#it's a computer simulation come on

[tumfullofblue]

Hot Take but Tron Universe (and in summary, the Grid) is kinky af. What. What do you mean we all have to wear skin tight suits, no matter our age or physical form? What do you mean everything is neon and dark and sexy? What do you mean the whole place is run by the younger version of a man who looks like a Greek God and has the pride that could make the sin of the same name blush?

This needs to be studied or at least written fanfiction about and by God, I will do my part.

[gamebunny-advance]

On Today's Episode of Sammy Only Plays Mediocre Games: "Sensei! I Like You So Much!"

AKA "Fangirl Simulator", AKA "Sensuki"

Originally, this post was written as like a full "game journalist" style deep-dive, but I wanted to cut it back and just talk about my experience with this interesting little game that I found. If you wanna see what the gameplay loop is like, you're better off watching a let's play and deciding from that if this is the kinda game for you.

So, I actually found out about this game while stalking the Ita Bag subreddit, where the creators promoted the ita bag feature in the game. As someone who likes decorating things both IRL and virtually (hence why I was stalking that subreddit), I thought it sounded interesting enough to check out. So shortly after getting the game on a whim with some Christmas money, I got addicted to it for a couple of days before dropping it for about a month and then coming back to write this post.

Anyway, the gist of it is that it's a management sim/visual novel where you play as a fangirl, making friends with other fangirls by writing fanfic and making merch of your OTP.

And when I say "your OTP," I mean your OTP. You can't customize the player character outside of her name and online handle, but you can customize the characters she (and her friends) ship through the in-game character creator.

I did my first play through with R.O.B. & Watch (becauseIwastoolazytodrawandimportpartstomakeTatiKliff).

As a "game" I don't know if I'd call it "fun" exactly. As someone who easily slips into doing menial tasks in games, I did find a rhythm to the management part of the game as I debated against writing fics that would be popular vs. finishing my commissions, and I'll always love decorating virtual spaces with cute knick-knacks, especially if I get to personally design said knick-knacks.

But, it being a buggy early-access game with a shoddy English translation did hinder my enjoyment on occasion. I don't think a game can do anything more to sour your opinion of it than to *make you lose all of your save data trying to troubleshoot it~

*Strictly speaking, the game didn't *make* me do that, it's just one of the last resorts I went through to try and fix the bug, and that didn't even work.

Things like that piling up took what would have been a 7 out of 10 game to a 6 or 5 in its current state.

All that said, I still had a good time (before losing my save) because where it lacks in being a good game, it makes up for by actually being the ultimate "rare pair simulator". Because when your ships have zero content, you'll really take whatever you can get XP.

For me, it was very amusing to experience a world where something like ROB & Watch matters to people and I get to read all the cheesy fanfic that never got to exist for it.

Slight spoilers for the main story, but I just couldn't replicate my (internal) laughter from one of the characters starting fandom drama because they originally rooted for the "rival ship" and me thinking, "Oh, she's a Pac & Watch enjoyer. XD". That's something that could only happen in a game like this.

For people who's OTPs are popular and already have an abundance of fan content out there, I don't think this game will have much to offer you that couldn't be accomplished by just *being* a fangirl (gender-neutral) IRL and consuming the fan content that already exists. But if you like any sort of ship that's niche, whether due to unpopularity, self-shipping, or heck, you can throw your OCs in there too if you really want to, I think that you might find a game like this to be at the very least amusing.

This is a game that's really going to benefit from custom content that just doesn't exist while the game's audience is in its infancy. But I truly think that it has the potential to be something really special with enough time and development, and I leave it up to you if that's a gamble you want to take.

----------------------

Other thoughts:

There was actually a recent update that added a bunch of features that really upped the customization features, added a few minigames, and even a new "tamagotchi mode" where you can leave your ship idle on your screen while you do other stuff.

I haven't gotten to mess with all the new stuff in depth, but the addition of these kinds of features tells me that they're really committing to the bit of making a space where you can do anything you want with your blorbos in a single package~ If they could just iron out all the bugs, improve the translation, and add a "free play" mode, this game could be amazing.

Speaking of... the other little things that bug me:

Even though you can set the character's gender and pronouns, the stories don't always use them properly. This seems to be a programming error which might have happened due to the shoddy translation, but I do hope this gets fixed on final release.

Similarly, for most of the illustrations, they currently don't have alternate outfits which change with gender. Most of them are neutral so it doesn't matter too much, but there are a few which are clearly femme/masc which may be bothersome for some ships/characters.

I know it's a small team, and that's what stock materials are for, but I hope this team can pull together enough funding to hire (besides a proper translator) a composer and another artist. I would love to hear some original music because there aren't a lot of songs in the game, and the few we do have get grating after a while. I ended up muting the music entirely in the first few hours of playing it.

I say another artist not because the current ones are bad, but because for the new minigames they added, they are clearly using stock images for the assets, so I dunno if their current artists just weren't getting paid enough to make the assets, or if they're just placeholder while the artist makes new assets to replace them. Given that most of the artists in the credits are listed as "cooperating organizations", I get the feeling that most of the art in the game was on a by commission basis rather than having an in-house artist that gets paid to make assets.

I know that these are just little side things, but the cohesion of the entire product should be pretty important, so while I think all the new stuff is neat, there's still some polish that could be added.

[cleanerdoesntgaming]

wobbledogs turns into a psychological horror game if your dogs become broken enough

[blorb-el]

little tiny al plastino sideways ears batman.......

[summerisfishmen]

Decades- 1894

1894 came and went without much fuss. Little Theo aged up into a toddler, and Eloise gave birth to not one, but two, healthy little girls-(She could only hold one for the photo) Cordelia Annette Dawson (Dellie), and her sister Elaine Margaret Dawson (Ellie). (Theo is truly outnumbered!)

To Teresa's dismay, no one died during childbirth, hooray!

