#define bureaucracy

[guiltycorp]

SO happy about apathy/psychosis states for the Bachelor in Pathologic 3 as described in the recent devblog by the audio team Т_Т give me give me give me

[flora-bigs]

When you sign the contract with her, you don't sell your soul. You lease your soul indefinitely, with plenty of legal stipulations.

ugh there's a dorky song i want to put on her playlist but it's just on the very edge of fitting the vibe (The Fine Print by The Stupendium)

[theplotmage]

Fantasy Royal Hierarchy & Government Explained for Dummies

👑 The Royal Hierarchy:

High King/High Queen: The ultimate ruler of all the lands. Addressed as “Your Majesty.” They oversee multiple kingdoms and have the final say in all matters.

King/Queen: The rulers of individual kingdoms. Addressed as “Your Majesty.” They manage their own territories, make laws, and lead their armies into epic battles.

Prince/Princess: The children of the king and queen. Addressed as “Your Highness.” They’re next in line for the throne and often have their own mini-kingdoms to practice ruling.

Duke/Duchess: High-ranking nobles who control large regions within the kingdom. Addressed as “Your Grace.” They’re like the regional managers, handling local governance and military affairs.

Marquess/Marchioness: Nobles who oversee border territories. Addressed as “Lord” or “Lady.” They’re responsible for defending the kingdom’s edges and often have a mix of military and administrative duties.

Earl/Countess: Nobles who manage smaller regions within the kingdom. Addressed as “Lord” or “Lady.” They’re like the middle managers, ensuring everything runs smoothly in their areas.

Viscount/Viscountess: Nobles who assist earls and countesses. Addressed as “Lord” or “Lady.” They’re like the assistant managers, helping with local governance and administration.

Baron/Baroness: The lowest rank of nobility. Addressed as “Lord” or “Lady.” They control small areas of land and are responsible for local justice and order.

Lord/Lady: A general title for nobility. Addressed as “Lord” or “Lady.” Lords and ladies can hold various ranks and responsibilities within the kingdom.

Government Structure:

🏛️ The Council: A group of high-ranking nobles and advisors who help the king or queen make important decisions. Think of them as the board of directors.

🧙 The Wizard: The royal advisor with magical powers. They provide wisdom, cast spells, and sometimes meddle in politics.

⚔️ The Knight Commander: The head of the royal army. They lead the knights and soldiers into battle and ensure the kingdom’s defense.

📜 The Chancellor: The head of the kingdom’s finances and administration. They manage the treasury, collect taxes, and oversee the kingdom’s bureaucracy.

🎭 The Bard: The kingdom’s storyteller and historian. They spread news, sing songs of heroism, and keep the royal family’s image sparkling.

Other Classes:

🌳 Elves: Graceful and wise, elves often serve as advisors, scholars, or elite warriors. They have a deep connection to nature and magic, making them invaluable in both court and battlefield.

🌾 Peasants: The backbone of the kingdom. They work the land, pay taxes, and sometimes get caught up in the schemes of the nobility. Despite their humble status, they can be heroes in their own right.

💀 Necromancers: Masters of death magic. They can raise the dead, drain life energy, and command undead minions. Often feared and misunderstood, they can be powerful allies or dangerous enemies.

📚 Scholars: Also known as sages, librarians, or loremasters. Scholars are the kingdom’s intellectuals, possessing encyclopedic knowledge. They study ancient texts, advise on matters of history and magic, and often uncover secrets that can turn the tide of events.

⚔️ Heroes: Brave individuals who embark on epic quests. They can come from any class—knights, peasants, elves, or even necromancers. Heroes are defined by their courage, skill, and willingness to face danger for the greater good.

🙏 Priests/Priestesses: Spiritual leaders who serve the gods and goddesses of the realm. They perform rituals, offer guidance, and sometimes wield divine magic. Addressed as “Father,” “Mother,” or “Your Holiness”.

🐉 Dragons: Sometimes pets, sometimes pests. Always epic. They can be guardians of treasure, wise advisors, or terrifying foes.

Servants and Other Castle Inhabitants:

Steward: Manages the household and estate. Addressed as “Master Steward.”

Chamberlain: Oversees the private chambers and personal needs of the lord or lady. Addressed as “Master Chamberlain.”

Marshal: In charge of the stables and the training of knights. Addressed as “Master Marshal.”

Cook: Prepares meals for the household. Addressed as “Master/Mistress Cook.”

Maid: Responsible for cleaning and maintaining the castle. Addressed as “Mistress Maid.”

Squire: A young noble training to become a knight. Addressed as “Squire.”

Falconer: Takes care of the hunting birds. Addressed as “Master Falconer.”

Gardener: Maintains the castle gardens. Addressed as “Master/Mistress Gardener.”

Where They Dwell:

🏰 Castle: A fortified structure built for defense and residence. It includes towers, walls, a keep, and often a moat. The castle is the main residence of the king or queen and their court.

🏛️ Court: The royal household and the place where the king or queen holds court. It includes the throne room, great hall, and various chambers for the nobles and advisors.

🏡 Manor: The residence of a noble, usually a lord or lady. It’s less fortified than a castle and focuses more on comfort and domestic life.

Pro Tips:

Royal Drama: Expect lots of intrigue, secret plots, and power struggles. It’s like a medieval reality show.

Magic: Always a wildcard. It can solve problems or create new ones.

Quests: Royals love sending heroes on epic quests. It’s their way of handling problems without getting their hands dirty.

---

[chansaw]

i read donald sutherland’s letter to gary ross pleading for the role of president snow and was so struck by his eloquence, wit, and humor. i’m posting it in full below. what a loss </3

Dear Gary Ross:

Power. That's what this is about? Yes? Power and the forces that are manipulated by the powerful men and bureaucracies trying to maintain control and possession of that power?

Power perpetrates war and oppression to maintain itself until it finally topples over with the bureaucratic weight of itself and sinks into the pages of history (except in Texas), leaving lessons that need to be learned unlearned.

Power corrupts, and, in many cases, absolute power makes you really horny. Clinton, Chirac, Mao, Mitterrand.

Not so, I think, with Coriolanus Snow. His obsession, his passion, is his rose garden. There's a rose named Sterling Silver that's lilac in colour with the most extraordinarily powerful fragrance — incredibly beautiful — I loved it in the seventies when it first appeared. They've made a lot of offshoots of it since then.

I didn't want to write to you until I'd read the trilogy and now I have so: roses are of great importance. And Coriolanus's eyes. And his smile. Those three elements are vibrant and vital in Snow. Everything else is, by and large, perfectly still and ruthlessly contained. What delight she [Katniss] gives him. He knows her so perfectly. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him. He sees and understands everything. He was, quite probably, a brilliant man who's succumbed to the siren song of power.

How will you dramatize the interior narrative running in Katniss's head that describes and consistently updates her relationship with the President who is ubiquitous in her mind? With omniscient calm he knows her perfectly. She knows he does and she knows that he will go to any necessary end to maintain his power because she knows that he believes that she's a real threat to his fragile hold on his control of that power. She's more dangerous than Joan of Arc.

Her interior dialogue/monologue defines Snow. It's that old theatrical turnip: you can't 'play' a king, you need everybody else on stage saying to each other, and therefore to the audience, stuff like "There goes the King, isn't he a piece of work, how evil, how lovely, how benevolent, how cruel, how brilliant he is!" The idea of him, the definition of him, the audience's perception of him, is primarily instilled by the observations of others and once that idea is set, the audience's view of the character is pretty much unyielding. And in Snow's case, that definition, of course, comes from Katniss.

Evil looks like our understanding of the history of the men we're looking at. It's not what we see: it's what we've been led to believe. Simple as that. Look at the face of Ted Bundy before you knew what he did and after you knew.

Snow doesn't look evil to the people in Panem's Capitol. Bundy didn't look evil to those girls. My wife and I were driving through Colorado when he escaped from jail there. The car radio's warning was constant. 'Don't pick up any young men. The escapee looks like the nicest young man imaginable'. Snow's evil shows up in the form of the complacently confident threat that's ever-present in his eyes. His resolute stillness. Have you seen a film I did years ago? 'The Eye of the Needle'. That fellow had some of what I'm looking for.

The woman who lived up the street from us in Brentwood came over to ask my wife a question when my wife was dropping the kids off at school. This woman and her husband had seen that movie the night before and what she wanted to know was how my wife could live with anyone who could play such an evil man. It made for an amusing dinner or two but part of my wife's still wondering.

I'd love to speak with you whenever you have a chance so I can be on the same page with you.

They all end up the same way. Welcome to Florida, have a nice day!

sourced from this article

[dozyisdead]

I realized this a long time ago, but I will never truly support a team. I support and cheer for drivers, the people individually, because teams and organizations so often do not truly reflect the morals and beliefs of their individuals. At some point, money and bureaucracy take over, and things become muddy. I support drivers, not teams, because…

because Fuck You McLaren for what Daniel went through in 2021 & 2022 and the way he was treated behind the scenes and in the camera view the and the blatant disregard for his mental and physical condition and health, but I love Oscar Piastri with all my heart and how you don’t let the fights on track bother you outside of it and understand that racing is racing and what someone says there is not how they think of your person beyond it.

because Fuck You McLaren for the way you do team orders and how you put so much pressure and strain on your driver’s relationships and I’m talking about Hungary 2024, but Lando Norris you speak so much about mental health and I’m so glad you do because you bring light to a major part of any sport that so many ignore and I thank you for championing it so much.

because Fuck You Red Bull for dropping so many drivers at the flip of a coin because they can’t compare to your other driver’s talents and how you also show such blatant favoritism it’s disgusting and for the way you dealt with Christian Horner, but Max Verstappen is an incredibly kind and intelligent person who was given a bad hand but will not let the cycle repeat, and Daniel Ricciardo is a man who deserves so much more than what he was given and he still smiles and loves this sport with so much it’s terrifying to watch, and how much they have given and gotten back and grow because of who they are.

because Fuck You Williams for treating your drivers so horribly and having such obvious favoritism that it is detrimental to your driver’s health and specifically Fuck You to James Vowels for your insane behavior, but Logan Sargeant you deserve more than you were even given and Alex Albon you were one of the best teammates Logan could have ever asked for, Logan you deserve the world, thank you for opening the door for us.

because Fuck You Mercedes for trying to change who your driver is to fit your image because Valtteri deserved so much more and the way he was sacrificed was disgusting, but Sir Lewis Hamilton you champion so many and give a voice and platform to so many, bring attention to movements that have lacked support and the respect a d compassion you have for your fellow drivers, and how you’ve learned from your past and not let that define your relationships going forward.

