesbianhusband]

Clocks and Metronomes in Hannibal

``Hannibal counted the beats of the metronome against those of the clock. They went in and out of phase``

?????? Clocks???! speaking of this, I found out something really cool. I was researching trying to find some kind of connection or UN-connection between clocks and metronomes and what they might mean here, and I found this very interesting journal, which references and builds off of some of Christiaan Huygens' discoveries and work.

Let's list out a couple of things:

Arguably, Hannibal's favorite book is Treatise of Light, by none other than Christiaan Huygens.

``Among Mr. Jakov’s books was a copy bound in leather of Christiaan Huyghens’ Treatise on Light, and Hannibal was fascinated with it, with following the movement of Huyghens’ mind, feeling him moving toward discovery. He associated the Treatise on Light with the glare of the snow and the rainbow distortions in the old windowpanes. The elegance of Huyghens’ thought was like the clean and simplified lines of winter, the structure under the leaves. A box opening with a click and inside, a principle that works every time. It was a dependable thrill, and he had been feeling it since he could read.``

I skimmed a bit of the book- and it does include an explanations of the calculations Hannibal used to determine the height of the towers in his castle- which he was doing before he read the book. Bro is a literal genius.

``Also in the year Hannibal was six, Count Lecter found his son determining the height of the castle towers by the length of their shadows, following instructions which he said came directly from Euclid himself. Count Lecter improved his tutors then—within six weeks arrived Mr. Jakov, a penniless scholar from Leipzig.``

The journal I previously mentioned is, in very simple terms, about how pendulums and clocks synchronize. We can very reliably assume Hannibal is a fan of Christiaan Huygens, it’s very possible he could later have read Horologium oscillatorium, where he discusses these discoveries. Unfortunately, I can not dig too deep into the original text because the only copy I could find is in Latin, and I really don’t want to translate all that. But I CAN use the information provided in the journal. It’s also reasonable to assume Hannibal would know a lot of the information presented in the journal, because although Christiaan Huygens’ books are from the 1600s, Hannibal is not, and discoveries have been made! Science has advanced! Yippee!

In the journal, It is stated that “Synchronization occurs in diverse physical, biological, and chemical systems. Examples include the synchronous flashing of fireflies, the chorusing of crickets, the rhythmic applause of concert audiences, the coordinated beating of cardiac pacemaker cells, the pathological neural synchrony associated with epileptic seizures, and the coherent voltage oscillations of superconducting Josephson junction arrays.”

It all sounds very artistic. It is beautiful and connected. Right up Hannibal's alley, for sure. But- whats that near the end?? “ the pathological neural synchrony associated with epileptic seizures”. Epileptic seizures. Let’s put that away for later. 

The synchronisation of pendulums (pendulum clocks, metronomes) placed on the same (wooden) surface even if started at antiphase will eventually become in phase with eachother BUT: synchonizing in phase causes the pendulums in the clocks to slow down, so they lose time (multiple seconds an hour) but- they way they synchronize is dependent on several things(mechanisms in the clock, length and thickness of the surface they're on,etc etc.) but basically- with a SMALL amount of damping (loss of energy in an oscillating system) the clocks with synchronize in phase, with a large amount of it they will be antiphase. clocks synchronizing in antiphase has been called sympathetic motion or the sympathy of clocks (not empathy). 

Synchronization in itself is a pretty artistic thing, beautiful and connected. It shows up everywhere- including something called neural synchrony. neural synchrony is basically when two people interact or communicate, their brain rythms/waves synchronize, couple, create matching patterns. You understand eachother. this is seen a lot more in romantic couples or people who are close together, child-parent relationships(especially as infants) and the such. Not usually seen in strangers. the brain to brain synchronization happens in the  temporal-parietal part of the brain. The way will makes himself think like killers- to the point sometimes he feels like he becomes them- is definitely neural synchrony. Why he can do that so easily with strangers, who may have never even met? Who knows; but at least we know all kills leave behind a part of the killer, a part of their psyche, and not always just a message.  Basically, Will's whole metronome thing is symbolic of him synchronizing mentally(and neurologically! Very cool) with the killers. This may have been way too much work for something that is a bit obvious, but it’s very interesting to unravel.

I’m not sure how I started with picking apart clocks and metronomes in relation to Hannibal (in the book), and ended up with a conclusion about Will (in the show), but I did! I can’t say much more on this for now as I haven’t finished the book, and Will has yet to show up. 

Now, that thing we put away for later.

Neural synchrony is also associated with epileptic seizures. Neuron firing tends to become synchronous/hypersynchronous in the middle of a seizure.

I wanted to go more into Will's encephalitis and seizures related to this- but those are only a thing in the TV show, so I cant connect it quite as well. I can share the things I did find out, though, so if anyone is interested to see that please let me know! But right now, I'm too researched out to put it all together, and that's mainly why I'm not including it here now. All in all- we all know Hannibal knows all that psychiatry stuff and is crazy smart and crazy insane, so here is a bit of the science of it and how it all loosely connects to the books. And, of course as someone who values beauty and art, he would become obsessed with Will upon seeing how effortlessly he can achieve that synchronicity with others- especially those who think similarly to him. Honorable mention to Eldon Stammets.

