In Recognition Of The Ongoing Environmental Challenges, I Would Like To Talk About The Keeling Curve.

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you meet chloe in cairo. it’s too hot, the streets are too loud, and she talks too much. not to you, at first. you’re just the extra set of hands for a quick recovery job that’s gone sideways more times than it should’ve. you’re supposed to stay quiet, keep your head down, and do what you’re told. chloe doesn’t like people who take up space she didn’t give them. but she notices you.

the first time she actually looks at you— really looks — is after you talk a local dealer down from six thousand to two and a half for a map fragment she’s been trying to get for weeks.

she blinks. “well, i’ll be damned.”

you shrug, lips quirking. “he likes pretty faces.”

“so do i,” she says, and then walks off like she didn’t just throw a grenade and smile at the explosion.

it’s messy with her. always is.

the job stretches on longer than anyone wants to admit. more flights, more trains, more guns. more nights where neither of you sleep, and not just because of the danger. there’s this... buzz, you trade dry remarks, silent glances. she gives you that grin when you’ve got blood on your cheek and your chest is heaving and you both almost died, again.

she doesn’t touch you. not yet. but she wants to. and you feel it. that simmer just under the skin, waiting.

──

she kisses you in istanbul.

you’re in a crumbling hotel room with no lock on the door and only one working lamp. you’re bandaging her arm, a shallow graze, but it looks worse than it is. and she won’t stop fidgeting.

“hold still,” you mutter.

“you’re enjoying this, admit it.”

“you bleed too much.”

she laughs, but it dies off quick. her eyes are on you now, and they’re soft in a way you’ve never seen from her. like she’s thinking about letting you see something she’s spent years hiding under ten layers of sarcasm and steel. then: “come here.” she doesn’t say please. chloe doesn’t beg.

but you go to her anyway.

the kiss is rough. urgent. like she’s afraid if she waits, she’ll talk herself out of it. and maybe she would’ve. but you’re here now. and her hands are on your hips, pulling you in, grounding you both in this flickering, half lit room that smells like dust and gunpowder and something sweeter that neither of you will name.

you don’t sleep that night.

after that, it’s not easier. not with her. she still picks fights for fun, still flirts with danger like it owes her money. but she holds your gaze a second longer. hands linger when they don’t have to.

she lets you see her scared. once. maybe twice.

and when it’s all over, when the artifact’s in a box, the buyer paid off, the trail cold, she stands next to you on a rooftop in athens and says, “i don’t do the whole happily ever after thing.”

you nod. laughing at the comment. “me neither.”

she looks at you. quiet for a long while.

“but... yknow.. i could try.” she says, voice low. you slide your hand into hers. no fairy tale. just this. just her.

Hi! I had this idea and thought you might be the perfect person to bring it to life: a Bucky Barnes x Reader fic where Reader finds an old journal of Bucky’s from his early post Winter Soldier recovery days. She reads it without meaning to at first, but what she finds inside is raw and heartbreaking. stuff he never talks about. Maybe they’ve been growing distant lately, and this gives her a look into just how much he’s been struggling. Would love if it ends with her wanting to comfort him but him not being ready to let her in yet. Quiet, emotional tension, please!

I READ YOUR DIARY EVERY LINE.

it starts with dust. not metaphorical, just actual dust.

you’re cleaning. or pretending to. rearranging the living room like that’s gonna fix the silence that’s been creeping in between you and bucky like fog under the door. you’ve been feeling it for weeks now. how he’s been moving quieter, speaking less, disappearing into rooms with the kind of stillness that makes it hard to follow. you don’t even remember the last time he touched you without pulling back like his hands burned after.

so, yeah. you’re cleaning. touching all his stuff like you’re trying to find a thread back to him. and then a book falls. black. beat up. spiral bound, barely hanging on. it looks like it’s been shoved there on purpose—stuffed behind old war books and a mug you’re pretty sure he stole from a hotel in zurich. you almost leave it. almost. but then you see the corner of a folded photo sticking out from between the pages. and your name, just a sliver of it, so you sit. floor cold against your legs, journal in your lap, breath a little too tight. you tell yourself you’re just gonna peek. just a glance.

but it’s not that simple. because the first thing you read feels like walking in on someone mid nightmare, mid prayer, mid– something holy and bleeding.