because Fuck You Haas for the way you treat your drivers and how you never support them properly and I’m talking about You Gunther Steiner and the hell you put Mick through, but Kevin you did everything just to make it back, working as a welder for a year in a factory to claw your way back, and Mick you are more than just your name you are also a genuinely kind soul who I wish was given more time in multiple ways, and I know it’s hard but you’re doing amazing even if people in the past said otherwise.

because Fuck You Ferrari for the way you bleed your drivers dry and give them nothing while pretending to give them everything and how you cut some off so quickly it’s disgusting, but Charles LeClerc you have a soul that is too old and there is too much pain and sorrow painting your life path already, but you drive for yourself and for others, and you give hope back to those who have wept at Ferrari’s doorstep for generations, and you love with your heart so openly that I cannot help but admire you.

because Fuck You Alpine for the way you have treated drivers and how you have screamed of loyalty while also giving them no reason to be loyal and making their time there more painful that what is worth, but Pierre I know you mourn every second for lives that have been lost and you would scream from the rooftops if you were given a chance and I would hand you a megaphone because you have a rightful reason to.

because Fuck You VCARB for how you also drop drivers but I know it’s because you are a Red Bull subsidiary and how you gloss over how your drivers can be treated and how you try to sensor their anger and emotions, but Yuki Tsunoda I will forever applaud your skill and dedication to your team and sport, and I know it can be so hard being so far away from home in a land so foreign but you have carved out a place for yourself and I know you’ll make your dream of having your own restaurant come true.

because specifically Fuck The FIA for the insanity you decide is right and wrong and for how you let money blind you so much that you decide someone campaigning human rights and safety is a political statement and needs to be shut down.

because I will support people, not the half baked prettily worded lies organizations will tell us.

[ineffablelunatics]

Crowley chose to make a statement with his outfit when he goes to investigate Heaven. Crowley has always cared about what he looks like. He always tries to fit in with the humans that he is around. There are times when he misses the mark like in Rome. But in Heaven, all of the changes he makes have a purpose. It’s a drastic difference to his normal clothes. Almost all of it changes. He changes his hair. He paints his nails gold even adds a gold tooth. His snake tattoo, a symbol that defines who he is, he covers with a sticker. All of the changes are telling a story to any angel who dares to look closely at the demon in midst

The most basic of changes tell the angels what he thinks about them. He makes his normal outfit light in color to blend in. His hair is no longer styled, but pushed out of his face. He’s wearing white flip-flops. He makes it look like he’s the CEO who’s pissed off that he had to come in on his vacation. The entire outfit is lounge wear. He’s telling them what he thinks about them. Even though, they are supposed to be good and fighting evil, they really aren’t. They are never shown making a good difference to the world, besides Azirphale, who Crowley has always separated from the heavenly bureaucracy. A golden tooth is seen as a symbol of wealth, but it also is a symbol of status. There are places where healthy teeth have been shaven down to cover a heathy tooth to show wealth and status. Almost like angels who cared were wore away to nothing to their status. Worn down to only care about their status.

The Serpent of Eden... Crowley’s tattoo always makes itself known. If his sideburns are longer, the snake moves out from under them. When he goes into Heaven, he covers it with an identical, but gold sticker. It seems as though Crowley can’t change the tattoo or just miracle it away. The snake refuses to be hidden or changed. Crowley refuses to be hidden or changed. He uses the glasses in the same way. Dark glasses in Heaven would be suspicious since they avoid any dark colors in their outfits since the demons do the opposite. He could have tried contacts, but he chose rose-colored glasses. Dark enough to slightly cover his eyes upon a quick glance. “When you look at some through rose-colored glasses all the red flags just look like flags.” (Bojack Horseman) Instead of making his glasses opaque and hiding the snake somehow, Crowley lets the angels know who he is. He makes sure that any angel who walks by and looks through his rose colored glasses will notice that his eye have slits. If they just pay attention, they’ll notice that the serpent of Eden is in Heaven and he’s doing what he always does: asking questions. He shows them that there is a murder hornet in their hive. Because there’s one thing that Crowley will never be again, can never be again, doesn’t even want to be again, and that’s another bee. 

But what does that have to do with the watch? The watch is the one thing that he doesn’t change at all. That is the one thing that didn’t change in the Fall. He never lost his connection to time. He never lost that ability. It was the one major part of who he was that was the same as the angel he was before. A serpent who still knew how to manipulate them. So he doesn’t change the watch, because that ability, manipulating the sands of time that was so vital in creating the stars, was not taken away him when the rest of his divinity was.

So when Crowley waltzes back into Heaven, he tells them. He shows everything off. He tells them exactly who he is, if only they’d get over their own hypocrisy to look close enough. He wears clothes that look like theirs except its ‘lounge’ wear to show that he thinks they’re lazy. He wears his glasses but he makes them sheer enough so that an angel could still see his eyes. He puts a golden identical snake sticker over his tattoo so that would know that he was there still. He leaves his watch black. The one part of him that is truly his that he never questioned. That part of him that was a birthright that was not taken away and that Hell could never say they owned. The one piece of himself that was never manipulated. Even when he goes back into the place that abandoned him, he refuses to let himself, even if it’s just a disguise, be truly changed.

[thewulf]

Breaking Point || Simon "Ghost" Riley

Summary: Request -I've got this itch for some hurt/comfort with Simon Ghost Riley and the reader from TF 141. Reader's this badass sniper, always on top of her game. But one day she wakes up feeling under the weather. She decides to push through training, but things take a turn when she starts feeling faint during drills after Price gives her shit for not training hard... Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh this was challenging but so much fun to right. Please let me know your thoughts below :) Got a little carried away with this one!

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader, TF 141 x Platonic Female Reader

Word Count: 7.7k +

TW: Heat Stroke, Flu, Illness, general COD warnings.

Four years ago, you were a part of a special training assignment with the American Navy, deployed in a remote and sweltering military base off the coast of Africa. It was here in the middle of the grueling drills and relentless heat that you caught the eye of Captain John Price. Your prowess with a rifle was unmistakable. Every target set before you fell without fail. But what truly set you apart was your demeanor: you kept your head down, focused intensely on the task at hand, never boasting about your undeniable skills.

Captain Price who was always on the lookout for exceptional talent to add to Task Force 141, saw in you a rare combination of humility and sharpshooting expertise. Recognizing your potential he pulled some strings, navigated through the complexities of the American Military bureaucracy, and somehow successfully recruited you into the prestigious ranks of TF 141. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. One that would challenge your resilience and skill more than any previous assignment.

Joining TF 141 wasn't just a promotion. It was being welcomed into a family of elite soldiers. While Soap and Gaz took an immediate liking to you, appreciating your wit and marksmanship, Ghost was initially more reserved. His trust was not easily won. It had to be earned on the battlefield not just through training exercises back at base.

Your defining moment came during a perilous mission in the frozen expanses of Russia within your first year with the 141. The mission had quickly gone sideways. Ghost found himself in the deadly crosshairs of an enemy sniper. With the situation deteriorating rapidly and no clear shot available to him your actions in those critical seconds would forever change the dynamics of your relationship with Ghost. From a concealed position you took out the opposing sniper with a single, precise shot, saving Ghost’s life.

This act erased any last reservations Ghost might have held. From then on he saw you not just as another sharpshooter but as an indispensable member of the team, his team. Your ability to make life-saving decisions under intense pressure proved your strength. Not just in terms of physical prowess but in intellectual and tactical acumen as well.

Since then you have become an integral part of TF 141's operations. Your journey from a promising recruit noticed by Captain Price to a pivotal player in some of the team’s most critical missions has been defined by relentless dedication and the deep trust you've earned from some of the military's toughest warriors.

The shrill beep of the alarm slices through the stillness of your room dragging you from the shallow waters of restless sleep into the harsh reality of dawn. For a moment as you blink against the dim light filtering through the barracks' curtains, the room spins slightly—a disorienting dance that forces you to close your eyes again.

You’ve always been the type who never gets sick. The one who breezes through the cold season unscathed while others succumb around you. Your robust health has been a point of pride, a badge of reliability in TF 141. But this morning something is different, and you know it immediately.

Your body aches profoundly, each muscle groaning with a weariness that feels bone-deep, and your head pounds with the relentless rhythm of a dull, throbbing drum. Swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down your throat. An unfortunate wave of nausea rolls through you as you sit up. It has to be the flu, you think grimly, recognizing the unmistakable and unforgiving symptoms.

Despite the clear signs of illness, the thought of calling in sick doesn’t even cross your mind. It’s not just about pride. There’s also a deep-seated belief that you can handle anything, a belief that has carried you through countless challenges.

With a heavy, determined sigh, you push yourself off the bed. Standing unsteadily for a moment, you use the wall to keep yourself upright. Today is not the day to show weakness, not the day to break your perfect record of health. You decide to power through. To dress and join your team for the morning drills under the rising sun. The thought of letting them down by your absence is more daunting than the physical discomfort threatening to overwhelm you.As you gear up, each movement measured and more deliberate than usual, you steel yourself for the day ahead. Today, you'll prove—not just to your team, but to yourself—that not even the flu can keep you from standing alongside your comrades.

Stepping out into the cool, pre-dawn air, you allow yourself a moment to feel the chill against your fevered skin. It’s oddly refreshing, a natural contrast to the unnatural heat of your illness. It’s bound to be short lived though as the sun’s rays already feel warm on your skin. The training field is a short walk away and with each step you rehearse the day’s routine in your mind. A mantra against the physical discomfort.

As the briefing wraps up and the team begins to disperse to their respective training stations you feel the weight of Ghost’s gaze right on you. Despite the heaviness of your limbs and the fog in your brain, this unspoken solidarity from your teammates, especially Ghost, gives you a sliver of strength.

With each step towards the day’s first drill your resolve hardens. You're not just fighting the flu; you're fighting to maintain the trust and respect you’ve earned. Today, the battlefield is here, within yourself, and you're determined to prove your mettle. You are keenly aware of being one of the few women in the unit and the additional scrutiny that comes with it. It's crucial that you show no weakness even as your body wages its quiet rebellion. Your head pounds with a relentless ache. Your limbs are heavy. And every breath feels like an effort. Despite these symptoms screaming flu, you've chosen silence—no complaints, no excuses.

When you arrive at the training field the usual bustle of activity sharply contrasts with your internal struggle. Everyone is focused on what needs to be done, their attention solely on performance. As Captain Price begins the morning briefing his voice sounds like a distant echo in your ears drowned out by the pounding in your head. The day's challenges loom large, testing your limits before you've even started.