[houseofbrat]

Still so William let his cancer stricken wife being trolled online for the mother day pictures as well have her carry bags during at the farmers market. William sigh

That's the worst part. She had cancer all along and William was like "all right under the bus you go Cathy!"

Meanwhile the stans are calling him a hot zaddy and lusting after him.

Granted we are on Reddit so I guess the bare minimum is expected for men.

They have an entire press office and people that they pay to be their mouthpiece to the public.  Why the hell didn’t they just hand all of this off to them to have a plan to roll out to the public?  How did this go so badly?

Honestly, I'd love to know the whole story. Just to be clear, I mean the whole story of the PR fiasco, not Kate's specific medical problems.

This might be an incredibly unpopular opinion, not sure, but I really disagree with everyone saying oh she shouldn't have had to tell us about her cancer, she should have full privacy, etc. I agree with those thoughts for celebrities and influencers, but for people supposed to lead a country and whose lives are being fully funded by taxpayers, I do think they owe a duty of transparency around their health. I'm in the U.S. and we've all seen outrage because Biden's defense secretary kept cancer a secret for like a day, because Trump refused to release his physical results, I could go on.

I think it’s a really hard judgement to make because royalty is such a unique role, and there really isn’t much to compare it to.  Not to mention that there are 2 separate questions: what was she obligated to announce and what should they have expected as far as levels of curiosity about a high profile public figure.  I do think that there would have been strategies that they could have used to better preserve privacy in the face of public curiosity.

I agree. I tend to think royalty doesn't get to be totally private about major life events but that doesn't mean they don't deserve ANY privacy. I just feel like the outraged comments about how sad it is she was forced to tell people because of their evil speculating ways are going too far in the other direction.

I don't think she necessarily has to share a diagnosis, but expecting that she could disappear entirely from public view and no-one would ask any questions is ridiculous. They had at least two months to come up with any plan besides complete silence.

I never wanted them to discuss her medical issues but transparency would have helped. Don't treat people like idiots. They mishandled this, and there were a million ways to keep things private but not have things turn into a cluster. Prayers for Catherine.

in terms of prognosis...

"preventive" chemotherapy is a positive sign here

the fact that the surgeon did not recognize he was looking at a cancer tumor in the OR is a positive sign here

the fact that it required a complex biopsy (it took 5 weeks) for the pathology to find the cancer is a positive sign.

Having been through this recently with a spouse, what you’re saying sounds correct to me too.  She would have had the best of diagnostic tools, so that would have ruled out large masses.  The language also indicates that what they found was small.

whoever ran the PR definitely did it poorly. Part of the reason the mother's day photo blew into a bigger news event was all the major news agencies put out a kill notice on it. and they only did that because Kensington palace declined to share the unedited one when asked.

Chetwynd said news agencies asked Kensington Palace to provide the original photo, but they did not receive a reply. That’s when they decided to issue “kill notices,” something that is very rarely done.

but they didn’t stick to the timeline.. they decided to reveal a doctored image and then make Kate take the fall for it. even if she did edit the picture on her own just for fun, they didn’t have to put it on her alone? the whole thing was so odd.

They could have skipped the fake photo release. They could have reacted to the swell of interest by putting out a statement that there have been developments and they will communicate when they are ready. To pretend nothing happened since the Jan announcement is disingenuous and PR is about real time handling

[sassyfrassboss]

Regarding the shopping trip back in 2017, do we know for sure Meghan even asked Catherine for a ride or did Meghan just make the whole thing up? We’ve only ever heard Meghan’s side but has anyone from the BRF ever confirmed this request actually happened? To me, Meghan is a pathological liar so I question everything she says. If Harry mentioned it in Spare (I didn’t read it), wouldn’t his version come from his wife and he blindly believes whatever she says apparently.

It is rumored that it did in fact happen but not in the way it was described by Lainey.

I think one author of a royal book mentioned it happening but I can't remember which one.

The gist is that Kate was leaving to go do some shopping and Meghan, who had only been dating Harry a short time at this point, saw Kate or said hello, or something on the KP grounds. A small conversation was had about plans for the day and Meghan apparently said something along the lines of "oh I was headed there myself to do some shopping as well!" Catherine wished her well and left. Meghan was furious because she thought it was insulting Catherine didn't invite her to tag along. It was claimed to have been in early 2017...so we know at this point that Meghan had been calling the paps left and right on her Toronto flower runs and even when she was in London. Catherine had ever reason not to invite her along...Meghan could never be trusted.

[anteroom-of-death]

Teacher's Pet part 13

Synopsis: After exams, the two meet up. Is it a simple meeting? Or does it develop the game further...

A/n: smut, domestics and more, and oohh look the Doctor falls even darker down. And look at me, 3 fics in a week. We're so back baby. Thanks to you all. Now I go deal with my migraine!

As he stargazed on his walk home, the Doctor had a lot to assess. As far as little tests went, this was a success. Missy’s presence and nature was a good metric for physical responses to real danger. His little fawn passed with flying colors!

Her mind surged with chemicals in a way that was palpable. Her body flooded itself with just enough hormones to shrink itself to deferment. Her heart raced like a small prey animal being hunted for sport. It was a good sign.

He felt insane. What had he come to? Was this his plan to groom a companion he held in his past, before Rose? Or was this a new game for him to play?