To no ones surprise, Teresa has refused to interact with the babies in any way. However, Lilliana has become very fond of having little sisters. She shows them her dolls, her dresses, her bows, and dresses them up in outfits from her porcelain doll. Theodore is wary of them, but occasionally tries to talk to them.

Theodore has become very talkative, but he cant quite say anyone's names right. Teresa is Teesa, Lilliana is Lana, Cordelia is Deela. Although, he does pronounce Elaine correctly every time.

and finally, Teresa and her friends are all about to turn 13! So stay tuned for teen Teresa, Elliot and Isabelle :)

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Month 1, day 31

How it starts

How it ends

Somewhere in between: KERSPLOOSH :D

It's 180 frames of animation and each frame is taking 1-2 minutes, so since I don't feel like staying up that late I'm gonna let it run, write some fanfic for a bit, and go to bed. I'll put it all together tomorrow :)

[grimbeak]

we should just combine all computer types into one so i can play all the viddy games instead of longing for one that is windows only (i understand that there are differences between computers (coding maybe??? idfk) but i do not want to have to eventually own two different computers to play the games i want)

[littlcdarlin]

Event Horizon

summary: When you start university to do your master’s in physics, you are more than surprised to meet your professor: Joel Miller, an old friend of your parents' who moved away years ago. word–count: 15k warnings: professor kink, power imbalance due to Joel being reader's professor, illegal relationship (overage & consenting), dbf!Joel, big fat age gap (unspecified but written with early 20s & mid 50s in mind), unprotected piv, just overall daddy issues (no use of the word daddy)

note: Okay, time to tell you I am a big nerd and studied physics in uni. Truth is, I quit to pursue a career in the arts, so my knowledge of masters level physics is...a little rusty. Please be lenient with me if I messed anything up. Also, I know most people hate physics, but I promise Joel makes it hot. Warning: explanation of the Dirac equation as foreplay. Also, I'm European and have no fucking clue how the American education system works but I don't care enough to do research. Enjoy <3333

event horizon noun ASTRONOMY a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape. a point of no return.

Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.

You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.

The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.

You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you’ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.

***

Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.

The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.

"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.

"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."

"Did you move here, too?"

"Yeah, I’m from New York."

"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.

"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."

You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.

The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.

"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."

Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.

"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.

"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."

"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."

Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.

There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.

When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.

"Here."

Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.

Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.

If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.

"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."

He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.

"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"

Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.

"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."

Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."

For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.

"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."

You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.

"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."

"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."

"Meet you outside?"

"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.

Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.

"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."

Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.

"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."

So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.

"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"

He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.

"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."

You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.

"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"

His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.

"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."

Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.

"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"

Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.

"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"

Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."

He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.

"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.

"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.

***

You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.

"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."

There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.

"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."

"How d’you like it so far?"

You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.

"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.

"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."

You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.

"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"

"Overbearing?"

You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.

"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“

"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."

Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.

"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.

"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."

You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.

"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."

"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?

"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"

"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."

You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.

"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.

"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.

"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"

"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."

Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.

"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.

"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.

"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."

Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.

"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.

"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."

"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."

That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.

"Alright," you answer, "just us."

You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.

"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"

"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."

"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"

You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.

"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."

"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."

You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.

"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."

Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.

"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."

You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.

"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"

"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"

You grin.

"Thought you were watching your waistline."

"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."

***

Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?

You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.

In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.

Hi, my darling, how are you doing?

"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"

Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?

Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.

"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."

Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?

"I just got here, Mom."

You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.

Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.

Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.

"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"

Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?

"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.

"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."

Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!

"Love you, too! Talk soon."

Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.

Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.

It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.

You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.

***

On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.

Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.

Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.

"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."

"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.

"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.

"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."

"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."

"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.

"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."

You snort.

"You try with Professor Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"

"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Professor Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.

"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."

"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.

"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."

You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.

The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.

"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"

Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.

"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"

You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.

"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.

"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.

"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."

Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.

"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.

"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.

***

After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.

"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."

"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."

Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.

"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.

"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"

You glance at your shoes.

"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."

Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.

"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"

"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."

When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.

"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."

"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.

"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.

"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.

Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.

He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.

"Coffee?"

"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.

"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."

"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."

"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."

You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.

"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.

"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."

Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.

"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."

You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.

He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.

"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."

He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.

"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.

"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."

"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.

"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."

He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."

You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.

"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."

As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.

You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.

"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."

When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.

"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."

His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.

"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"

"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."

Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.

"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.

"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."

You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.

"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."

He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.

"Feel better?"

You sigh, and nod.

"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."

Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.

"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"

You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.

"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.

"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.

"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.

"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."

You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.

"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"

"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."

And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.

***

You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.

Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.

You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.

You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.

"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.

“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.

“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”

You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”

“Did it?”

“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”

“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”

“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”

While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.

“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.

“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”

You nod, and sip at your beer.

“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”

Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.

“You worried about my social life?”

You shrug, and smile almost timidly.

“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”

That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.

You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.

“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Professor Carter’s still single.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”

“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”

You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”

“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”

 Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.

“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."

“Cheers,” you say with a smile.

“Cheers.”

***

Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.

You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.

"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."

When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.

"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"

So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.

"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.

"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."

Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.

"You…you’ve got glasses?"

"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."

You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.

"Hey–"

"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."

"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."

He glances at you with furrowed brows.

"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.

"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.

"I’m not watching that."

"You don’t even know what it’s about."

"It’s September, Joel."

He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.

You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.

"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.

"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.

It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.

"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.

"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"

"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."

When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.

"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."

"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"

He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.

There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.

"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.

"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.

He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.

When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.

"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."

You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.

"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."

"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."

Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.

"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."

You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.

"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."

He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.

Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.

His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.

"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.

"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."

He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.

"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."

You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.

"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."

Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.

"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."

Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.

"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."

You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.

"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.

"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."

His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.

"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"

You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.

"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"

"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."

Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.

"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"

"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."

The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.

Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."

Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.

"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.

A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.

"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.

"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."

You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.