As you make your way to the lineup, the crisp morning air begins to turn warm, almost uncomfortable warm already. Soap falls into step beside you, his familiar grin lighting up his face as he launches into the light-hearted banter that typically marks your mornings together.

“Morning! Ready to outshoot us all again today?” Soap teases before giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow, expecting your usual lively retort.

You manage only a weak smile, one that doesn't quite reach your eyes, and nod faintly. The flu has buried your usual quick wit under a heavy weight of fatigue and discomfort. It takes all your effort just to keep standing without revealing how much you're struggling.

Soap’s smile quickly falters at your lack of reply, his eyes narrowing in concern. “You okay, lass?” he asks. His tone shifting to something more serious.

You nod again, swallowing hard against the surge of nausea. “Yeah, just tired,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. You're careful not to reveal the full extent of your ailment, not here, not in front of your team.

From a short distance away Ghost's intense gaze follows the exchange. Though his presence is more subdued, and his demeanor reserved, his attention to detail remains sharp. You can feel his concern even without words. His posture is alert, his body tensed as if ready to act at a moment's notice.

Ghost offers no overt gestures of worry; he doesn't need to. The slight tightening of his stance is a silent signal of his readiness to intervene. His eyes, just visible through the slits of his mask, never wander, tracking your every move with a vigilance that speaks volumes. You know he's always watching out for his team, and today, his protective focus is unmistakably fixed on you.

"Alright, let's warm up! Start with sprints!" Captain Price commands. His voice cuts through the morning air, decisive and clear. You line up with your teammates, the grass cool and slightly damp under your boots. The whistle pierces the calm, and you propel yourself forward. Each step is a battle, your muscles protesting every movement. Yet you push through the fatigue and dizziness.

After sprints the drills shift to push-ups. Down on the warm, wet grass you feel the earth against your palms, stabilizing yet unforgiving. You count each repetition, your muscles burning and a thin layer of sweat forming, which only seems to heighten the chills that intermittently rack your body.

Sit-ups come next and with each crunch a wave of nausea threatens your composure. The world tilts slightly with each lift, blurring at the edges. Captain Price’s footsteps approach. His presence looming. "Let’s see that strength, Y/N! Don’t slack now!" he urges. The encouragement is meant to inspire but it feels like a heavy mantle on your already burdened shoulders.

“Yes sir.” You manage to get out between crunches.

As you struggle through each exercise you can't ignore the hot flashes followed by chills, the hallmark of flu symptoms. Each movement is more taxing than the last and the temptation to give in and rest grows stronger. However, your determination doesn't waver. You are here to prove yourself, to demonstrate that neither flu nor fatigue can break your resolve. You need to showcase the unwavering strength of not just a skilled sniper, but a resilient soldier.

As the whistle blows, Captain Price directs everyone to break into their respective teams for more specialized, team-based drills. You find yourself grouped with Ghost, Gaz, and Soap. Your usual teammates and three of the unit's most competent operatives. Your heart sinks a bit. Their proficiency and teamwork are unmatched and under normal circumstances you would feel invigorated by the challenge. Today, however, it feels like an uphill battle.

"Alright, team," Gaz announces with a nod, "we’re up for the relay sprints and tactical positioning exercises. We need to be sharp and synchronized. Let's show these assholes how it's done."

You nod silently, attempting to muster a semblance of enthusiasm. Soap claps you on the shoulder giving you a reassuring smile, likely mistaking your subdued quietness for focused determination rather than the fatigue that’s slowly overtaking you.

The drills begin with relay sprints. You watch as Soap takes off with his usual speed. His figure swiftly cutting through the warming afternoon air. Gaz follows, moving with practiced ease. Then it’s your turn. As you push off your legs feel as though they are wading through molasses, your usually sharp agility significantly dulled by the flu’s tenacious grip. Each step feels heavier than the last as your breathing becomes ragged and unsteady.

Compounding your discomfort, the gear you're clad in feels unbearably hot against your skin. The layers that are usually a second nature in your fieldwork now seem like a furnace, trapping in every ounce of body heat. Your temperature rises not just from the fever, but also from the exhaustive exertion and the insulated heat from your tactical vest. Sweat beads on your forehead, not entirely from the physical activity but also from the early signs of heat exhaustion—your body’s desperate attempt to cool down under the layers.

Despite feeling increasingly overheated and nearly overwhelmed, you hide your discomfort well. Your face remains stoic, betraying none of the battle raging within your body against the heat and illness. To an outsider you might just appear intensely focused. But beneath the surface you're fighting a much tougher battle, trying to keep pace while your body screams for relief.

Ghost, from his vantage point, watches closely. His sharp eyes catch the subtle signs that others might miss—the slight falter in your step, the way you're breathing a little too hard after your sprint. His gaze intensifies with concern etched across his face as he monitors your every move, aware that something isn’t right but waiting for you to signal if you need assistance.

When you pass the baton to Ghost your hand trembles slightly. He catches it and for a brief moment your eyes meet. There's a flash of concern across his usually impassive face, a subtle shift that speaks volumes. He nods at you before taking off, his movements fluid and precise, yet his mind clearly not fully on the drill. His glance back at you is quick, discreet, checking to ensure you’re still on your feet.

As the exercises continue with the tactical positioning drills, the demands increase. This part of the training requires quick movements and even quicker thinking as each team member needs to cover different angles and work together seamlessly. You position yourself to cover Ghost’s flank, aiming to maintain your usual high standards. However, the world begins to tilt alarmingly. Your vision swims and the ground beneath you feels as if it’s shifting forcing you to steady yourself against a nearby tree.

Ghost, now at a slight distance, turns sharply in response to your stagger. His eyes narrow, not with disapproval, but with intensified concern. He makes a subtle move to close the distance between you, his instincts as a protector kicking in. Yet, he stops himself, respecting your pride and your ability to signal if you need help. He positions himself strategically, so he’s close enough to intervene quickly if needed. His body tensed and ready to act.

“Y/N, you alright?” Gaz’s voice suddenly cuts through your fog of discomfort, and you realize you’ve attracted more attention than you intended.

You straighten up quickly, nodding more sharply than necessary. “Just lost my footing for a second,” you lie. Managing a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Ghost, who has now subtly shifted his position to provide you with both physical and moral support, keeps his gaze fixed on you for a moment longer. He doesn’t call you out on your obvious discomfort. Instead, he gives you a nod, an unspoken communication between you two. It’s his way of saying he’s there, just in case, without putting you on the spot in front of the others.

His presence helps you gather your strength to continue. Despite the unease churning inside you knowing that Ghost is watching over you with such attentiveness gives you a small, but significant boost of confidence. You focus on the drills, pushing through the nausea and instability, bolstered by the knowledge that help is just a few steps away if you truly need it.

You begin to feel the oppressive heat bearing down on you more intensely than before. Each breath feels like you're inhaling fire. And the tactical gear, usually a familiar weight, now feels like an unbearable burden. Trapping too much heat against your body. More and more sweat beads on your forehead mixing with the slight dizziness that refuses to fade. The discomfort is escalating and despite your best efforts to mask it the heat is becoming unmanageable.

Ghost was still maintaining a discreet distance, watches you with sharp, observant eyes. He senses the subtle changes in your posture and the slight grimace that you can't quite hide each time you move. His concern deepens but he waits for a sign from you, respecting your pride and your position within the team.

As the drills continue you find it increasingly difficult to focus. The world seems to shimmer with heat around the edges and you feel a wave of nausea stronger than before. Recognizing that you might be in more trouble than you initially thought you catch Ghost's gaze across the field. It's a silent plea for understanding, a subtle acknowledgment that you do need his help after all.

Ghost responds immediately, his instincts as your LT kicking into high gear. He crosses the distance between you with a few quick strides. His approach discreet yet filled with purpose. “Everything okay?” he asks quietly. His voice low enough that only you can hear. It’s clear he’s prepared to step in, to offer whatever support you need without drawing unwanted attention to your struggle.

Your attempt to respond is less than reassuring. "Heat… too, it’s not the... can't—why can’t the air?" you mumble. Your words tangling into an unintelligible mess, a clear indicator that you are far from alright.

The expression behind Ghost's mask tightens, his protective instincts flaring as he assesses your condition with even greater alarm. Your face is flushed from more than just the heat. It's clear you're struggling significantly under the weight of your gear and the relentless sun.

At that moment Captain Price's voice cuts sharply through the air, his tone laced with the urgency of the drill. "Let's move it, Ghost, Y/N!" he commands from a distance, seemingly oblivious to the severity of your distress. His focus is on the continuity and discipline of the training. Unaware that one of his own is teetering on the edge of collapse.

Ghost’s response is swift and decisive. Without drawing attention to the situation, he steadies you with one arm, his other hand signaling subtly to Captain Price that something isn’t right. "Give us a moment, sir," he calls back firmly, his tone respectful yet insistent enough to convey the seriousness of the issue without alarming the entire unit.

He turns back to you, his gaze intense. "We need to get you out of the sun," he states quietly, directing you towards a shaded area nearby. His hand remains supportively on your back, guiding but not pushing. His presence a steady force as you stagger slightly under your own weight.

Once under the shade, Ghost helps you remove your tactical vest, easing the burden of the heat trapped against your body. The cooler air hits your skin, offering a momentary relief that you hadn't realized you needed so desperately. But as your body starts to cool an unexpected shiver runs through you, violent and uncontrollable. It feels as though the temperature has plummeted, though the day remains swelteringly hot.

"Ghost," you stutter out between shivers, "it's so cold." Your teeth chatter, a stark contrast to the sweat that still beads on your forehead. The sudden coldness is disorienting, confusing, and you clutch at your arms in an attempt to warm yourself.

"Simon," you manage to say between shivers. His actual name slipping out amidst the confusion—an unusual slip that does not escape his notice. Ghost, or Simon as you now call him, recognizes the gravity of the situation immediately. The usual protocols and formalities fade into the background as he prioritizes your wellbeing above all else.

You blink rapidly trying to focus as your surroundings become a blur. The ground seems to tilt beneath you for a second time and a wave of darkness edges your vision. Simon watches you closely with an arm around your waist in case. His trained eyes catching every sign of your deteriorating condition.

“Hang on,” he urges. His voice steady but the concern is palpable. Before he can offer more reassurance your knees buckle beneath you. Your body finally giving way to the overwhelming symptoms. And suddenly the world goes dark in your eyes.