He felt high. Was this how Missy always felt in her amoral schemes? No wonder she always pulling these acts…

It felt wonderful, in a sick way.

How much could he push this all and stay the Doctor?

He felt like he needed to go join her for that night cap she mentioned. Not that he could particularly get drunk of whatever liquor he would consume, but off her mere presence!

Anything physical would just be an added benefit…

He did go into her mind, she was planning on telling him about her profession. She just didn’t know the correct way. Or that he already knew. Her mind was a fascinating place to rest in.

He was going to hold her to his promise of not letting any boogie-men come for her, or chance at changing this body. Or take her off planet. He respected her for not wanting to risk her young-ish life.

He felt it on an egotistical level.

He reflected on those past companion he did take to bed. There had to be a common thread between them! What pushed a person from ‘traveling companion-familial bond’ to ‘romance and sensuality’? What traits was he drawn to? It had to be some link across regeneration.

He further anthologized and went to pathological levels.

He couldn’t find a true common thread.

This all drove him insane.

He looked to the stars. He could name all of them, and when he saved them and their planets. He could see everything so clearly.

Except this pattern.

Part of him wondered if past incarnations of Missy were correct…he had been spending too much time amongst the human race. He was acting and living and rewarding himself like one.

A God Walking With Apes.

He deserve to be punished as much as rewarded. He knew that much.

But alas, he was taking his reward. And his rest. Sweetly.

The Doctor was owed that much.

He went back to his office and busied himself with the starts of exams. He infinitely preferred the paper exam. Kept students more honest. Kept them more creative.

Oh, sweet irony.

Soon the days of exams came. And he promised (y/n) after a drink. At hers. They’d not seen much of each other with all the fuss and confusion of the time.

It was all arranged.

The wolf to devour the fawn. Again.

And he would.

He met her at the front door of her flat, with a bundle of flowers. And a note scrawled, ‘You survived.’ She took them and inhaled. Her smile widened. There was something hiding in it. Something that he’d like to uncover very much.

Despite the dedication he’d put into knowing her mind, the specialties of her neurology left him often scrambling for control. Maybe the human race in some swathes of the population developed a small evolutionary protection against higher beings with advanced psychic abilities, but of course viewed it as disability.

She welcomed him to her flat. It was a bit cramped, and recently looked like it had be purged and deep cleansed. She was obviously trying to make the best impression.

She took his coat and laid it on her chair as she ushered him to her small corner of kitchen.

As she went to the cupboard to get some glasses, she pointed to her fridge.

“I have wine, tea, vodka, arak, rum. A bit of Jameson left. I’m not an alcoholic, I swear.” She stopped listing.

“I’ll take the Jameson.” He figured the whiskey would be a good choice. Matched his current body.

“Yeah, cool.” She got a wine glass out and an Ikea tumbler from her cupboards. After she poured the wine and got out the Jameson.

“Neat or on the rocks?” She called over.

“Neat.”

“Cool, cool.” She replied, echoing the previous reply…

She also got a vase and poured in some water and jammed the flowers in. It was placed on the table.

“Thanks!” She smiled.

She took a large sip of her nearly-full glass.

“Okay, so, first things first. I’m sorry…yeah. I am…uh…a sex worker. I work in the local brothel. I get tested every three weeks. I’m clean. Yeah, no needs to worry for you. If you can or can’t get diseases. I don’t know.” She confessed and looked down, rubbing the stem of her glass with her thumb and index finger.

“Next, I think…I’m actually in love with you?” She said. “I’m not going to quit the job yet. I need money, and…things are getting so pricey these days…it’s easy-ish money. It allows me flexibility for school. Yeah.” She nodded her head some more. Unable to make eye-contact.

“Lastly, I’m fine with the everything.” She flapped a hand out and pointed broadly. “Yeah, I never thought life…would go this way…aliens are real. I’m with one romantically. And I can work on the incredulity bit. I’m very flexible…yeah…” She nodded her head.

Now this was interesting! A declaration of love and her baring her soul.

He already knew, but opted out of telling her. It would clash with his byline.

Honesty created more secrets…

He cradled her hand in his. “It’s all well and good. We all have our lives. I travel in space and time, tinkering. You, escorting.”

She flushed deeply, he could feel her pulse racing through his hand.

Her face went through an array of emotions before settling on confusion and hope.

Very good.

“I was so worried, what with the stigma, especially after Missy and you talked about your species.” Her other hand curled onto her chest over her heart. “Google isn’t exactly awash with…you know…advice. And I don’t have particularly a group of girlfriends to ask anymore….mnnn.” She smacked her lips together and bit a small piece of dry, scabbed over skin off. It let out the smallest price of blood.

“I’ve put you in an impossible situation.”

She pursed her lips together and sucked in a bit of air. “Yes, you have.” She ended it with a small laugh.

“Just don’t get me killed like the others…” She pleaded in a serious tone.

“Yes, I’ll try.”

She smiled.

“Any plans for the summer?” She did a one shouldered-shrug.

“Probably London for UNIT. Get Nardole to guard the mad lady. I was thinking of taking my TARDIS. But she has a mind of her own. She might drag me off planet…if you want, when you want. I’ll call a car. I’ll hold myself to that promise for you.” He levied.