“it’s been 2,190 days since she stopped calling me asset. i still don’t feel like a person.”

the handwriting’s rough. not messy, just tired. you can feel it in the way the letters lean too hard in places, press too deep in others. like he needed to write it down or it would claw its way out some other way.

“i keep dreaming about the way the metal felt when it was first fused to me. like i was being welded shut.”

you shift. knees pulled up now. the room’s gone quiet in that specific way that makes you feel like the walls are listening.

“sometimes i think about running. not because i want to leave, but because i don’t want to rot here. it feels like i’m leaking poison into the lives of people who love me. like i’ll never stop being dangerous.”

you swallow. the last few months fall into place, a soft collapsing. all the nights he stood outside on the fire escape, just watching the sky. the mornings he’d say he was fine but his voice would crack on the i. the way he stopped playing music in the apartment. stopped sitting beside you on the couch. stopped falling asleep beside you, slowly replacing your shared bed with the cold of the guest room. your eyes burn but you keep reading.

“she touches me like i’m breakable. looks at me like i’m something to fix. i don’t know how to be held without feeling like an apology.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the page blurs. until the paper soaks a little beneath your fingertips. and you hate that he felt like this. that he couldn’t tell you. that you didn’t see it sooner. that he had to carve this into paper in the middle of the night instead of speaking it out loud to someone who would’ve dropped everything just to hold his face and remind him he's still here. still human. still loved.

there’s one more entry. dated a week ago.

“she asked if i wanted to go out tonight. i told her i was tired. the truth is, i didn’t want to be seen. some days i still feel like a weapon pretending to be a man. and i think if she ever looked too close, she'd see right through me.”

you close the journal. you sit with it in your lap for a long while. the kind of long that makes the afternoon light shift across the floor like slow, golden water. you don’t say anything when you hear the door open. keys hitting the bowl. footsteps slow.

he sees you before he says anything. standing in the doorway to the living room, hand still on the frame, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. his eyes drop to the journal in your hands. they stay there. his mouth twitches. not quite a flinch. not quite anything. "you read it," he says, voice low. not accusing. just… accepting. you nod. barely.

he closes his eyes. presses his lips together like he’s swallowing something sharp.

"i didn’t mean for you to see that."

“i know,” you say. voice softer than it’s ever been. “i didn’t mean to find it.”

the silence that follows isn’t empty. it’s full of everything you don’t say. everything he can’t. he walks past you. sits down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. you want to go to him. every cell in your body wants to close the space. to curl up beside him and press your forehead to his shoulder and tell him he’s not too broken to be loved. not too sharp to be touched. but you don’t. you sit down a few feet away. not touching. not even looking directly at him. just… near. a presence. a quiet offering.

“i didn’t know,” you whisper.

his voice cracks when he says, “i didn’t want you to.”

and there it is. the heart of it. he’s not ready. maybe he never will be. but he’s here and so are you.

the room is dim now. soft golden light painting the walls. somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks as the house settles around you. the air smells like dust and the last bit of coffee he made this morning.

you don’t speak again. you just sit. two people in the quiet. the kind of quiet that aches and comforts at the same time. maybe this is love, too. not the easy parts. just the staying.

a/n: luv this req. i literally just need to hug him omg... also sorry this is terribly written i was almost blackout drunk when writing it

kimi has no idea what’s going on or what he’s supposed to do he’s SO ENDEARING just wanna put him in my pocket

WHY THE FUCK WOULDNT THEY GIVE US WEED INDUCED LESBIAN SEX. ON 4/20.

me reading fandom drama while eating expired ramen

Ngl I totally forgot fandom discourse was a thing. I don’t care man, I have car payments

just felt my heartbeat between my thighs seeing this gif 😩 can't wait to watch this movie tomorrow goddamn

credit to @gydima original gifset

"It was quite snug on me, but it was fun to finally get to put it on—no doubt." ↳ GABE LANDESKOG EARNS THE BIG HAT | COL v. DAL (GAME 4) | 4.26.25

my resident evil oc

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selina was born in 1976 through a experiment orchestrated by mother miranda. using alcina dimitrescu as a vessel, miranda sought to create a hybrid, a perfect blend of dimitrescu’s vampiric abilities and the mold. however, selina was born more human than expected, her monstrous traits dormant. believing the experiment to be a failure, miranda allowed alcina to dispose of the child.