Simon catches you before you hit the ground his arms securing you firmly yet gently. “Medic!” he shouts. The urgency in his voice cutting through the morning air without a hint of hesitation. Captain Price who had been overseeing the drills from a short distance, turns sharply at the sound. His quick assessment of the situation bringing him running.

Price approaches just as Simon adjusts his hold on you, bringing your body to the ground so you were laying.  “What happened?” Price asks. His voice a mix of command and concern.

“Heat stroke, I think—she’s out,” Simon responds curtly. His gaze fixed on you as he checks your pulse and looks for any sign of recovery. Your brief moments of unconsciousness are fleeting but each second is critical.

As you flutter your eyes open, confusion mingles with the need to communicate. “Simon... it’s all spinning,” you murmur with your voice overly weak. The use of his first name again in such a vulnerable state only cements his resolve to get you the help you need immediately.

As Simon kneels beside you he carefully supports your head, his eyes searching yours for any sign of recognition. “Can you tell me where you are?” he asks again. His voice a mix of firmness and concern trying to assess the level of your disorientation.

You blink slowly but the effort to focus feeling monumental. Your gaze drifts over the familiar yet strangely distant figures of Soap and Gaz before returning to Simon. “We're... in Bosnia?” you murmur hesitantly, the name of a recent mission location slipping out, completely unrelated to your current setting on the training field.

Simon’s expression tightens, a flicker of worry crossing his features as he realizes the depth of your confusion. He exchanges a quick, grave look with Captain Price who has been monitoring the situation closely. The incorrect answer confirms the seriousness of your condition, prompting Price to look around, expecting the medics to be approaching swiftly.

However, as Simon scans the area his frustration mounts. The medics, possibly delayed or misinformed about the severity of the situation, are nowhere in sight. Realizing that waiting even a moment longer could jeopardize your well-being he makes a decisive call.

"Not fast enough," Simon mutters under his breath. His protective instincts overriding protocol. Without waiting for the medics to arrive he gently but firmly scoops you up in his arms. His movements are swift and determined as he begins to rush you towards the infirmary. His concern for your immediate safety taking precedence over everything else.

Captain Price, upon seeing Simon’s sudden movement, understands the gravity of the decision and immediately acts. "Clear the way!” he shouts, commanding the attention of everyone on the field.

As Simon carries you, the world around you becomes a blur of motion and sound, but his steady grip provides a reassuring constant. "Hang on love, we're almost there. Just stay with me," he urges. His voice a soothing presence amid the confusion.

With each step Simon takes your sense of time and space dims, the urgency of his stride and the rhythm of his heartbeat blending into the background noise of the base. As you approach the infirmary you see figures moving quickly to prepare for your arrival.

Simon’s pace doesn’t falter until he reaches the medical staff waiting at the infirmary doors. As he gently hands you over to their care his gaze lingers on yours filled with concern and an unspoken promise of unwavering support, no matter the circumstances.

In the cool, sterile environment of the infirmary, Ghost stands a vigilant watch beside your bed. His gaze locked onto your face as the medical team works rapidly to stabilize your condition. The typical stoic mask he wears has fallen away, replaced by an expression etched with deep concern. Each furrow of his brow and tight set of his jaw reveals more than usual concern. It speaks of a profound fear that he rarely allows others to see.

As the medical staff step back momentarily to fetch additional supplies, Ghost's role shifts subtly but significantly. He transforms from a mere observer into an active caretaker, a role those in TF 141 rarely witness. He picks up a damp cloth and gently wipes your forehead. His touch delicate and caring, betraying the roughness expected from his formidable field presence.

"Hey, love, can you hear me?" he murmurs. His voice soft and laden with a tenderness that surprises even him. The word 'love' slips out naturally. A term of endearment that he hasn't used lightly before. This slip, this small but significant deviation from his usual manner, is a clear sign of his deepening feelings. Feelings he might not have fully acknowledged until this very moment.

You blink slowly, responding to the sound of his voice. Ghost watches for any sign of recognition, any indication that you understand his presence. As you meet his gaze, there's a moment of relief that passes over his features. But it's quickly replaced by renewed worry as he continues to monitor your responses.

He is utterly overwhelmed. A feeling that's foreign to him. He's faced countless dangers without flinching but the sight of you so vulnerable stirs a fear in him that battlefield threats never have. He realizes perhaps more clearly than ever how deeply his feelings for you run. It's not just friendship or brotherly protection. It's something much deeper, more personal.

He stays close, his hand finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The contact is meant to comfort you but it also grounds him, reminding him that you're still here, still fighting. "Stay with me, okay?" he adds quietly, almost pleadingly. This is not just a command from a superior officer; it's a personal plea from someone who cares deeply.

Ghost's presence in the infirmary becomes a constant, a guardian ensuring that no detail is overlooked, no necessary treatment delayed. His commitment to your recovery is unwavering, his actions driven by a mix of professional duty and personal concern that has become inseparable. The realization that his feelings for you have evolved adds a new weight to every decision, every action he takes on your behalf.

A few hours later, the haze of confusion and illness that enveloped your mind begins to clear slightly. As your eyes flutter open, the stark white lights of the infirmary momentarily blind you, and the unfamiliar sounds of medical equipment beep rhythmically in the background. Disoriented, you try to recall the sequence of events that led to this moment.

Sitting beside your bed, Ghost notices the subtle signs of consciousness returning. He leans forward, his presence reassuring amidst the clinical surroundings. "Hey, you're awake," he says gently. His voice a soothing contrast to the beeping machines. "Take it easy. You gave us quite a scare out there."

As fragments of memory return—the unbearable heat of the training field, your faltering steps, the feeling of collapse—your face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. The realization that you succumbed in front of your team, particularly because of a flu exacerbating the situation, is hard to accept.

Ghost reads the embarrassment in your expression and quickly addresses it. "Listen, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. You’re dealing with the flu on top of everything else. Heat stroke is serious and it’s a lot for anyone to handle. Especially when you’re already under the weather," he reassures you earnestly.

He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. His touch grounding. "Even the toughest soldiers need to take a step back sometimes. It’s okay to acknowledge that you’re human, that you have limits. It doesn't diminish your strength," he continues in your silence. His voice imbued with empathy and understanding.

Feeling the sincerity in his words helps ease some of your discomfort. "Thanks, Simon," you manage to whisper, your voice still weak but filled with gratitude. The informal use of his first name in such a vulnerable moment speaks volumes about the trust and comfort you’ve grown to have in him.

Simon offers a gentle smile. His eyes softening. "You’re always pushing yourself to be the best and that’s certainly admirable. But sometimes, taking care of yourself is part of being the best. Don’t blame yourself for this. I certainly don’t blame you for trying," he adds, affirming his support in you.

"Sleep now. Don’t worry about the rest for now. We’re all here for you," he suggests while still holding your hand, his steady presence a comforting constant as you drift back towards unconsciousness. His commitment to your well-being is clear not just as a teammate but as someone who cares deeply on a personal level.

As you close your eyes, comforted by his words and presence, you feel a profound sense of relief. Simon's quiet vigil lets you know that no matter what, you’re not alone. Periodically, he checks the IV line and adjusts the cold packs making sure to monitor your recovery closely.. Each time you stir or grimace in discomfort, he’s there, adjusting your position or simply offering a reassuring touch.

As the hours pass Ghost remains by your side, a silent sentinel. Even as you're asleep he doesn’t leave, instead pulling up a chair to sit beside your bed. Occasionally, other members of the team peek in offering quiet words of support. But it's clear Ghost has appointed himself your primary guardian during this vulnerable time.

This unexpected role of caretaker reveals a depth to Ghost that goes beyond his tactical prowess and battlefield grit. In the infirmary, with the soft hum of medical equipment in the background, his softer, caring nature comes to the forefront, showcasing a profound sense of loyalty and protectiveness towards his team. Especially towards you.

As the day's tension slowly ebbs away in the quiet of the infirmary, you sleep deeply, recovering from the ordeal. Ghost sits steadfast by your side. His focus is solely on you. His usually impassive gaze softened by concern. The door creaks open softly as Soap and Gaz walk in. Both their faces splitting into mischievous grins when they see Ghost in his uncharacteristic role as your caretaker.

“Never thought I’d see Ghost play the doting nurse,” Soap chuckles quietly. Trying to keep his voice low to avoid disturbing you. “What’s next? Will you be knitting her a sweater?”

Gaz joins in leaning against the door frame with a smirk playing on his lips, “Maybe a nice scarf to go with it, mate. Make sure it matches her eyes, yeah?” His comment draws a soft laugh from Soap. Their teasing lightening the atmosphere of the infirmary.

Their laughter, though subdued, is a needed release after the day’s stress. It’s filled with genuine affection and respect for both you and Ghost. They understand the stakes of such moments and the bonds they forge.

Ghost, not missing a beat, shoots them a pointed look. His response is tinged with his characteristic dry humor. "Keep it up, and you'll be on the next solo recon mission in the coldest part of Siberia," he replies. His tone firm but with a faint smirk betraying his amusement.

In the background Captain Price stands silently in the doorway. His observant eyes taking in the scene. He watches Ghost’s interactions with a discerning eye, noting the subtle softness in his usually stoic demeanor. Price is no stranger to the complexities of personal dynamics within his team. And he senses the potential implications of Ghost’s deepening concern for you. There’s a hint of understanding in his gaze, mixed with caution, as he ponders the path this could lead down.

As the laughter begins to die down Price steps forward, his presence commanding a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. He gives Soap and Gaz a brief nod, a clear signal that it’s time for them to leave. The moment for jokes has passed and it's time to restore some decorum. As they exit Soap can’t resist throwing one final teasing comment over his shoulder. “Take good care of her, Ghost!” he calls out as his tone is playful yet sincere.

Price remains a moment longer his gaze lingering on Ghost and then shifting to you, asleep and unaware of the exchange. There’s a quiet gravity to his demeanor, an unspoken reminder of his leadership role and his understanding of the deeper currents flowing beneath the surface of his team’s interactions.

Captain Price approaches Ghost, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. He pauses beside him, his voice low and measured to ensure privacy. "Simon," he begins. His tone serious but not without warmth, "you're handling this well and it's clear you care deeply. Just remember, maintaining balance is crucial." His eyes, steady and understanding, meet Ghost's, acknowledging the depth of his concern while gently reminding him of his broader responsibilities.

"Don't lose focus. We rely on you—not just for her, but for the whole team," Price continues, his voice softening slightly to underscore his supportive intent.

Ghost nods, the gravity of Price's words resonating with him. "Understood, sir," he responds, his tone reflecting both respect for Price's leadership and an acute awareness of the weight on his shoulders.