“Yeah, I’d like that. I miss Petronella.” She blinked.

“Don’t…not go off planet for me. I’ll be good here. Just work and all. Preparing for next term…” She smiled and offered the metaphorical olive branch. “You are from there.” She pointed skyward. “It’d be cruel of me to tie you down.”

“I’m semi-retired.” He reassured her. Then he shifted the frame. “And you? What about you? You deserve a bit of a trip. Where could you go off. The kids love Ibiza! I could use some of that useless money I’ve been-“ He was cut off.

“No, don’t. That makes things between us…tricky. Trickier than now.” She took her free hand and placed it on top of the hand that kept her other hand clasped. “You’re my boyfriend. Question mark. Not my sugar daddy. I’d get a sugar daddy if I wanted one.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Yeah.” The singular word came out of her mouth with an air of authority and behest. Her brows shot up, upper lip on a curve.

“Are you going to the big end-of-terms party that the student union is hosting?” The Doctor probed. “I’ve been asked to play guitar!”

“No, I got to work. I didn’t take that shift week before last. I’m…behind on my finances. I’ve taken up a longer shift next week.” She untangled their hands and pointed at a cork board across the way over her desk. “Bills don’t stop because my boyfriend takes me to London.” She scratched her brow with her ring finger.

“That dress and those shoes were…out of budget.” She rested her chin on her now propped-up palms.

She was always in motion even when she wasn’t.

He felt that on a deeper level.

How alike they has been in regards to that! Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was the universe giving him a gift as his reward for countless times saved.

He felt himself believe.

“I do want to hear you play guitar.” She postured and let out a little hitched huff of air.

“Want me to whip up something? Do you want to go out? I can order takeaway too. I should have planned this drink better.” She took a large sip of her wine. “I’m sorry, I’m not used to…entertaining people at home.”

Her eyes got very large, “I think outside of the landlady once, this is the first time anyone’s been here besides me since I moved in…wow.” She fluttered her lashes in a quick, palpable realization.

“I have an air fryer!” She bragged. “Horrible noises, but it makes good food.” She enticed.

“I once made a silent pen for Ibn Rushd. He hated the noise of all writing tools he had. Your air fryer should be a piece of cake!” He got up and started towards it.

“Wait until dinners done.” She said opening up some frozen bags and dumping them in.

She also got out a cast-iron skillet, and began making something in there, delicate chopping and spicing.

“Hey, could you like…heat up the pitas, they’re in the bread box. I usually just toss them in the oven for 5 minutes both sides.”

The Doctor did one better. He used a heating system he pulled from his jacket.

“I can help serve.” He offered.

“Plates are…there.” She pointed as she pulled out the air fryer drawer and tossed it in the pan.

He set the perfect table, all arranged around the flowers he gave her.

He had repeatedly told many before her that he didn’t do domestic. Alas, he was here playing house, assisting in the dinner. Setting the table…

She unceremoniously dumped out.

“I’m no chef. But it’ll taste good. And sustain life.”

“All that matters!” He grinned up at her.

It was a great meal, the Doctor mused. Very good measure of spices and ingredients.

Clean up was her (also unceremoniously…) dumping them in the sink.

“So, dear Professor Doctor. How else will we celebrate.” She sat down in a comfy, squashed chair and tapped beside her on the small chair that faced her. He followed.

“Well, ideas!” He swirled his hands around.

“Ideas.” He mused.

A very human idea came.

He sprung up and kissed her on her neck. He grasped her waist and started to drag her against the side of the chair.

“A good idea?” He pulled back.

“Doctor’s orders.” She quipped as her heart accelerated and she looked at him, her (insert your eye color here, dear reader.) shining with eagerness.

She started trying to rip off his clothes. Kissing his nose and trying to motion both of them to the bed at the other side of the flat.

The mess of limbs found themselves there as they removed clothes and shifted over to the bed.

The tactile nature of this was how he learned that this was the first time she’d had anyone in this particular bed. This was special. It was her sacred space. Her safe place to sleep.

This felt delicious and perverted. He was furthering this all. However, this choice was all her idea. No interference on his part.

She’d chosen him…

She laid herself down for him. She was propped on her elbows and leaned her torso such. Her mind was racing.

He jumped onto the bed. She jumped up.

“Wait.” She went to a bag and got a bottle of lube out. She jumped back on the bed. She squeezed some out onto his shaft and massaged it down to base. She place a small bit in the palm of her hand and slicked it in her folds. She slid back under him and banged the bottle onto her bedside table. Amongst the clutter and the giant water bottle.

“I’m ready, fuck me.” She begged. “Fuck me, please.”

He entered her. His tip surged and reached her cervix. Kissing her forehead as he did the first big thrust, he grasped at her wrists and palms.

She slid herself further down, allowing him to get a better angle. Letting him go deeper. Further. Harder. She moved her arms to a place he could grasp them better.

“Such a good pet.” He grunted. “You’re so good to me, my fawn.” He praised. She wrapped her legs around his ass and thighs as response.

“Th-th-thank you.” She let out.

He hid his smile in a kiss in her hair. He snuck his face down and grazed her jaw with his teeth as he continued to give her firm, hard, quick thrusts. Their stomachs brushing against each other, he gave her breast a grab and teased her nipple with tongue and teeth.