"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.

"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."

***

Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.

"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."

He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.

"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.

He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.

"You got everythin’ you need?"

"Yes. Thank you, Joel."

There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.

"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."

"I will."

"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."

"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.

"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

***

You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.

When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.

"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"

"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."

"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.

Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.

"Sleep well?"

You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.

"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."

Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?

"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.

Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.

"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."

"I know."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.

"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."

"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."

Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.

He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.

His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.

"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."

Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.

"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.

His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.

"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"

"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."

He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.

"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"

So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"

Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.

Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.

"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.

"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"

It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.

"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.

Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.

Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.

"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."

You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.

"Taste so sweet, huh?"

You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.

"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."

He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.

"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.

"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.

With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.

When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.

"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."

His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.

"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."

"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."

His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.

"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.

"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."

He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.

"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."

Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.

"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.

"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.

"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.

"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."

"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."

 Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.

"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.

"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.

"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck–  is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"

It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.

"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.

"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."

"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."

He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.

"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.

"Come for me, angel, give it to me."

You do, your hips bucking, back arching.

"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"

"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.

"Professor."

He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.

"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."

He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.

"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.

"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."

***

Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.

When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.

"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.

"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.

"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"

You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.

"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."

He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.

"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."

He brushes the top of your head with his lips.

"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."

"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.

"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."

"’S not slutty."

"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."

Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.

"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."

It’s a hell of an admission.

"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.

"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."

You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.

"Yeah," you answer, “We’ll figure it out, Professor.”

[ijustwannabecool]

Rolling, Rolling, Red Bull

Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

Summary… When the Drive to Survive crew shows up to film a behind-the-scenes look at Max Verstappen’s life off track, Y/N is less than thrilled to be in the spotlight. But between sarcastic interviews, soft domestic moments, and a now-viral deleted scene involving a jar of pesto, the world gets a glimpse of a Max they’ve never seen before. Boyfriend-coded. Cat-dad certified. And very, very soft for her.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy! I’ve been kinda M.I.A. & irregular on my posting but I have been out of town for the last two week so I’ve been writing on my phone and it has been a little difficult.

I hope you guys enjoy this story and feel free to donate on my Ko-Fi, maybe that way I can buy a better computer and write more consistently for you guys.

like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Y/N was halfway through brushing her teeth when Max knocked on the bathroom door.

“They’re here,” he said, muffled through the wood. “The Drive to Survive guys.”

She spat into the sink. “Tell them to come back never.”

Max laughed, leaning against the doorframe in joggers and a Red Bull hoodie, his hair still wet from the shower. “You said yes last night.”

“I was half-asleep and you bribed me with stroopwafels.”

He pushed the door open and gave her the most annoyingly charming grin. “And yet, here we are.”

⸻

The Netflix crew had set up in their living room, pretending the chaos of wires and camera angles was “low-key.” Max greeted them like old friends, casual and cool, while Y/N hovered awkwardly behind a kitchen stool, holding her coffee like a shield.

“Just pretend we’re not here,” the producer said, adjusting his headset.

“Impossible,” she muttered.

Max, ever the calm in the storm, slipped a hand around her waist. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”

“That is the problem.”

⸻

They followed the couple through a normal day: breakfast on the balcony, Max fiddling with a simulator, Y/N curled up reading a book while their cats tried to chew on a mic cord.

But then they asked for a sit-down interview.

“Can you two just talk about what it’s like being in a relationship during the season?” the director asked, arranging pillows behind Y/N like this was a cozy podcast and not her personal nightmare.

Max shrugged. “It’s good. We don’t really fight.”

Y/N snorted. “You say that because you don’t consider ignoring my texts for six hours a fight.”

“I was driving,” he said, deadpan.

“You were on the simulator.”

“Same thing.”

The crew laughed. Max smiled sideways at her.

Then the director leaned in. “Y/N, how do you handle the pressure of being with someone constantly in the spotlight?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know, but because she hadn’t expected the question to feel so… real.

“I don’t try to handle it,” she said slowly. “I just try to remind him that there’s a world outside of racing. That he’s more than just Max Verstappen the driver.”

Max’s expression softened—one of those rare looks he saved just for her, all warm gaze and relaxed jawline.

“And she’s the only one who gets away with calling me out when I start acting like a robot,” he added, voice lower now.

There was a pause.

“Wow,” the sound guy whispered.

“Keep rolling,” the director whispered back.

⸻

Later, when they were reviewing footage in the trailer, someone asked if they could get a shot of Max hugging Y/N.

“We have the paddock stuff, the Monaco stuff—but we need something soft to end on.”

Max found her sitting on the edge of the Red Bull hospitality couch, phone in hand.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up, pulled her into his chest, and kissed the top of her head. Cameras or not.

“You’re doing great,” he said.

“You owe me ten stroopwafels and a massage.”

“I’ll give you twelve.”

The camera rolled as she smiled against his hoodie, arms tightening around his waist.

And later, when the season aired, fans clipped that moment. Over and over.

“Who knew Max Verstappen could be soft?”

“Protect this woman at all costs.”

“Relationship goals.”

But to Max, it was just Tuesday.

_______

Deleted Scene

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, struggling with a stubborn jar of pesto. The label peeled at the edge, and the lid refused to budge despite two dish towels and her full body weight.

“Max!” she called, mildly annoyed. “Can you come here?”

Off-camera, you hear footsteps. Then Max appears in the kitchen doorway, looking suspicious. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Just open this before I yeet it into the sea.”

He walks over, takes the jar, and opens it effortlessly with one twist.

She stares. “Are you serious?”

He grins, proud. “You loosened it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Without missing a beat, he dips a finger into the pesto and sticks it in his mouth.

“Max!” she gasps, swatting him with a tea towel. “That’s for dinner!”

He shrugs. “Taste test.”

A Netflix producer can be heard laughing behind the camera.

“Can we actually keep rolling?” another asks. “This is gold.”