Price places a hand on Ghost's shoulder, a gesture that speaks of his care and mutual respect. "Keep me posted. If there's anything you need don't hesitate to ask," he adds. Emphasizing his role not just as a commander but as a supporter willing to provide resources rather than merely oversee.

"Will do, sir," Ghost says, his voice steady as he watches Price prepare to leave the infirmary. Price gives him one last affirming nod—an acknowledgment of Ghost's commitment and his understanding of the emotional complexities involved. As Price walks away his demeanor reflects as a leader who trusts his team to handle personal challenges with professionalism yet remains ready to step in if the balance shifts too far.

Once alone again Ghost turns back to you, his expression softening as he adjusts the blanket around you and checks the monitors to ensure everything is as it should be. In these quiet moments his demeanor reveals the profound loyalty and protectiveness he feels. Traits that define him just as much as his combat skills.

The room is quiet, the only sounds are the gentle beeping of the medical equipment and your steady breathing. In this sanctuary away from the battlefield's chaos, Ghost’s vigilance continues, a promise of unwavering support.

In the dimly lit infirmary, the soft beeps of the monitor blend with the quiet sounds of the night. Ghost sits closely by your side, his eyes tracing over your peaceful face, contrasting sharply with the day’s earlier tension. The room is calm now, the urgency has passed, but the weight of the day lingers in the air heavy with unspoken words.

Leaning closer Ghost watches you for a long moment. His expression a mix of concern and something softer, more vulnerable. He knows you can’t hear him, but the words slip out quietly anyway. A whisper meant only for you. "You’re killing me here, love," he murmurs. The hint of a smile touching his lips despite the worry in his eyes. It’s a rare admission. One that reveals just how deeply he’s been affected by your condition.

He sighs lightly, the sound almost lost in the quiet of the room. Adjusting the blanket around you one last time to ensure you’re as comfortable as possible, he finally leans back in his chair. His gaze remains fixed on you a moment longer as a guardian watching over you.

Realizing the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion settling into his bones Ghost decides he wasn’t willing to leave you yet. Not when you’d hardly regained consciousness and certainly not when you might need him upon waking. He shifts to make himself as comfortable as possible in the chair beside your bed, his body angled to keep you in sight.

As he settles in, his eyes slowly close but it’s clear he’s not completely given over to sleep. Even in rest, he’s alert, ready to wake at the slightest change in your condition. In this quiet vigil, his presence is both a promise and a protection. A steadfast commitment to be there for you when you finally do wake.

The night deepens around the two of you. The soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant in the otherwise still room. Ghost, in his chair, remains by your side. A figure in the dim light embodying both the warrior and the caretaker in this rare moment of peace.

As the first light of dawn begins to filter through the blinds of the infirmary your eyes flutter open greeting the new day with a mix of confusion and sluggish awareness. Initially, your vision is blurry, the shapes and colors of the room melding into indistinct forms. Gradually though your eyes adjust, and the figure slumped in the chair beside your bed comes into sharper focus. Ghost, asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the wall.

The sight of him so uncharacteristically vulnerable in sleep immediately warms your heart. Despite the residual fog clouding your mind a soft smile plays on your lips. "Ghost," you call out, your voice hoarse but audible enough to stir him from his light slumber.

At the sound of your voice Ghost snaps awake, instantly alert. He straightens up before rubbing the stiffness from his neck as he turns to face you. His eyes that displayed a flicker of reprieve meet yours. "Hey, you're awake," he says. His voice rough with sleep but tinged with unmistakable relief. "How are you feeling?"

"A lot better, thanks to you," you reply. Your voice was still weak but filled with gratitude. "You stayed all night?"

Ghost nods, a soft expression crossing his face as he hears your voice. This subtle return to normalcy reassures him. Warming his heart and letting him know you must be feeling a bit better to revert to familiar terms. "Yes, I stayed. Didn’t want you to wake up alone here," he replies. His tone gentle. Ghost’s eyes scan your face for signs of pain or lingering confusion, ever the vigilant guardian.

"Thanks, Ghost. Really," you manage to say feeling comforted not only by his presence but also by the return to a semblance of normalcy. His constant vigilance, even as you slept, speaks volumes of his dedication not just to his duty but to you personally.

Ghost offers a slight smile, one that reaches his eyes this time. "No need to thank me. Just glad to see you're doing better," he says. He pulls a chair closer to your bed, settling in. "Need anything? Water? More pain meds?" he asks. Ready to assist with whatever you might need.

The simple exchange is light yet filled with unspoken care helps to ease the remaining tension from the ordeal. As Ghost continues to make sure you’re comfortable, you feel a profound sense of safety and appreciation for the bond that has only deepened through this experience. The conversation drifts into a comfortable silence filled with unspoken understanding and mutual respect. In this quiet early morning hour, a new layer of your relationship has been gently unfolded. Revealing the depth of connection that hardship and vulnerability can foster.

As the morning sun continues to pour a warm glow into the infirmary the doctor finishes his examination and nods with satisfaction. "You’ve made a remarkable recovery. I think you're ready to be discharged today. Just remember to take it easy for the next few days," he advises as he begins to pack away his equipment.

Ghost's reaction is almost immediate, his brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure she’s ready?" he questions the doctor. His voice carrying a protective edge that makes you smile inwardly. His overt protectiveness is both touching and reassuring. A stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor.

The doctor, accustomed to dealing with the cautious nature of soldiers about their comrades, reassures him with a confident nod. "Yes, she's stable. Just ensure she rests and avoids any strenuous activity. She should be fine," he explains patiently.

Despite the reassurance Ghost still looks unconvinced. His gaze flicking back to you, searching for any sign of discomfort or lingering weakness. "Maybe another day for observation?" he suggests. His tone half-questioning, half-requesting. It's evident he'd prefer you stay under medical supervision a bit longer.

Your heart warms at his concern and though you find his overprotectiveness endearing, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Instead, offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand instead. "Ghost, I think I’ll be okay," you assure him gently trying to alleviate his worries.

Ghost manages a small smile. His usual impassive facade softening. "Just making sure," he mutters. Though his eyes remain tender with concern. He finally nods accepting the doctor's verdict, but his posture stays alert, protective.

"Alright, I’ll hold you to that. But we’re taking it slow for the next few days. I’ll let Price know." he declares. His tone firm, directed more at himself than anyone else.

As the doctor leaves Ghost assists you in gathering your belongings. His movements careful and considerate. He checks in frequently asking if you're feeling alright to continue, his cautiousness evident but heartening. It’s clear that although you’ve been given the all-clear Ghost will be keeping a close eye on you, ensuring your recovery proceeds without issue.

His unwavering attention not only makes you feel deeply cared for but also subtly deepens the bond between you, underscoring a shift in your relationship where his role as protector has become as instinctive as it is essential.

As you swing your legs off the bed and attempt to stand a momentary wave of dizziness makes your legs waver slightly. Instantly, Ghost is there, his hand firm on your waist, steadying you. His touch is gentle yet secure, grounding you in the moment.

You laugh it off with a light flush coloring your cheeks. "Just wobbly legs," you joke trying to ease the tension you feel from his close presence. Despite your attempt to downplay the situation your movements are still a bit too brisk. A clear sign you might be overestimating your current strength.

Ghost doesn't smile but there's a tenderness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. "Take it slow, love," he advises, his tone almost demanding. His hand remains on your back as a discreet but constant presence. He guides you slowly out of the infirmary. You feel the steadiness of his support with each step you take. His careful pace ensures you don't overexert yourself, allowing you time to adjust as you walk. The corridor seems longer than you remember but Ghost’s reassuring presence makes the journey feel safer, more manageable.

"You don’t have to rush this," he continues. Sensing your eagerness to prove your recovery. "We’ll get there when we get there." His words are simple but effective reminding you that your health is the priority not the speed of your recovery.

As you proceed you lean slightly into his support realizing how crucial his support has been, not just physically but also emotionally. Ghost’s unwavering steadiness helps bolster your confidence, making you feel that no matter how shaky your steps might be you won't fall as long as he’s by your side.

The walk back to your room is quiet but comfortable. It’s filled with an unspoken understanding that something significant has shifted between you. When you reach your door, Ghost finally pulls his hand away, but the warmth of his touch lingers.

"Thanks again, Ghost. For everything," you say while meeting his gaze. It's an open acknowledgment of all he's done and all he might continue to do.

"Anytime, love. Just... please take care of yourself," he responds. There’s a promise in his words, an implication that he'll always be nearby, watching over you.

As you reach the door to your quarters, Simon pauses, his hand resting lightly against the frame. "Can I help you get settled back in?" he asks. His tone as soft as it has been before, something new that has overcome him in your incident. His concern clearly evident.

You nod, touched by his attentiveness and as you enter your room he follows close behind. Simon watches carefully as you slowly make your way to your bed and sit down, still feeling a bit shaky. The room is familiar and comforting but his presence makes it feel even safer, more serene.

Once you're seated on the bed, he scans the room quickly, always alert for what you might need. "You sure you don't need anything else? Some more water? A snack?” Ghost asks, already moving towards your small kitchenette. He assumed a role that went beyond duty into something more personal.

You smile at his back, warmed by his concern. "I’m fine, Ghost. Really," you reassure him. But he shakes his head, not entirely convinced.

"It's no trouble at all. You should eat something," he insists gently while fetching a glass of water and a small snack from your stash. Simple things that you hadn't thought you’d needed until he presented them. As he hands you the glass his fingers brush yours lightly, sending a small, unexpected shiver up your arm. You thank him with a soft smile, touched by his thoughtfulness.

Noticing a few strands of hair falling over your face, Simon reaches out and gently brushes them back, his touch delicate and caring. His hand lingers for a moment, a silent expression of his deeper feelings.

You’re momentarily stunned but thrilled, nonetheless. You find it hard to find words as his hand lingers on your face. "I know I keep thanking you but thanks again Simon. For... well, for everything," you say after a moment. Your voice low and sincere. Using his first name feels natural, reflecting the shift in your relationship.

He pauses, looking into your eyes with an intensity that makes your heart flutter. "I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to be," he replies. His voice so soft it’s nearly a whisper, revealing the depth of his feelings.

"If you need anything else, just let me know. I'll be just a call away, love," He adds imbued with a warmth that reassures and comforts. His use of ‘love’ is tender, an endearment that resonates deeply, marking a significant moment in your ever evolving relationship.