She let out a moan and curled her lips over her tongue and her eyes reactively shut tightly. After a few moments her eyes fluttered open, lashes brushed against lids.

She used her now-free hands and grabbed his face and the waves of his hair. She brought her face up and kissed his face and bit his neck. Suckling gently before making her way back up. She placed one final kiss and let herself go limp and him to take over.

And that he did!

He arched his back down as her eyes rolled back into her skull. The pace picked up and her arms found themselves naturally above her head.

He took the opportunity to bind them in his hands and wrapped his pinkies around her bed frame to keep them both steady.

He felt his cock being worked by the muscles of her walls. Her stomach arched up and over as she worked him with her delicate, well-toned pelvic muscles.

“I’m asking your permission.” The Doctor found himself saying, not entirely of his own volition. “May I fuck you harder? Show you what this old body can do…as an alien?”

She nodded her head and swallowed. She looked a tad unsure and confused. “Sure. Yeah?” He was trying so hard to not enter her mind. Just let her be for once. Enjoy the moment unbridled. But this opportunity was too good not to take…

He saw the verbal cue pool out of her mouth and he entered her mind, flooding it with an overproduction of those precious chemicals: dopamine, oxytocin, adrenalin, endorphins. The entire lot of them…

He kicked his body into high gear. Playing her body with his cock and lips. Brushing, kissing, biting, claiming. He kept her wrists in the manacles that was his hands.

Fucking her so deeply and making her now somewhat-dependent on him.

How could she not become dependent on him now? She was radiating these precious hormones and chemicals that pudding-brained apes needed.

His little fawn, safe by his side. Now his for all eternity. Even if she would never by any volunteer-ship leave Earth. Or risk her life.

Good!

Perfect. More than perfect. This one will never die by his blooded hands.

He could continue moments like these until her heart stopped.

More than good! Perfect!

She was quickly cumming underneath him, her legs still wrapped around him. Her breathing was becoming very shallow and her moans had turned to grunts and groans. Like the animal she was, in rut. Maddened by hormones and thrashing to get him deeper in.

And how could he not be obliged?

He let her have it and when he finally came she started crying.

He felt a stab of regret. Did he go too far?

The Doctor let go of her hands and she immediately grasped in for a hug as he pulled his now-flacid cock out of her cunt.

“No need to cry…” He smiled, kissing her hair. “You did so good for me.” He repeated that line a few times until she became more lucid and he retreated from her mind.

“What was that?” She asked in earnest.

He lied, “I kicked my body into high gear. Like a rabbit wand. Only better.” He would never come clean about his mind games. Not now, especially now…

“I’ve been going easy on you. You’re so…breakable.” He ruffled her hair. “The whole lot of you.” He clarified. “I could go harder, but I won’t. I know the limits.”

He did. And yet he was crossing them even more.

He once asked Clara if he was a good man. He felt like he was at one point, even an excellent man. But now, not so much.

But did it matter?

His little fawn was soaked in sweat and radiant in her hormonal flush. Glowing from her fresh fuck.

Or did they make love? He wondered.

Was it love? Obsession? Or both?

Maybe it was both, on both accounts. From both ways.

He laid his naked body next to hers and she instinctively folded herself into his arms. She grabbed his arms in return and started tracing little patterns on the Doctor’s arms.

She let out a small hiccup.

“Obviously, we can’t do that all the time. But it was great. Yeah?” She concluded.

“Anything you want…” He murmured into the crook of her neck. He planted a small breathy kiss on it.

She drifted off to sleep, still grasping him in their cuddle.

Perfect is as perfect does.

And the Doctor felt he did perfect.

[cliozaur]

That’s what it means to speak out! In this really long chapter, both Marius and Jean Valjean spoke more than in the whole book! (Ok, Marius did have his moments a couple of times, but Valjean has never spoken SO much.)

What is interesting, Valjean speaks very matter-of-factly: he doesn’t waffle but immediately says that he is an ex-convict. And Marius’ reaction to these words is so revealing! And sadly, it is very similar to Cosette’s reaction to the gang of convicts they met a year or so ago. This means that Valjean’s fears were not unfounded. But Marius and we all want to know: why not to keep this information for himself? People in their society do not want to look beyond such labels, even Marius becomes blind to the essence of who Valjean really is as soon as he hears that he is an ex-convict. So why does Valjean have to be so exhibitionistic?

Valjean’s reasoning is very complex. To start with, he tells his life story in a rather unflattering key, forgetting to mention all the important circumstances. “What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten years ago, I did not know that she was in existence.” He never mentions that he saved her from abuse, misery, and maybe even death. And, of course, he never says about his role in Marius’ own rescue from the barricade. Then there is Valjean’s honesty and conscience. And it’s an amazing paradox that the man who is the best expert in lying and playing roles to survive and save Cosette, is unable to keep away just one truth when it comes to matters of honour, morality, and Cosette’s safety. This brings to mind parallels with Javert: he was pathologically unable to lie even about small things his whole life but eventually managed to tell lies in a decisive moment (let’s think it was decisive enough); whereas Valjean could easily lie about most things, but had to be pathologically honest in the decisive moment.