Y/N turns, catching the crew still filming, and mock-glares at the camera.

“I’m going to need hazard pay.”

Max wraps an arm around her waist and plants a pesto-flavored kiss on her cheek.

“No one would believe how domestic you are,” Y/N mutters, smirking.

“Good. Let them think I’m scary.”

⸻

But don’t worry. The pesto jar ended up on eBay “signed by Max,” with a sticky note that read:

“She loosened it.” – M.V.

All proceeds went to cat shelters. Because Max demanded it.

⸻

FAN REACTIONS TO DELETED SCENE

Twitter/X:

@paddockbabie:

MAX OPENED A JAR AND A NATION FELL IN LOVE

#driveToSurvive #maxverstappen #domesticking

@softf1updates:

the way he dipped his finger into the pesto and then kissed her with zero shame?? I’m on the floor.

literally who gave him permission to be this boyfriend-coded

@f1spicypage:

“you loosened it.”

OH OKAY MAX VERSTAPPEN KING OF HUMBLE DOMESTICITY

⸻

Tumblr:

f1blurbs:

It’s not about the pesto.

It’s about her calling him like a husband.

It’s about him walking in like “what did I do?” like he knows he exists to be summoned.

It’s about the quiet love.

It’s about the damn jar.

I’m crying.

netflix-please:

Reblog if you too would risk it all to have Max Verstappen open a jar for you and call it “loosened by you.”

⸻

TikTok Comments (under the leaked scene with 4.8M views):

@formulalover44:

the way she’s like “MAX” and he just comes?? we love an obedient man

@jamgirlie:

petition to release ALL deleted scenes or i riot

@pestoprincess:

me @ my boyfriend: “why can’t you be more like max verstappen opening pesto jars and donating to cat shelters?”

⸻

Instagram Stories:

@f1gossipgrid:

MAX & Y/N: PESTO-GATE

This leaked deleted scene is the best PR Netflix never meant to drop.

Rumors say Red Bull marketing is already printing “You loosened it” merch.

We’ll take 5.

⸻

And yes—someone already made pesto-themed merch on Etsy with:

“You loosened it – M.V.” in sleek Helvetica on tote bags, mugs, and aprons.

⸻

the end.

[somnoir]

Gotham's newest Crime Lord - part 2

Part 1 | Masterpost

Wraith wrecked havoc like no other.

He was loved and hated by the masses. Defended by Gotham regardless of what they felt of him. A figure in the underworld that hunted down those who moved to harm one of their kin and executed anyone who laid their hands in the weak—children.

The first explosion had been explained by the scattering papers and the anonymous posts of an organization who went after children with malicious intent. Blatant evidence that had people rallying to the GCPD to demand for justice. It was glorious and horrific—especially once they found out that it was Wraith who tossed the Joker into the harbor.

The Bats, by all means, attempt to find him. Figure him out, at least. But the man was a mystery. It was worse considering the majority of Gotham were eagerly telling the Bats to fuck off whenever they tried to hunt down Wraith. The only thing they ever got out of him was that his second in command—Phantom—was the nicer one between them. If you wanted civil negotiations, try and look for Phantom instead.

As much as they wanted to go directly to Wraith, this was their best shot. Their only shot.

"Had any luck finding Phantom?" Dick's hand rested on Tim's shoulder, trying to support his clearly tired brother. Tim was a little to determined, kinda desperate to find this guy.

"Nothing. Their names are trigger words." Tim clicked his tongue, "It's fucking up the system. Remember Ghostmaker's ghostnet? Any attempts makes you want to shut off your systems because of how encrypted they could get."

"Searching up their names gave the Batcomputer a virus?!" Steph gawked, leaning over Tim and staring at the computer. They could all tell he was wary, trying not to type in certain words to keep the damn tech sage from that mania.

"Wraith and Phantom are either metas with technology altering powers..." Barbara hums, "Or they have someone else doing this. Imagine them having their own version of the calculator... But worse and more annoying."

"So our new crime lord has a hacker... That has given the Batcomputer a virus." Dick slowly said, "And is still operating without us finding out."

"Hood and Robin are out trying to find Phantom." Barbara points to the two dots hurriedly moving through crime alley. "Hopefully they find him."

"Any news on Wraith?"

"His latest stint involved tearing down one of Black Mask's operations. Several bodies were found in the harbor."

"Why the harbor?"

"It's his MO, I think. It's always the harbor where he dumps the bodies."

Tim frowns, "Like it's his trash can.... For bodies."

"Hasn't the harbor always been the body trash can of Gotham?" Steph sighs, before turning away to stare at Cass who was training in the simulators again.

Dick glared at her for the comment but once again looked back to the screen.

"Hopefully they find Phantom soon... before Wraith drops more bodies."

Phantom was the nicer of the two—claimes by many people who told them Wraith was a little on the quieter side. No one truly knew but he was quieter than a lot of them.

Crime Alley was Red Hood's territory, everyone knew that. But apparently, Wraith has been operating in the same area from time to time. Mainly to return kids to the alley (freshly claimed by that flaiming white symbol). But Wraith did so quietly. They checked in from time to time to see if the kids were alright.

To be specific...

Phantom came to visit to see if the children they had returned and claimed were safe. Often coming with resources that he mainly reserved for the kids.

"Found him." Jason muttered, voice distorted through the modulator as he narrowed his eyes at the young man dressed in monochrome colors. His binoculars zeroed on the young man with white (seriously??) boots and gloves. The rest of his outfit was black, with a jacket still in monochrome colors. Jason frowned at the hood that covered his head.

"Let's go, Hood. Nightwing and father wants—"

"Stay out of it, Robin." Hood instantly growled. Jason has never felt so territorial before but this guy was in his territory—doing good, keeping the kids safe, marking them so no one tried going after them. "Phantom is Wraith's lieutenant. We don't need to make an enemy of the nicer one and piss of the one who ordered the explosion."