He gives you a lingering look that was filled with care and a promise of protection before he reluctantly steps towards the door. There's a hint of hesitation in his movement, a subtle pause that conveys his desire to stay longer.

As he exits, gently closing the door behind him, you lie back against your pillows, the glass of water in your hand. His presence has left a comforting warmth in the room. A sense of safety that lulls you towards rest. The thought of Simon being just a call away brings a smile to your face. And as you close your eyes it’s not just the fatigue that makes you feel at ease. It’s knowing Simon is there, caring for you with a tenderness that goes beyond the call of duty.

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[simply-ivanka]

Who’s Afraid of Project 2025?

Democrats run against a think-tank paper that Trump disavows. Why?

Wall Street Journal

July 29, 2024

By The Editorial Board

Americans are learning more about Kamala Harris, as Democrats rush to anoint the Vice President’s candidacy after throwing President Biden overboard. Ms. Harris wasted no time saying she’s going to run hard against a policy paper that Donald Trump has disavowed—the supposedly nefarious agenda known as Project 2025. But who’s afraid of a think-tank white paper?

“I will do everything in my power to unite the Democratic Party—and unite our nation—to defeat Donald Trump and his extreme Project 2025 agenda,” Ms. Harris tweeted shortly after President Biden dropped out. She’s picking up this ball from Mr. Biden, and her campaign website claims that Project 2025 would “strip away our freedoms” and “abolish checks and balances.”

***

Sounds terrible, but is it? The 922-page document doesn’t lack for modesty, as a wish list of policy reforms that would touch every part of government from the Justice Department to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. The project is led by the Heritage Foundation and melds the work of some 400 scholars and analysts from an eclectic mix of center-right groups. The project is also assembling a Rolodex of those who might work in a Trump Administration.

Most of the Democratic panic-mongering has focused on the project’s aim to rein in the administrative state. That includes civil service reform that would make it easier to remove some government workers, and potentially revisiting the independent status of agencies like the Federal Trade Commission.

The latter isn’t going to happen, but getting firmer presidential control over the bureaucracy would improve accountability. The federal government has become so vast that Presidents have difficulty even knowing what is going on in the executive branch. Americans don’t want to be ruled by a permanent governing class that doesn’t answer to voters.

Some items on this menu are also standard conservative fare. The document calls for an 18% corporate tax rate (now 21%), describing that levy as “the most damaging tax” in the U.S. system that falls heavily on workers. A mountain of economic literature backs that up. The blueprint suggests tying more welfare programs with work; de-regulating health insurance markets; expanding Medicare Advantage plans that seniors like; ending sugar subsidies; revving up U.S. energy production. That all sounds good to us.

Democrats are suggesting the project would gut Social Security, though in fact it bows to Mr. Trump’s preference not to touch the retirement program, which is headed for bankruptcy without reform. No project can profess to care about the rising national debt, as Heritage does, without fixing a program that was 22% of the federal budget in 2023.

At times the paper takes no position. For example: The blueprint features competing essays on trade policy. This is a tacit admission that for all the GOP’s ideological confusion on economics, many conservatives still understand that Mr. Trump’s 10% tariff is a terrible idea.

As for the politics, Mr. Trump recently said online that he knew “nothing about Project 2025. I have no idea who is behind it.” That may be true. The chance that Mr. Trump has read any of it is remote to nil, and he doesn’t want to be tied to anyone’s ideas since he prizes maximum ideological flexibility.

The document mentions abortion nearly 200 times, but Mr. Trump wants to neutralize that issue. The project’s chief sponsor, Heritage president Kevin Roberts, also gave opponents a sword when he boasted of “a second American revolution” that would be peaceful “if the left allows it to be.” This won’t help Mr. Trump with the swing voters he needs to win re-election.

By our lights the project’s cultural overtones are also too dark and the agenda gives too little spotlight to the economic freedom and strong national defense that defined the think tank’s influence on Ronald Reagan in 1980.

***

But the left’s campaign against Project 2025 is reaching absurd decibels. You’d think Mr. Trump is a political mastermind hiding the secret plans he’ll implement with an army of shock troops marching in lockstep. If his first term is any guide, and it is the best we have, Mr. Trump will govern as a make-it-up-as-he-goes tactician rather than a strategist with a coherent policy guide. He’ll dodge and weave based on the news cycle and often based on whoever talks to him last.

Not much of the Project 2025 agenda is likely to happen, even if Republicans take the House and Senate. Democrats will block legislation with a filibuster. The bureaucracy will leak with abandon and oppose even the most minor reforms to the civil service. The press will revert to full resistance mode, and Mr. Trump’s staff will trip over their own ambitions.

Democrats know this, which is why they fear Trump II less than they claim. They’re targeting Project 2025 to distract from their own failed and unpopular policies.

[david-talks-sw]

"The idea of it..."

This is obviously a reference to the ol' argument:

"The Jedi weren't bad but the Jedi Order as an institution needed to go."

So as a quick reminder I thought I'd point out:

1) George Lucas describes the Jedi's eradication as a sad thing, not something sad-but-necessary:

"[The] Jedi getting killed through the Order 66 of the clones is just done as one of those kind of inevitable pay offs in terms of getting rid of everybody, the Emperor is getting rid of all his enemies, but there’s a certain inevitability of it all and a sadness to it.  - Revenge of the Sith, Director’s Commentary, 2005

2) Out of 770 George Lucas quotes, I've never seen him refer to the Jedi Order as "an institution" once.

He does refer to the Republic itself as an institution.

"[In The Phantom Menace one of the many storylines is] the story of a young queen who's faced with the total annihilation of a people, and how she can get a sluggish political institution to pay attention to what's going on." - Premiere, 1999

He might be referring to the Senate instead of the Republic as a whole, but the point stands: he's not talking about the Jedi.

Which tracks with what Lucas defined as Dooku's reason for leaving the Order: his disenchantment with the Republic/Senate, not the Jedi themselves.

But let's go slightly further:

The Jedi Temple was designed as a place of worship that would contrast with the corporate coldness of the Senate.

Also, the Jedi were originally designed as a more organized police force. As the script evolved, they were turned into peacekeepers, diplomats.

Mace's room was redesigned so as to not convey that the Jedi were mired in bureaucracy and protocol.

And when describing the political situation of the Prequels, Lucas doesn't blame the Jedi, but rather the corporations and Senate:

"But as often happens when wealth and power grow beyond all reasonable proportion, an evil fueled by greed arose. The massive organs of commerce mushroomed in power, the Senate became corrupt, and an ambitious named Palpatine was voted Supreme Chancellor." - Shatterpoint, Prologue, 2004

Wow, it's looking like not only is the "Jedi Order as an institution needed to go" narrative not a thing per Lucas, but

3) Lucas went out of his way to make it clear that the Jedi aren't the issue, here, the Republic/Senate is.

So how did we get this narrative?

Well, it comes from a generation of fans and Star Wars creators who were not the target audience.

You know the type. It's the kind who, when asked if they like the Prequel Trilogy, will respond that they liked...

... but not the execution.

AKA they disliked the Prequels, but then EU books and The Clone Wars came out and provided them with enough material to form a headcanon justifying why they didn't like the Jedi, despite wanting to: it's because the Jedi are meant to be disliked! Totally!

The Jedi failed as an institution is an idea that comes from authors who wanted to engage with the material (it IS Star Wars, after all) but not the narrative that George Lucas had crafted, whose work then influenced older fans who preferred the author's retconned version of the story to the original one.

The rest is history.

As Prequels producer Rick McCallum put it:

"The myth begins on paper. During preproduction, filming, and postproduction, the myth becomes visible through the work of hundreds of dedicated people. Following the film's release, the myth becomes public and the public makes it its own." - Rick McCallum, Mythmaking: Behind the Scenes of Attack of the Clones, 2002

[ms-snape]

hey I noticed you haven’t done any Lucius Malfoy fics yet, and I’d like to request one if you’re open to it, the reader is a strong-willed witch who doesn’t fall for his usual charm? Lucius is used to getting whatever he wants, but the reader constantly challenges him, and it intrigues him in a way no one else has. Over time, Lucius starts to realize that he’s genuinely falling for her, and there’s a slow-burn romance as they go from tension-filled encounters to mutual respect, then love. Lots of witty banter, hidden vulnerability from Lucius, and a surprisingly soft, romantic confession at the end.

Title: Charm

Warning: None, lucius being lucius

Words Count: 2000+

Masterlist

---

The Ministry of Magic was a labyrinth of enchantment and bureaucracy, a place where power dynamics shifted like the tides. Y/n Y/l/n, a strong-willed witch and a respected potion master in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had learned to navigate its complexities with grace and determination. Her talent and hard work had earned her respect, but it was her unwavering spirit that truly set her apart.

As she walked through the bustling atrium, she could feel the gazes of her colleagues—some filled with admiration, others tinged with envy. Y/n had always found herself on the fringes, content to focus on her work rather than engage in the political machinations that often defined life at the Ministry. Yet, it was the whispers of a certain silver-blonde wizard that broke through her concentrated bubble.

“Good morning, Y/n,” Lucius Malfoy greeted her, his voice smooth and dripping with charm. He leaned casually against a pillar, the epitome of aristocratic elegance. “I must say, your dedication to your work is admirable. Most would have crumbled under the pressures of this place by now.”

Y/n glanced up, her brow slightly raised. “And yet here I am, standing tall,” she replied coolly, matching his tone. “Flattery won’t earn you any favors with me, Malfoy.”

“Flattery?” He chuckled softly, his icy blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “I merely speak the truth. Your determination is commendable.”

Her heart raced as she held his gaze, the playful banter igniting something within her that she hadn’t expected. She had long since learned to see through his polished facade, understanding that behind the charm lay a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. But Y/n had never been one to succumb easily.

“Save your compliments for someone who might appreciate them,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m not interested in becoming another feather in your cap, Lucius.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly masked by his usual composure. “Is that so? I find it refreshing, really. Most women seem eager to bask in my attention.”

“That says more about them than it does about you,” she shot back, walking past him with purpose. She felt the heat of his gaze on her back, and she couldn’t help but smile to herself.

Days turned into weeks, and their encounters became a familiar rhythm, a dance of words and glances laced with underlying tension. Y/n would catch herself thinking of Lucius more often than she cared to admit. He intrigued her with his intellect, challenged her with his wit, and made her question her own perceptions of power and vulnerability.

Lucius, on the other hand, found himself drawn to her in ways he had never anticipated. The thrill of their verbal sparring ignited a fire within him, and he began to look forward to their encounters. No one else had dared to challenge him so boldly, and he found her spirit intoxicating. It was a contrast to the women he had known, who had often been content to admire him from afar.