It might sound strange, but I like this chapter for the opportunity to hear Jean Valjean finally speaking for himself at length. It’s not the author, the omnipresent and omniscient Hugo, but Valjean finally expressing himself—his feelings, fears, moral code, etc. This is killing me: “To be a false signature in flesh and blood, to be a living false key, to enter the house of honest people by picking their lock, never more to look straightforward, to forever eye askance, to be infamous within the I, no! no! no! no! no! It is better to suffer, to bleed, to weep, to tear one’s skin from the flesh with one’s nails, to pass nights writhing in anguish, to devour oneself body and soul.”

But, of course, I hate most of this chapter. Especially the part involving Cosette. What has happened to her? Why is she acting like this? And Marius is absolutely terrible to her – and it’s just after one night of married life! He repeats: “We are talking business,” like a parrot. “We are talking figures. That will bore you.” She can manage figures! She was managing the whole household for several years. Cosette is joking when she says: “My husband beats me,” but it is still quite disturbing.

I absolutely hate this dialogue: “do you think… that I ought not to see Cosette any more?” - “I think that would be better.” – “I shall never see her more.” This is the beginning of Valjean’s slow suicide. Despite Hugo several times emphasizing that suicide is against Valjean’s belief, there are several hints that we are dealing with an inventive form of suicide. Reference to the seventh circle of hell—reserved for those who take their own life—in the title of this chapter is one of them.

[cienie-isengardu]

The abusive Bi-Han headcanon is definitely causing a lot of suffering for Bi-Han fans, especially since it always there in fanon even in the prior timeline and it's now booming thanks to mk1.

I never saw prior timeline Bi-Han as abusive, mainly because Kuai never mentions this and neither does Smoke. The most charitable interpretation of this that I've seen in stories is that Bi-Han is under some terribly misguided impression he is toughening up Kuai and that he is 'protecting him' and keeping him alive. Which is probably the only interpretation that makes even a hint of sense given I don't think a young Bi-Han would be kicking Kuai down the stairs for the lolz.

Even then, that's not exactly the ideal view of their relationship. I always saw Bi-Han as cold, even to his brother, thought this mainly because of Lin Kuei teachings fucking up his ability to express himself in a caring manner and not out of malice. I always imagined there's this small pocket of love Bi-Han had for Kuai in that cold heart of his but he doesn't show it outwardly because 'Love is a weakness,' nonsense the Grandmaster was probably slamming full force on the clan.

That’s the charm of fandom, either our fav characters are popular and widely liked, or hated even for things they haven’t officially done. And with lore so old like Mortal Kombat, the positive and negative personal headcanons and interpretations creep into perception of characters, their canon personalities and reasoning one way or another. That is unavoidable and the less official source material is provided, the more fans fill the gap in their own way. Sometimes that leads to perpetuating some unkind opinions which understandably is upsetting if the character, like Bi-Han, is accused of things not hinted at by the tie-in material in the first place (i.e. abusing Kuai Liang in the childhood).

However I feel like in Bi-Han’s case, the problem lies only halfway in limited details about his and Kuai Liang’s past and brotherhood before elder Sub-Zero was turned into Wraith and twisted by dark magic. For me, the negative perception is connected to his naturally cold, abrasive behavior. I suspect if Bi-Han was a more emotionally driven character, the way Hanzo is, many fans would be more likely to think he was just sadly misled by Lin Kuei pathological doctrines if not outright the tragic hero. Bi-Han however is not that emotional kind of person, he has never been. Forgive me the metaphor, but I feel that the fan treatment of Bi-Han is similar to how people, who have never had a cat, perceive those animals and how frustrated it must be when they expect cats to behave like dogs but won’t get the desired results. It is not that the elder Sub-Zero or cats are evil by nature, they just communicate and behave in a very specific way. If people mistake it for them being mean, uncaring, even for being unable to love only because they expected - demanded - a different set of behavior that would fit their narrowed idea of normalcy, then they are bound to be disappointed one way or another. But that is not fault of fictional characters (and definitely not cats’ either).

That said, I too think Kuai Liang always had a special place in Bi-Han’s life and was no less important than Bi-Han was for him, and that Lin Kuei upbringing complicated expressing those emotions, however I don’t see a point of getting worked over different opinions of strangers. Is it hard sometimes to be a fan of characters like the elder Sub-Zero that feel widely mistreated by fandom over things there is no evidence he did in canon? Sure, but each person is entitled to their own opinion. Fandom is like that sometimes and in my book, usually the best solution is sticking to things that make you happy and if needed, to ignore negative things outside of your control. I know it is not easy, but sometimes it is good to agree to disagree and move on to a comfortable niche of personal headcanons.