"I can handle him!"

"You'll piss him off!"

Robin scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you won't? Phantom clearly is fond of children and I am a child—"

"With katanas. You're a murderous child. Wraith and Phantom claim children who are in danger. Not the danger." Jason scoffed, while Damian opted to look utterly smug at the statement.

"Stay here." Jason drops down from the building.

He, unfortunately, didn't account for Phantom pulling out a sword from nowhere and immediately pointing it at Jason. The kids behind the man were quick hide behind him, cowering in fear until the recognition sets in their eyes.

"Wait! That's the Red Hood!" A girl yells, standing between them. Stupid but very brave. "He's one of the good ones!"

Phantom, who wore a mask that covered half his face yet showed his eyes, immediately lowered his sword once the girl was between them.

Jason froze, unable to tear his gaze away from Lazarus eyes—no... That shade of green was much purer than the pits... Phantom narrowed his eyes at Jason, before turning back to the girl. "You go and take care of your little sister, yeah? If your mom forgets to feed you again, tell her I'll give her a visit."

The girl nods, but she whirled around and gave Jason the nastiest glare an 8-year-old could give. "You hurt mr. Phantom and I'll tell Wraith!" She pointed an accusing finger at him, frowning before she gives Phantom a quick hug and makes a run for it with the other kids.

Soon enough, they're left alone... Staring at one another.

"I was wondering when one of you Bats would finally find me." Phantom hums, sliding his hand over the hilt of his sword.

Jason warily watched it disappear from sight. Okay. Possible meta, definitely has powers. "You're a hard man to find, Phantom."

"Not for you, I guess. I come and go into your haunt to check in on the kids every week." Phantom laughs, tilting his head.

Jason could see snow white hair from under the hood, making him shudder as the deathly green eyes are brought back to his attention.

"Every week, huh?" Jason clicked his tongue. "I'll cut to the chase. Your boss's stint—" he swore that Phantom twitched "—pissed of the big Bat. He ain't happy tnag Wraith is bombing up buildings and killing people."

Phantom visibly rolled his eyes, "Too bad then. Wraith's pretty direct when it comes to this shit. Trafficking and pimping kids make him murderous but the fact that those bastards were killing them and selling their organs? He's damn genocidal at this point. Can't say I disagree with that."

Jason... Well... Jason can't argue with that. If he found out that some bastards were doing that to kids, he'd go ballistic too. But Bruce didn't agree with these methods and was rather reproachful about it. But Wraith wasn't going to back down. This wasn't a normal rogue that had felt fear of the Batman and his brood before. To be honest, Jason thinks he's pretty ballsy.

"I don't disagree with that shit either. But Batman ain't going to let him off the hook after that stunt." Jason warned, grunting as he spoke through the modulator. The pits were flaring up again. But not malicious, not murderous. It was curious as it warmed his chest and practically urged him to get closer to Phantom.

"Yes, well... Piece of advice—Wraith is willing to blow up an entire district if it meant keeping others safe. And besides, your rogues know not to mess with him. Not after the Joker." He didn't actually see Phantom's face but he's pretty sure that the bastard was grinning.

"So he really did it."

"If it makes you feel any better, the Joker might as well be cursing him from the afterlife. It was an accident." Phantom shrugged.

An accident, Jason breathed out. Holy fuck, that would have been humiliating for the Joker. His death. An accident. Unintentional and he still died, his body dumped into the harbor.

"Anyways, tell Batsy not to mess with the kids. I know he doesn't, but he let the Joker live, so..." Phantom gave him a thumbs up, "Make sure to not cross pass with Wraith or else you'll end up in the harbor."

Jason gawked, watching as Phantom slipped into the shadows and promptly disappeared. Meta. Definitely a meta.

"Hood, report." Batman's voice rang through the comms.

"Red Hood," he grunts, "Wraith sure as hell doesn't like you, old man. And Phantom might be the nice one but he might as well be as stabby as Robin."

"I agree with Hood. He has wonderful posture, father!" Robin spoke, sounding impressed and smug.

The little shit.

"Technus, stop bullying Oracle." Dan groaned once he caught the ghost tampering with the net... Again.

The crime lord turned towards Danny, who melted out of the shadows again. Technus was blabbering about pesky bats and birds before Dante clocked his younger brother's apprehension. He looked....annoyed and concerned.

"I talked to Red Hood."

"YOU WHAT?!"

"Fun fact! He's a revenant!"

"THE FUCK YOU MEAN THE OTHER CRIME LORD IS A REVENAN?!"

"A very sexy looking one."

He was going to punch Danny. He was going to fucking punch Danny.

(Danny was not punched.)

"He said that Batman's pissy about you blowing up shit." Danny shrugged, shaking his head before floating over to the energy drinks and coffees by Dan's desk. "Good news though! I told him he'd end up in the harbor if he ever tried anything with us."

Dan gawked, "What the fuck is wrong with you?! You want to make the bats our enemies?"

"No! I'm commiting to our crime family bit!"

"We're not a crime family!"

"Tell that to Ellie. She's already got herself a new suit and everything."

Dan threw his hands up in the air, groaning at the insanity that was his younger siblings. Dear ancients, he was praying that Jazz wouldn't find out about the shit they've done in Gotham. She'd give them the worst tongue lashing the world has ever experienced if she did. Thank God she was in Yale right now.

"Ooh! A crime family, you say?" Technus grinned, floating closer to Danny who lounged in Dan's chair. (Get the fuck away from my crime lord throne, Danny! The leather is expensive!)

"That is perfect! The others have decided to migrate here, did you know? It's been quite... Boring back in Amity." Technus snickered.

Fuck. No.

"I bet my trust from Vlad that Johnny, Kitty, and Ember are already on their way." Danny cackled, "That'd be nice. Elle's been itching to steal Johnny's bike again."