One particularly dreary afternoon, Y/n found herself in the Ministry’s expansive library, surrounded by stacks of books as she searched for an elusive potion recipe. The dim light cast a warm glow over the dusty volumes, creating an atmosphere of quiet reflection. She was so engrossed in her task that she barely noticed Lucius approaching until she felt his presence beside her.

“Lost in thought again?” he asked, his voice smooth and teasing.

Y/n glanced up, suppressing a smile. “Just doing some research. What brings you here, Malfoy? Surely you have more important matters to attend to.”

He leaned against the table, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on her. “I could say the same for you. Researching potions when you could be enjoying the finer things in life?” His smirk was infuriatingly charming.

“I enjoy what I do,” she replied defensively, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “Not everyone needs the thrill of high society to find fulfillment.”

“Touché,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But wouldn’t it be better to have a little fun? Life is far too short to be buried in books, even if they are as fascinating as you make them seem.”

Y/n straightened, her eyes narrowing. “You mean the kind of fun that leads to empty flirtations and false promises? No, thank you. I prefer to keep my life meaningful.”

Lucius’s expression softened slightly, his facade slipping ever so slightly. “I admire your conviction, Y/n. It’s refreshing to see someone who knows what they want.”

Their eyes locked, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Y/n felt a flutter in her chest, a spark of something deeper than mere attraction. But she quickly quelled it, reminding herself of the walls she had built around her heart.

As weeks turned into months, their encounters grew more charged. Lucius began to seek her out more frequently, often finding reasons to linger near her office or cross paths in the halls. Each meeting was a mixture of tension and exhilaration, a game of verbal chess where neither was willing to yield.

One day, as they walked through the Ministry gardens during a rare moment of respite, the sun filtering through the leaves, Lucius turned to Y/n with a seriousness that caught her off guard. “You know, there’s more to me than what you see on the surface.”

She raised an eyebrow, curiosity piquing her interest. “Is that so?”

“Many view me as simply a wealthy, influential pureblood wizard,” he continued, his voice low. “But I’ve faced my share of struggles, Y/n. I’ve fought against expectations and the shadows of my past. It’s exhausting, and I wonder sometimes if anyone sees beyond the facade.”

Y/n felt a pang of empathy for him, understanding that beneath his charming exterior lay a man grappling with his identity. “I can relate to that,” she admitted softly. “I’ve often felt the weight of expectations myself. People assume they know me, but they rarely take the time to understand who I am.”

He paused, their eyes locking as a shared vulnerability lingered between them. “Perhaps that’s why I find you so compelling. You challenge me, push me to question who I am and what I truly want.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “A challenge?”

“Perhaps,” Lucius replied, a smile tugging at his lips. “But it’s more than that. I’m beginning to realize that I want to know you—really know you.”

Y/n’s heart raced, and she felt the heat of his gaze. “Lucius, this isn’t—”

“It’s not just a game,” he interjected, stepping closer. “I’m not asking for a fling; I’m asking for something real. I want to explore this connection we have, to see where it leads.”

His sincerity struck a chord deep within her, and for the first time, she felt the walls she had built begin to crumble. But fear still lingered, casting a shadow over her heart. “What if we ruin what we have?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Then we will face the consequences together,” he assured her, a determined gleam in his eyes. “But I’d rather take that risk than live a life filled with regrets.”

Their eyes held for a moment longer, the world around them fading away. Lucius’s heart raced, anticipation mingling with hope. He had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, but he knew he couldn’t walk away. Not now.

“Okay,” she said finally, her resolve wavering. “Let’s see where this takes us.”

With that, their relationship began a delicate transformation. They spent more time together, sharing moments both grand and intimate, navigating the complexities of their lives with newfound honesty. Y/n discovered layers to Lucius that no one else had seen—the thoughtful, introspective man hidden behind the mask of privilege and power.

In quiet moments, they would share laughter and stories, and Y/n found herself enjoying Lucius’s company more than she had ever imagined. He would often watch her with an intensity that made her heart race, as if he were trying to memorize every detail. In turn, Y/n began to see glimpses of vulnerability in Lucius, moments where he let his guard down and revealed the man he truly was beneath the polished surface.

But despite the growing bond between them, doubt occasionally crept in. Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that Lucius was still bound by the expectations of his past, the weight of his family legacy hovering over them. It was a nagging thought that made her question the foundation of their connection.

One evening, while attending a Ministry gala, Y/n stood by the window, gazing out at the stars. The ballroom buzzed with laughter and conversation, but she felt out of place amidst the opulence. Lucius approached her, his presence grounding her in a way that soothed her insecurities.

“Why so pensive?” he asked, his voice a low murmur as he joined her at the window.

“I don’t belong here,” she admitted, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. “These people… they don’t see me. They only see my title, my work.”

Lucius turned to face her, a seriousness etched on his features. “You belong here just as much as anyone else, Y/n. You’ve earned your place through hard work and talent.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked, turning to meet his gaze.

“Absolutely,” he replied, sincerity resonating in his voice. “You have a strength that commands respect. I admire that.”

She felt warmth bloom in her chest, a flutter of hope igniting. “Thank you, Lucius. That means more than you know.”

He studied her for a moment, the weight of his thoughts hanging in the air. “There’s something I need to confess.”

Y/n’s heart raced as she sensed the gravity of his words. “What is it?”

“I’m falling for you, Y/n,” he admitted, his voice steady yet vulnerable. “In a way that I never thought I could again. It terrifies me because I know my past is complicated, but you make me want to be better.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt her heart swell at his honesty. “Lucius…”

He took a step closer, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone—not even Narcissa. You challenge me in a way that makes me want to shed my past and become someone worthy of you.”

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes as she fought against the emotions flooding her heart. “I didn’t expect to feel this way either. You’ve surprised me.”

“Then let’s surprise each other,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “Let’s build something real together.”

In that moment, the world around them faded into oblivion, leaving only the two of them and the connection that had blossomed between them. Y/n felt a surge of warmth as Lucius intertwined their fingers, a gentle yet firm grip that spoke volumes of his intentions.

“Okay,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Let’s take this journey together.”

With their hearts laid bare, Y/n and Lucius stepped into a new chapter of their lives, one filled with uncertainty but also hope. They faced challenges head-on, navigating the complexities of their emotions and the scrutiny of those around them. Together, they forged a bond that transcended the expectations of their pasts, proving that love could flourish even in the most unexpected places.

As the seasons changed, so did their relationship. They shared stolen moments in quiet corners of the Ministry, laughter echoing in the hallways as they exchanged witty banter. Lucius began to show her the parts of himself he had long hidden, revealing his vulnerabilities and fears. Y/n, in turn, opened up about her aspirations and dreams, her passion for potions igniting new conversations between them.

One crisp autumn evening, as they walked through the vibrant foliage of the Ministry gardens, Lucius paused, his expression serious yet tender. “Y/n, I want to take this to the next level. You’re not just a challenge anymore; you’re the woman I want by my side.”

She stopped, her heart racing as she searched his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I want to be with you, truly,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m ready to leave the past behind and build a future together.”

Tears welled in Y/n’s eyes as his words washed over her, a wave of relief and joy flooding her heart. “Lucius, I… I want that too.”

In that moment, surrounded by the golden hues of autumn, they embraced their love fully, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them. Lucius brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his gaze softening as he leaned closer. “Then let’s make it official.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, confusion mingling with excitement.

Lucius smiled, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “I mean, I want you to be my partner in every sense. I want to show you off, to declare to the world that you’re mine.”

Her heart swelled with warmth, and she couldn’t help but laugh, a joyful sound that echoed through the garden. “I would like that very much.”

“Then it’s settled,” he declared, a triumphant smile gracing his lips. “Prepare yourself, Y/n Y/l/n, for a life filled with love, laughter, and perhaps a little mischief.”

And as they walked hand in hand, Lucius realized that he had finally found what he had been searching for—a love that was genuine, transformative, and utterly real. In Y/n, he saw the reflection of a future he had never dared to dream of, one where they could conquer the world together.

[ckret2]

So is does the candidacy decide like the mayor for the multiverse?? Do the gods have a voting system??? Like do they start a supernova to vote? It just sounds like an interesting and also boring bureaucracy?? Also what are the departments.

also do the time engineers(giants??) just maintain timelines and ALSO ALSO is time baby related to them and if he is does that mean giant time babies in general maintain one planets timeline?? Just kinda curious:p

I picture whatever the gods have going on as like, petty small town council politics. But I'm not interested in worldbuilding the full politics of a vast multiversal pantheon—because this isn't a sweeping sci-fi epic about a space empire, it's a fanfic about a silly cartoon—and I don't want to lock them into a rigid defined government in case I think of something else more interesting to do later. So we're not getting more specific than "petty local politics" and "voting's involved."

There's an urban planning committee, and VENDOR's on it. THEY handle budgeting. I haven't had a need to think up any other departments.

Some Time Giants become cosmic engineers. Having telepathic control over time offers a bit of an advantage on the job. Not all Time Giants are cosmic engineers and not all cosmic engineers are Time Giants. They're not like born specifically to be engineers, they're just people. Big people who can control time. They can choose what they wanna do when they grow up just like humans do.

Canonically, Time Baby is the last surviving Time Giant. Generally Time Giant babies don't have jobs just like human babies don't have jobs. Time Baby's just conquered Earth because he felt like it and no one could stop him.

[stirringwinds]

highkey fascinated thinking about how we can insert nations into world history and imagine their interactions with those humans who profoundly changed history. like, yao's relationship with the first emperor 🤔 in the past, i used to conceptualise it as a dynamic defined by jealousy; because of the well-known story of how qin shi huang di desired immortality and searched for the elixir of eternal life. yao therefore would be the literal inspiration and instigation for that desire; an emperor desiring to preside over the glory of his empire without end. about which yao would be scornful, seeing it as foolish and hubristic from the eons-old immortal nation vs. human divide, especially from the pov of how we're raised with stories of qin shi huang being a tyrant figure.

but now...i think maybe they're distinctly more of kindred spirits. i think yao back then especially understood that hunger for immortality well: the all-consuming obsession of an emperor—and so, an empire—with how not to end, how not to die, how to prolong his era. because nation immortality isn't exactly a given, especially not two thousand years ago. yes, humans are mayflies next to nations—but wars of annihilation and the likes of carthago delenda est were commonplace. carthage, rome, babylon, akkad all fell didn't they? so, not so much petty jealousy between him and the first emperor but more i understand you the most don't i? i will make you great and without end, through the sword but also bureaucracy and standardisation, and your enemies' children's children will know your name long after their forefathers are dust. yao is somebody whom i think is a chameleon figure with many layers; before security in his power allowed him to cultivate this image as this scholarly, refined wellspring of civilisation to korea, japan and many others, who is as eternal as the sun rising in the east—i think he was very much the opportunistic, ambitious and paranoid warlord the first emperor was: scrambling, fighting and nakedly scheming his way to power, with no promise or confidence in his immortality.