It works for me most of time - and if I feel enough spiteful toward fandom at large, I will just create my own Bi-Han positive fanwork to balance things out 😈

[tanadrin]

The KJV is a bad translation?

the kjv is, as i understand it, a particularly poor translation for the modern english speaker. and probably not a great translation even for its day.

some of this is a historical problem. the kjv is a lightly edited revision of the bishop's bible; by the time it was put into print its language was already a hundred years out of date.

some of this is a time marches on problem: our understanding of the source texts and the number of manuscripts available to us to analyze is simply much better now than it was back when the kjv/bishop's bible/other early vernacular bibles were printed. not to mention our understanding of the historical context of those texts as furnished by, e.g., archeology.

some of this is a language marches on problem: "tabernacle" is from a Latin word meaning "small hut," which was probably a fine way to translate the hebrew word used for the dwelling place of god back in the sixteenth century, but now, thanks in part to its use in translations of the bible, basically only has a specialized religious meaning that obscures more than it illuminates when used in conservative translations of the bible. there are english-language turns of phrase in the kjv that are now consistently misunderstood just because standard english usage has changed sufficiently in the intervening centuries to alter the fundamental meaning of some passages.

and some of this is a dogma problem: there are passages in the bible that religious publishers with an agenda will insist on mistranslating because the plain meaning of the text is awkward for their particular dogmas. because of the role of the kjv in the second great awakening and american protestantism's fixation on this version of the text, there is the particular pathology of the "kjv-only" movement in american protestantism which insists that the kjv is not only fine, but is actually the best and only good translation of the bible and all the other english translations are corrupted by the devil or something, idk.

what translation of the bible is best probably depends on what you want to use the bible for (devotional purposes vs critical understanding of hte new testament vs critical understanding of the hebrew bible, etc.), but one can definitely do better than a translation published in the seventeenth century.

[danvolodar]

Pathologic and the Town's Russianness: 4

This part will deal with a relatively major topic in Pathologic - religion. Or, well, with the major discrepancy between religion in the Town and in historical Russian Empire.

Most of this post will be about the denizens of the Town, but let's briefly mention the Kin. They have a pretty clear-cut pagan religion, with multiple personified deities: Bos Turokh, Boddho, Suok (the difference with historical religions, of course, being the fact that the magic actually works in the Steppe). The state's apparent non-interference with them practicing their religion fits well enough into the Imperial policies of the early XX century. What doesn't is the lack of control. The Empire was very much a bureaucratic behemoth, it sought to control anyone who influenced the minds of its citizens. The Interiour Ministry had a Department of Spiritual Affairs, and its officials had their fingers in every pie, demanding the right to veto religious leader assignments in the local communities, paying state wages to those of these leaders who played nice, etcetera. However, apparently, the historical Department was chronically understaffed (to the point of its aforementioned veto rights being unenforceable), and the game is very reductive when it comes to the official state apparatus in general, so all in all, the way the Capital-based civilization treats the Kin religion is a passable fit for the Russian Empire.

Quite a different story with the majority religion. In the Russian Empire, Orthodoxy was de-facto a state religion. While ethnic minorities were allowed to practice their religions undisturbed (by early XX century, mind, that hadn't exactly been that way throughout the entire Imperial history), ethnic Russians were mandated by law to be Orthodox Christians. Not being a practicing Orthodox was literally a felony.

Historical precedent showed that even for a scion of one of the Empire's most noble families a single religious misstep could lead to fatal consequences: in the 1730ies, Mikhail Alekseyevich Golitsyn was forced to become a court jester for secretly converting to Catholicism to marry a German, his marriage was dissolved and he was ordered to remarry another jester.

Of course, quite some time had passed since that incident, yet the Church remained intimately intertwined with the state. The semi-independent Patriarchate was replaced as its governing body with the Most Holy Synod, a state organ with mixed clergy and layman membership, during Peter I's reforms, which factually made the Church a part of the state apparatus. Ever since then, caesaropapism remained the norm. The Church had multiple functions that nowadays would only be expected of the state, such as birth registrations or running primary schools. A church was an essential part of any settlement, the presence of one differentiating a small hamlet (деревня, derevnya) from a village (село, selo). Vital events such as marriages or burials could only be done through the Church (and since the Old Believers could not participate in the Nikonian rituals, bribes from them sometimes formed a large part of parish incomes). The Church as an institution - much like the other parts of the Imperial state machine, - was facing a crisis of confidence by the early XX century, but common folk were still expected to regularly come to service, confess and receive communion. The faith became so ingrained into the language that even the Soviet militant atheists could not remove all the "thank god"s and "help god"s on every occasion from it (starting right with thanking someone: the word for "thanks" in Russian is spasibo - спасибо, literally means "god sav[e you]") .

None of that is present in Pathologic. There is not a single church in the Town, apparently - not even family chapels. References are sometimes made to religion, and that implied baseline seems to be Orthodox Christianity, but nothing indicates anyone in the Town is an active, practicing believer. The game actually takes it to a hilarious degree: in the Diurnal ending, when Saburov tells Artemy that Katherina is going to bring Cathedral back to life, he shoots back: "Just tell me she's not religious. Anything's better. Even a second plague".

To be fair, the educated class being fashionably atheist matches the late Empire well enough - both because of the aforementioned crisis of confidence in the Church, and because of the general naïve positivism of the era. Dankovsky is pretty stereotypical in that regard (and his talk of angels does not really contradict that atheism, or even hints at him being brought up a Christian, to begin with, given that there are of course angels in Judaism).

However, just like the Soviets, IPL apparently haven't been able to get rid of Orthodox sentiments altogether. A remarkable example is a dialog snippet with Big Vlad, when he's in the Termitary and Capella is dead (if memory serves). The only thing he says to Artemy, essentially, is "forgive me if I have ever wronged you": a very Christian repentance before death. One of Artemy's dialog options then is even more so. In the English translation it's "God is merciful", the Russian original is literally "God will forgive": a characteristic non-answer which sounds like a blessing, but actually means something like "God will forgive [you, but I will not, despite you asking, because Lord's mercy is without limit, while mine isn't]".