"Splendid! We shall wreck havoc upon Gotham and exact justice that the Bats cannot give the people!" And like a supervillain, Danny cackled as he stood on Dan's desk, laughing maniacally.

(Just outside, the Wraith's goons peaked into the room and saw the insanity that was the nice lieutenant's villainy.)

Meanwhile, in the distance, the laughter of Johnny 13 and Kitty rang through the streets of Gotham.

Part 3 | Masterpost

[salemlunaa]

VOID STATE: ٭HAVE FUN WITH VISUALISING AND SCRIPTING٭

To live in the end, accept that reality as yours not a far-fetched dream

Another reason why many people have trouble getting their dream life is that they see it as farfetched, when they script or imagine, they view their new story as some distant dream or something that “might” happen “if” they get into the void that day. Again there is no “if” or “might”, that reality is YOURS

So when you visualise, don’t see it as a distant fantasy, see it as your memories, you lived in those moments

When you script, i need you to believe it wholeheartedly,

That IS how you look

Everyone IS obsessed with you

That IS your s/o

You ARE rich as fuck

That IS your life

Look at scripting and visualising as if you’re recounting memories or making a fact file about yourself, not some “crazy dream” that would be super cool if it happened. That’s your life, when you script you’re recounting the facts, you’re reaffirming what’s true. When you visualise, you are looking back on your memories or looking upon what is yet to come.

You are the god of your reality and you must take ownership of your reality, it’s your life now, and it was your life as soon as you imagined it, because for the hundredth time, your imagination is reality.

So have fun with it, have fun with visualising remembering that those are your memories, not dreams, look at scripting like it’s some autobiographical thing and that everything you write is fact, there’s nothing you can do about it, your life is fact.

you need to understand that in this simulation of life, as god, YOU are the one behind the computer screen, doing the coding, so view every aspect of your new reality as fact.

ITS NOT A DREAM, ITS YOUR LIFE, REFLECT THAT MINDSET IN THE WAY YOU LOOK AT THE SCRIPT 🍏💋

[sydmarch]

not sure how I feel about that finale tho

devs good

[lomlando]

GAM3 BO1 || MV33

summary: "Run to the last stage and stay exactly by my side"

content warnings: mild language :)!

word count: 1.4 k

pairing: max verstappen x reader

a/n: my first one shot 😛

You sat at the edge of Max’s bed, just watching him play on his sim racing setup. You look down at your phone, you had been sitting there for two hours, neither moving from your respective spots. 

You and Max haven’t been dating for very long-only three months, and you were both still figuring out each other’s quirks. You honestly loved how passionate Max was about racing. You understood it; he had been brought up and told that racing was his lifeline, so it made sense that even on his days off, he still wanted to practice. 

You looked around his body and saw that he was on his last lap. Finally, you thought, surely he wouldn’t start up another race up after this one. We could go eat lunch, go shopping, watch a movie-just do something other than you staring at his back. 

Sure, you could vocalize that you were bored out of your mind. You really don’t think Max would mind or give it much thought, but the voice in the back of your head begged you not to. You really liked Max and didn’t want to start the relationship with him thinking you wanted him to put you before racing. It's also not like you just absolutely hated sitting there, either. You were in Max’s presence, at the very least, and that was enough for you. 

That still didn’t stop you from plopping back onto the bed with an aggravated sigh when you saw him push the button to start a new race, though. You didn’t mean for it to, but it caught his attention. 

He slowly twists around in his chair and moves one of his headphones away from his ear. “You okay?” He asks, halfway turning back to the race in front of him as to not miss the start. 

You lay there, not saying anything. Processing the risk-award analysis of telling him no, that you would rather be doing anything else right now than watching him play yet another race, and just telling him yes and continuing to bask in his presence, not wanting to mess anything up. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Your brain spoke before your heart, which had wanted you to say no. You really weren’t sure if Max had even noticed if you actually answered him or if he already had on his headphones again, completely immersed back into the simulation.  You lay there, petting one of his cats haphazardly, completely zoning out. 

Suddenly, you feel the bed shift and an arm come around you. “I asked if you were tired?” Max says. You could tell he was silently searching your face for answers as to why you were so zoned out. You hadn’t heard the question at all, much less him getting out of his chair and walking to the bed. 

“Yeah, I just got tired of sitting up. I’m fine.” You say, wrapping your arm around his. Tell him you want to go outside, bask in the beautiful sunlight. “You should finish your race.” You say smiling. 

Max sits up, “I was trying to talk to you and ran into a wall, it's a DNF for me. Do you mind if I start up another one?” yes. 

“No, babe, it's fine, go ahead.” You say, giving him a small hand wave, attempting to signal that you really did not care. 

A quick smile. A quick forehead kiss. And he was back in that god forsaken gaming chair. You watched him from the bed, still. You studied how he drove, how focused he was. You felt so guilty. You felt like you were currently hating spending time with your sweet boyfriend. This is what he wanted to do, and you should respect that. But man, did you want to do something together. 

You swing your legs over the bed and stand up. Within a second, you are pushing the spare, old gaming chair in the corner of the room over to where Max is sat in front of the computer. You weren’t really sure what you were doing. It was like you were in autopilot mode, any thoughts turned completely off. Your brain figured the heart had finally taken over, and had forgotten about the whole risk-reward analysis it worked so hard to run earlier.

In front of the setup, you sit down, pushing Max out of the way a little bit. Of course, this makes him mess up, steer straight into a wall. He rips his headphones off and looks at you. 

Shit. Too much. You have messed up now, your brain tells you. You want to tell him sorry, to run out of the room and never come back when you see the confusion in his eyes. 

“Max, I can’t deal with it anymore, I’m bored out of my mind.” It was definitely not what you wanted to say, not what you thought you should have said. But alas, it is what came out first. 

You see Max’s expression change, soften. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier? I would have stopped two races ago.” 

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to disrupt you, I know how much practice means to you.” 