[mrscakeishere]

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Beta Reviews!

“I just passed the sausages!”

“Omg it really was chipboard!”

“I can't believe you. I just can't.”

Polycakes (me and Polychrome, aka @polychromicron-persei-8) here, proudly hurling the first fanfic grenade in the @goodomensafterdark Smut War with The Long Road To Meatballs (rated Explicit, 4786 words).

Summary and excerpt below!

NSFW CW: light BDSM, butt plugs, oral sex, penis inflation (not in excerpt but on AO3)

The Long Road to Meatballs

After an unfortunate miscommunication regarding the lack of spice in their lives, Aziraphale and Crowley seek out IKEA’s new intimate playroom products for the South Downs cottage. When their purchase—and all 279+ parts—proves too difficult to assemble, Aziraphale and Crowley take matters into their own hands (literally). It's the IKEA comedy smut you never knew you wanted but can't live without.

IKEA had evolved a great deal over the decades, as had Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. The Swedish furniture and furnishings company—in a debatably misguided and belated attempt to be a part of the sex-positivity movement—had developed designs for one’s personal intimate playroom, including the TRÄLDOM, BOTÖVNING, and FLATHET series. In addition, the Swedish designers had managed to produce products for each line that incorporated a not insignificant amount of chipboard.[1] This was quite a feat considering that most of the products listed should have been predominantly made of metal, leather, silicone, latex, or fur.[2]

As for Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship, it had evolved out of a 6000-year drama defined by mutual pining and pegged in by supernatural bureaucracy, into a satisfying pairing filled with safety, stability, and sex. Lovemaking had been glorious and intoxicating, and while it rarely verged into territory that could be considered truly “hedonistic,” both parties were quietly content in their newfound domesticity. But as we both know, dear reader, few things last forever.

And so it was on a mild Tuesday afternoon in the South Downs when an unfortunate exchange concerning Crowley’s cooking planted a seed of doubt in the demon's mind as to whether his angel was truly sexually satisfied.

[1] Note for Americans and other aliens: chipboard is the British term for particle board or low-density fibreboard. Regardless of the term, it is an unsuitable material for any type of sexual activity as it has the ability to absorb moisture like a sponge.

[2] This had led to IKEA ending up in litigation for five years over several regrettable incidents that had occurred with their compressed wooden dildo.

Continue reading on AO3 for Crowley and Aziraphale miscommunications, sex swing assembly complications, witty banter, dowels, sausage jokes, and some first-time sexual experiments: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52376542

Image by Polychrome.

[strangelittlestories]

Pondering predestination and "promised souls" in fiction and I present to you: five flavours of inviolate (or “inviolate”) souls:

1. Incorruptible classic. Vanilla innocence. It doesn't matter what you do, because your soul is a duck and sin is water. You absolutely will do stuff that to other people would be a sin. You may enjoy it. But it just won't stick to you and you keep beatifically smiling beneath the bloodstains. You are John Calvin's favourite princess.

2. Not so much incorruptible, as unprovable. This one is innocence with a twist of lemon. It's much the same as option 1, but you weren't born free of sin or destined for heaven. No, it's just that some aspect of the divine bureaucracy *thinks you're cool* and loses the paperwork, strikes your sins from the record, or tampers with the scales that weigh your heart. To most people, you are just some human. To the angel of judgement, you are the Blorbo from its shows and it watches you with So Many Eyes.

3. A Pure Soul (unwilling). Spicy flavoured. You desperately want to sin. You wanna fudge things up. Get messy. Commit some giga-crimes. But everything you try just … turns out wholesome. Your bullet misses every vital organ and the resulting surgery catches a totally unrelated condition. You try to rob a bank and end up uncovering a major fraud. You are an agent of benevolent chaos, a gremlin of good fortune, a cryptid assigned “blessing” by fate. You will die mad about it, surrounded by those who love you and whose presence you've begrudgingly accepted.

4. You're not exactly predestined, magical or special, but the world just twists itself into the right shape. You'd be perfectly willing to dirty your soul for the right reason (or maybe even just a minor benefit), but things just tend to work out without you needing to. Beneath the surface, some part of reality is screaming with the strain of this and another part is wailing at this injustice. You just kinda half smile and shrug. “It all works out in the end, champ.” This is a Nothing Flavoured Soda. It's not bad, it's just ... absent. I, personally, hate you.

5. You won the lottery no-one wants to enter and you're going to the other place. You know this. You've always known this. “One in every hundred thousand bottles now comes with added brimstone.” You try your best anyway. You won't let a cosmic nat 1 on your destiny roll define you. You bestow mercies on the world and every one is a middle finger to the universe.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jessica Valenti at Abortion, Every Day:

I remember the feeling of hands inside me. Pulling, tugging, moving things aside. My emergency c-section wasn’t painful, but that feeling of being invaded was somehow worse than physical hurt. For years, the thought of the surgery would send me into a PTSD panic, my knees literally buckling and vomit coming up the back of my throat. In my memory, my arms are tied down while I’m being cut—but I know that’s not true. It’s just my brain’s way of making the powerlessness of the moment seem tangible. 

Because I was so early in my pregnancy, just 28 weeks along, doctors had to cut me both horizontally and vertically, making it life-threatening for me to have a vaginal birth in the future and increasing my risk for uterine rupture. I didn’t know it then, but I would never have another child.  So when I see anti-abortion groups blithely suggesting that women with life-threatening pregnancies should be forced into c-sections rather than easier, safer, and less traumatic abortions—it feels personal. Because I chose my medical nightmare; it was necessary to save both my life and my daughter’s. I can’t imagine the horror of going through such a thing unnecessarily, or at 16 weeks pregnant instead of 28. What if my tied-down arms weren’t a post-traumatic illusion, but a legal reality?

For nearly a year, I’ve been tracking this growing strategy: Some of the most powerful anti-abortion organizations in the country are using carefully-worded legislation and seemingly-credible clinical recommendations to codify medical atrocities—pushing doctors to force pregnant women into unnecessary labor and c-sections, even before fetal viability and sometimes even when a fetus has died. Why would anyone do such a thing? The answer is as simple as it is awful: Anti-abortion groups and lawmakers want to prove that abortion is never necessary to save a person’s life. The problem is that they know pregnancy can be deadly, especially in the United States. Rather than admit abortion can be life-saving, their solution is to force doctors to end deadly pregnancies in any other way—even if it means torturing women in the process. 

Anti-abortion lawmakers and activists are so desperate to divorce abortion from health care, they’d prefer to see us dead than allow critically ill women to get care they disagree with.  I mean that literally. This is how they kill us. With the sly shifting of medical standards and surreptitiously-placed legislative language. Because while these people are cruel, they’re certainly not stupid. Anti-abortion extremists know the only way to normalize medical torture is to move quietly and slowly.  After all, dystopias aren’t created in a day. They’re built, law by law and talking point by talking point, through medical regulations, bureaucracy, and fear. From a Supreme Court ruling in Idaho to timid guidance from hospital administrators in Louisiana—anti-abortion groups don’t need to own up to their grim vision when they have others embedding the nightmare bit by bit. 

That’s not to say they haven’t been busy themselves. Using extremist groups with credible-sounding names—like American Association of Pro-Life OBGYNs or the Charlotte Lozier Institute—the anti-abortion movement has carefully disguised radical calls to hurt women as simple scientific recommendations. They’ve inserted the nonsense term ‘maternal fetal separation’ into legislation, court cases and conservative talking points, removing ‘abortion’ in an attempt to further the lie that the procedure is never necessary. They've published papers and trotted out ‘experts’ who claim it’s “medically standard” to force women into c-sections or vaginal labor when their lives are at risk. Again, even when it’s too early for a fetus to survive.

Anti-abortion legislators have done their job too, passing laws that allow their state to define what conditions are life-threatening during pregnancy and the best course of action for doctors. They’ve written mandates that emergency terminations be performed in a way that “provides the best opportunity for the unborn child to survive.” If states must be forced to save women’s lives, it appears, they’ll make sure we suffer greatly for the trouble.  It’s not a coincidence that reports coming out of anti-abortion states show a sharp rise in c-sections. With their license and freedom on the line, doctors and hospitals are falling in line. One Texas OBGYN who was directed to give a septic patient a hysterotomy told researchers, “The morbidity is going to be insane.”

To people who value fetuses above women, that’s a price they’re willing to pay. Indeed, all of this cruelty starts to make morbid sense when you understand that the broader anti-abortion goal goes beyond forced c-sections or redefining medical standards. They are trying to make Americans numb to women suffering and dying during pregnancy. They’re treating it as unpreventable—natural, even—so that voters don’t bat an eye when the maternal mortality numbers skyrocket. 

Jessica Valenti reports on the rise of c-sections post-Roe and dishonest efforts to divorce abortion from healthcare by anti-abortion zealots in her Abortion, Every Day blog.

[rtfics]

So who's running this show?

Being a life-long atheist I don't believe in Hell or Heaven. But occasionally, for assholes like Jeremy who have Free Will and a knowledge of Right and Wrong and chose evil, I'm all for Eternal Comeuppance.

unmute

Which raises the question: In this movie's world, who makes the decisions about where the souls go?

In Jeremy's case, it was Beetlejuice. So can any ghost working immigration decide to send anyone anywhere? Does the Afterlife bureaucracy know this? Is this their idea? Are there guidelines?

Is there a God running this world? A pantheon of gods? Is it, as Astrid says, random?

In Beetlejuice's world, they have the Afterlife Bureaucracy. But who defined its powers? Where do Afterlife laws come from? Is it that humans died and found themselves in an Afterlife and decided to run it resembling the real world? "Oh shit, we're just wandering these empty halls. There's no order. We have to organize this fucking place. First thing we need is some sort of governing authority!" So they set up a governing body and law enforcement and civil service.

What are the differences between the Great Beyond locations? Is the Elysium Fields just for Ancient Greeks? They're all dead now, so shouldn't that place be closed? Is The Pearly Gates like Christian Heaven?

Man, it's as if Tim Burton wants tons of fanfics to explain it all. ;-)