Finally, time to mention the elephant... well, animal... steppe creature... in the room - Clara and her sainthood. Ironically, that is the most Orthodox plotline in the game. Just like the other Christian denominations, Orthodoxy recognizes multiple modalities of sainthood, which of course has to do with it being, like Catholicism also, two different religious practices in one coat: one for the monks, the other for the laymen and the clergy who have not taken up the vows. Saints can come from both parts of the divide, they just need a feat for the betterment of the faith and the humanity at large: a martyrdom, or converting a large number of non-believers, or protecting the Orthodox flock from depredations... The Changeling, however, can be understood as a yurodivy - an Orthodox saint that is a fool for Christ, that is, operates outside the usual societal norms on direct divine inspiration. Usually coming from laymen stock, such saints don't earn their veneration by following the canons of monastic or even layman life, but rather, submit themselves to God immediately. Clara's "God reveals himself to people by my hands" is a 100% hit on that modality: it's not her performing miracles by God, but God revealing himself to the world through her. It is, in a way, like the Sufi mystics seeking to suppress the nafs (ego) to reach communion with God.

Then, of course, comes the blood sacrifice. Well, I don't think there's a long explanation needed here on why this is not an Orthodox Christian idea. Yes, the sacrifice of Jesus redeemed the Original sin, but Jesus is God. One cannot be saved by another man's sacrifice in Orthodoxy, much less by turning another man into blood sausage. Yes, repentance is commendable (based on Luke 15:7), and sacrificing yourself for others' sake, too (John 15:13) - so the Humbles themselves can be seen as repentant sinners; but there can be no justification for these who slaughter them. Worse still, establish a process of slaughtering them, requiring ever more victims. That, naturally, run against the foundations of Orthodox Christianity (the sixth commandment).

So, to sum this part up. The way the Capital treats the religion of the Kin passably resembles what the Russian Empire could've done; the atheist educated class also fits the mold. But the rest of the game's setting, particularly the lack of day-to-day organized Church presence in the Town, could not be any further from the historic Imperial society. Similarly, Clara's sainthood in itself fits into the religious life of the Empire well enough; but the Humbles ending absolutely destroys it.

[librarycards]

do you have any reading recs for the intersection and/or similarities between the disabled & trans experiences? the community of trans, disabled, and trans disabled people working together? tysm sarah

i have many, too many to list here! below are a few links and names to get you started, but trans disability studies is a rapidly-growing field really exploding with new scholarship right now. trans studies specifically is having something of a "crip turn," particularly since the publication of Hil Malatino's long essay, "Trans Care." I don't know what's going to happen going forward, but as it stands, there is active and growing interest in the nexus of trans and disabled subjectivity, especially w/r/t social conditions that design (for) us lives deemed unlivable.

i'm going to focus in this post on scholarship that explicitly engages both with trans and disability studies thought, rather than just work from one area that happens to bring in a topic from the other. Of course, it isn't possible to fully delineate these areas, nor should we try. but trans studies and disability studies are whole academic fields with distinct genealogies and theoretical orientations, and it sounds like you're looking for work that brings these sometimes-disparate orientations together very deliberately. Mad studies also has its own disparate genealogy that is sometimes at odds with disability studies, depending on who you're reading; on the other hand, neurodiversity studies tends to follow and cite DS a little more closely. i'm not going to get into the weeds here, but i did want to provide a disclaimer about how complicated this shit is before i give a LIMITED! INCOMPLETE! list of places to start reading.

my work in transMad studies (which I made up; Trans Disability Studies and Feminist Disability Studies, and intersections therein, predate me) draws explicitly on trans, disability, and Mad studies approaches, as well as/alongside the critical digital humanities, poetics, and science & technology studies. i've written about transMadness / trans disabled digital work / Mad gender noncompliance / trans autie-biography. I also co-authored the chapter on the trans/disabled intersection in Trans Bodies, Trans Selves, 2nd ed.

Some key authors in the area of trans disability studies // transMad studies include but are not limited to:

Eli Clare

M. Remi Yergeau

Nick Walker

Mel Chen

Jake Pyne

Jess Rauchberg

Lydia X. Z. Brown

J. Logan Smilges

Justine Egner

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna Samarasinha

Alexandre Baril

Hil Malatino

Merrick Pilling

Cameron Awkward-Rich

Sky Cubacub

I have included alongside each name a link to one piece of their work that I like. Again, MANY people write about trans / disability / Mad issues in concert, or who talk about certain issues through a t/d/M lens. I listed only a small number of people for the reasons I mention at the start of the post.

Also, much of this work I have selected deliberately to trouble preexisting assumptions about trans disabled solidarity/activism/scholarship – namely, that it starts and ends at the question of pathologization. When we limit the scope of trans disabled liberation work to the boundaries of the clinic (material, discursive, or otherwise) we do ourselves a grave disservice.

i'm going to leave it there as a starting point, but encourage you to check the citations of each of the linked pieces, as they're often treasure troves of further resources.