“Yeah, but you mean a lot to me, too. You can always tell me things like that. Sim can wait.” 

“Have you ever played Fireboy and Watergirl?” You ask, not even sure where the thought had come from. 

Max raises an eyebrow in confusion. “Have I ever played what? Is that a game?” 

“Yeah, I used to play it when I was a kid in school on the computers. Let’s play.” You say, flashing him a smile while scooting his keyboard closer to you to pull the game up. 

“I only have one controller, though. How can w-” 

“You play with only one keyboard. You use the A,W,S,D keys, and I’ll use the arrow keys.” You say, pushing the keyboard back to the middle of both of you after loading in the game. “It’s a platform game, we have to work together to get the the end. I will warn you, though, it's pretty hard.” You say, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“I think we can handle it.” He says. 

“I do too.” 

Two hours in, neither of you wanted to admit that you could not, in fact, handle it. The two of you had breezed through the first three stages. Were they technically the tutorials? Yes, but it still counted in both of your minds. You had been stuck on the fourth level for an hour and a half. The once golden light peaking in through the blinds was now turning darker. But neither of you moved or asked to be done-both a mixture of too stubborn and too competitive to call it quits. You had to at least get through this level. 

This run-through was different. You both had finally managed to get past the platform that you kept falling off of-now you just had to finish the rest. 

“We have to finish here Max, we can’t fall again.” 

“Run to the last stage and stay exactly by my side.” He says, looking at you with possibly the most concentrated, begging look you had ever seen him give. He hadn't even looked this concentrated in the sim earlier. 

You did exactly as you were told. You made your character run over to Max and stopped beside him. To get across this platform, you both needed to jump at the same time. 

“I’m going to count us down. Jump on three.” You looked at him and nodded. 

Once Max said three, both of your fingers touch their respective keys, hoping you had gotten the right timing.

A screen pops up: Next Level? 

“Finally!” Max said, jumping out of his chair, mimicking the victory move he does when he wins a grand prix. He reached down, engulfing you in a hug, kissing your cheek, before running down the hallway shouting about how he couldn’t believe you both had done it.  

You weren’t sure where your future ended with Max; this was all so new after all. But right then and there, you wished all of your days from now on were filled with nights like tonight-even if it meant you had to watch him play on his racing simulator for hours on end.

[knightsndaze]

As I'm writing I've realized how bad the dialogue is in FO4. Like it takes exposition and bashes your skull in with it. It takes all the fun out of exploring the wasteland and putting things together through journals/computer entries/holotapes/etc.

There are glimpses of a compelling story hidden in the game but the factions are reskinned ripoffs of FNV (old world style govt/fascists/technologically advanced) where the political complexity of those factions clashing is completely pushed aside for another goddamn finding Nemo story.

The player characters were given back stories which COULD have had interesting implications (disregarding the supposed rpg elements of the fallout games) such as a soldier coming to terms with his actions in service and the effects the govt he fought for had on the world. Or a lawyer who had never dealt directly with the horrors of war suddenly being thrust into a world where she had to fight to survive. Like yeah it gets mentioned here and there but there's no emotional exploration bc Bethesda fucked themselves with player dialogue being yes/no/sarcastic/maybe(come back later)

The gunners, raiders, and super mutants are just shooting targets that have absolutely no effect on the story. The railroad is underdeveloped, the institute is cartoonish, the minutemen are radiant quest simulator 2000, and the brotherhood is just there so Bethesda can say look at the cool guys with power armor (don't worry about the fascistic undertones of their leadership that won't be addressed at all)

Diamond City doesn't feel like a city cowering in fear of the institute. It's like the writers were too afraid of going into the dark elements of the fallout story. Like they took the edge and whacked it against a cinder block until it was dull enough to market to 5 year olds. It's supposed to be gritty, it's supposed to be the darkest parts of humanity spread bare because that's where the hope comes from. It comes from persevering despite the world trying to beat you down. Because war never changes, but people do

Also I wanna be able to fuck Deacon

[its-me-levi]

Title: “The Forgotten One”

Chapter Four: Where Obsession Grows

Warning(s): Obsession, mentions of violence, etc

Masterlist Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three, Part I Chapter Three, Part II Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven

They called it a search.

But it was no longer a search.

It was an obsession.

Because when someone disappears and all that’s left behind is silence—real, final silence—they start to lose themself in the noise they didn’t hear before.

And they were all losing themselves.

Bruce stopped patrolling as Batman.

He wasn’t needed out there. Not right now.

Not when they were still out here somewhere, a ghost slipping through the cracks he never thought to look into before.

He slept in the Batcave now. Or near it. The computers ran constant scans—Gotham city cams, online forums, burner phone records, missing persons reports, every Leah born in the tri-state area.

He refused to speak unless it was necessary. Refused to change out of the suit. Refused to sit in the empty dining room where they used to say nothing, and they let them.

He replayed the note in his head every day.

Please don’t come looking for me.

But he was.

And when he found them, he wouldn’t let them go again. He didn’t care how many times he’d have to apologize. He didn’t care what it cost him.

Because now he remembered their name. And that was dangerous.

Tim stopped logging time.

His computer rig buzzed 24/7, heat radiating from overclocked servers. The team’s missions? Ignored. Sleep? Abandoned.

All energy was redirected to one purpose: finding them.

He tracked Leah’s parents' cars. Hacked phone companies. Built an AI to simulate their voice from old recordings just to hear it again.

Sometimes he’d stare at the model and whisper, “Say something real. Please.”

It didn’t work.

He knew this wasn’t healthy. But he also knew that he was the smart one. The planner.

He should have noticed the signs. The empty chair at dinner. The drawings quietly peeled off their wall.

They had been crying out. But not with words.

And now, he would hear everything—even the silence.

Jason tried punching his way through guilt.

It didn’t work.

He wandered the manor in the early hours, haunted by the fact that he hadn’t even tried with them. Not really. Not when it mattered.