but alcina, still having some humanity, couldn’t bring herself to kill selina. instead, she left the child in a romanian village, where selina was eventually taken by umbrella researchers working under miranda’s orders. she was named selina there. for years, selina was subjected to experimental exposure to the mold in an attempt to “awaken” her latent abilities. however, a sympathetic umbrella scientist, dr. emilia kravchenko, smuggled her out of the facility and fled to raccoon city, where selina was raised under a false identity of lisa kravchenko.

lisa's early years was a patchwork of strange occurrences:

gnawing sensations, scents too sharp, sounds too loud, a hunger she couldn’t name. there were nights she woke in a cold sweat, the image of a tall, spectral woman burned behind her eyelids. her adoptive mother, dr. kravchenko, kept her sedated, dulled the edges with little white pills, and told her it was all in her head.

but lisa wasn’t stupid. as she grew older, she grew more suspicious. the gaps in her past felt deliberate, her mother’s reassurances too practiced. then came the night she snapped— tore into a classmate’s flesh like an animal, left them barely breathing. the fear in kravchenko’s eyes told lisa everything.

kravchenko sent her off to an orphanage and she got adopted by another family after a couple months. starting under a new name of lana falkner. her adoptive father, dr. isaac falkner, was a senior umbrella researcher, and her mother, sophia, was a whistleblower who attempted to expose umbrella’s crimes. after sophia’s mysterious disappearance, lana was left under Isaac’s care. though not directly experimented on, she was exposed to umbrella’s t-virus research and its bioweapon development, leading to deep emotional scars and heightened survival instincts. after another incident of biting off one of her friends fingers, she ran again.

she went from town to town, looking to find peace. she thought maybe the badge would do it, that being on the right side of the law would keep her from slipping into whatever she really was. so she joined the raccoon city police department, hoping it would make her feel human.

it didn’t.

*vomits* yayyy my team wonnn

today’s lectionary texts—acts 5:27–32, psalm 118:14–29, revelation 1:9–11a, 12–13, 17–19, and john 20:19–31—are so densely interwoven it’s practically rabbinic. it’s the second sunday of easter, which historically functioned as a liturgical echo chamber for the resurrection. but today’s selections aren’t just liturgical filler—they’re deliberate theological architecture. acts 5:27–32 put you into a post pentecost context where peter and the apostles, fresh off their spirit induced empowerment, confront the sanhedrin. the line “we must obey god rather than men” (δεῖ ἀνθρώποις πειθαρχεῖν μᾶλλον ἢ τῷ θεῷ) is almost a second century anachronism. it anticipates martyrdom theology, rooted in texts like daniel 3 and 6, but also anticipates justin martyr and tertullian’s apologetics. it reframes civic disobedience as divine allegiance.

psalm 118 functions as a hinge text. it's the last of the hallel psalms (113–118), used during passover, which already overlays a liberation motif onto resurrection. “the stone the builders rejected” (v. 22) gets picked up in matt 21:42, mark 12:10, luke 20:17, and here again as a kind of post easter hermeneutical key. the rejected messiah becomes the cornerstone of a new ekklesia. it's also worth noting how this psalm was used in second temple processionals. what begins as royal liturgy becomes political protest. revelation 1:9–19 layers on the apocalyptic. john of patmos positions himself in exile “because of the word of god and the testimony of jesus”—a deliberate mirroring of the acts narrative. christ appears “like a son of man” (ὅμοιον υἱὸν ἀνθρώπου), drawing straight from daniel 7, but recoded with roman imperial aesthetics: golden sash, bronze feet, sword mouth. it’s not just christological—it’s anti imperial polemic. domitian’s empire is the beast; the risen christ is pantokrator. then john 20:19–31. locked room. fear. sudden appearance. peace (εἰρήνη ὑμῖν), said twice. jesus breathes on them—enephýsen—an echo of gen 2:7 and ezek 37. this is a new creation moment, a new adam breathing life into a new humanity. and thomas, often unfairly dubbed “doubting,” functions more like a johannine stand-in for the reader. he gets to touch the wound (typos), an embodied epistemology. and yet, the final beatitude—“blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed”—extends the narrative beyond history into faith. the whole text folds time like a chiasm. so yeah. today is about post resurrection defiance, counter temple theologies, radical reinterpretations of jewish liturgy, imperial subversion via apocalyptic aesthetics, and an invitation to epistemic humility. it’s theology as resistance literature.