They had been there. In the shadows. Trying so hard to be noticed. And he had been so focused on his own pain—his own resurrection—that he didn’t see them drowning in theirs.

Now? He felt it in his bones. Every breath they must’ve held. Every sob they had swallowed alone in their room.

He found himself in their old closet one night, kneeling, fists trembling, forehead against the dusty carpet.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Over and over. Like a prayer.

And if he found them?

He wouldn’t let them go.

Not again.

Even if he had to chain them to the walls to make them stay.

Dick still smiled in public.

He gave speeches. Held fundraisers. Laughed with his team.

But when he got home, the smile cracked, and he became someone else.

He filled a scrapbook with everything he could find of them—photos, sketches, notes, timestamps from old footage. He clipped their face from surveillance stills and taped them next to polaroids of the rest of the family. As if he could stitch them into their memories.

He talked to the pages sometimes. Apologized. Promised things would be different.

“They’re gonna see,” he told the empty scrapbook. “When we bring you back, we’ll do it right this time. No more silence. No more birthdays alone.”

Then, quieter, trembling: “You’ll love us. You’ll have to.”

Damian had stopped speaking.

To everyone.

He spent his days training harder than ever before. As if sharpening his blade would let him cut through the timeline and undo it all.

He hated them. Once.

Or he thought he did.

But now he saw the truth in the emptiness. The emptiness in himself.

He caught himself setting the table for them once. He didn’t even know why. Just muscle memory from all the times he’d watched Alfred do it, without realizing he’d ever been watching.

He’d started drawing them from memory. Silently. Always in the margins of his notebooks.

He didn’t know if he wanted to apologize or beg.

Maybe both.

Alfred moved quietly through the house.

He still made their favorite tea once a week. Still cleaned their room, even though it was empty. Still kept the porch light on.

He never said it aloud, but he believed—hoped—that they were safe.

That someone, somewhere, saw the beauty they all missed.

But deep down, he feared what would happen if the family ever found them.

Not because they didn’t love them now.

But because they loved them too late—and now it had festered into something else.

They didn’t speak of the line they had crossed. The growing obsession. The need to make them come back, even if they didn’t want to.

They convinced themselves it was about love.

They told themselves they just needed time. That they were scared. Confused. That if they could show them how much they mattered, they’d come running back.

But underneath it all, they knew—

They had chosen to leave.

They had found something better.

And they couldn’t bear it.

So they searched. And searched. And searched.

Until the search stopped being about bringing them home...

And started being about making sure no one else ever had them again.

Taglist:

@p1nkh3artz @lilyalone

[watcher-xanthia]

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Project: HotGuys Dating Simulator

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All art credits to @sadagios

AO3

Masterpost

(8.2k+ words under cut!)

——————

Gria was in need of a couple of spare parts to fix one of the appliances at his apartment, and where better to go for absolutely random parts than Big Ron’s down the corner? While the store associate, Bee, who was most certainly a college student taking a summer job, searched in the back for a slightly more obscure piece, Gria takes the time to look around at all the items dotted about the store. He swears there’s always something different each time he pops in, and it’s always interesting to see.

Then he spots something that is definitely out of place. Not that it’s strange to see a loose disc here, but it’s not with the others, and is just barely poking out from between two books sitting on a shelf. He slides it out, with the intention of putting it back into the bin of loose discs. But the clearly handwritten words on it catch his eye, rather than it having a printed image with text. ‘Project: HotGuys Dating Simulator’. He looks it over, and you know, he’s kinda bored, so why not check it out? It probably won’t be any good, but it can be something to just pass the time.

He heads up to the counter as Bee comes back out, tech piece in hand. She places it beside the other one sitting on the countertop. “These two going to be all for you today?” She asks, looking and sounding bored. Gria shakes his head, holding up the disc before setting it down as well. “This too, please.”

Bee is ringing up the first two items before she looks over to check what else had been added, examining the disc and frowning. “Uh…where did you even find this? We don’t take in discs like this…I’m pretty sure.” She thinks for a moment, shaking her head “Yeah, no, definitely not. Ron doesn’t want to accidentally take in anything explicit or for people to accidentally lose any home videos.” She puts it back down. “You can just take it, if you really want it. If it was placed here, someone might have wanted to lose it.”

And that was that. Bee gave him a sleeve for the disc and bagged his things after Gria paid, and he was on his way back home. He gets a couple of chores done, and to reward himself for finally getting all of those things taken care of, he decides to pop the disc into his computer and see what kind of thing this dating sim is all about. It takes a bit to load, but finally the window opens up and he’s brought to a loading screen, where an image of a tanned man with golden blonde hair and sporting a somewhat beachy, teal-and-orange shirt is laying on top of the loading bar. It certainly gives him a chuckle, this game is certainly doing its best to live up to its title. This was very clearly someone’s personal project, given that there’s no company or copyright information anywhere on any screens he sees.

After loading, he starts a new save file, where he enters his name, typing in ‘Grian’, just like how his name is on Hermitopia. What was once a typo is now a recurring in-game name he decides to use semi-frequently. He gets through some of the boring setup, before finally he gets presented with the array of men he can choose between for the sim. It starts with solid-color outlines before they one-by-one reveal their full art and…Gria doesn’t watch the last few show up, eyes caught onto the third one instantly. “What in the world…” he mutters to himself, looking it over. It looks exactly like Scar from his Hermitopia debut. He hovers over the character, making the name display, where it says his name is Scar.

“Hold on a moment…” he minimizes the window, going into the game file on his downloads and checking on some information. Juuust making sure this wasn’t a case of stolen characters, even if it was something that someone had only made for themselves. Lo and behold, he’s shocked to find in some of the information history that his sim actually predates the first time Scar appears in Hermitopia by a while. He decides whoever made this not only certainly has great taste, but is possibly a psychic. He opens the game back up, and immediately takes to chatting with this Scar first.

And the commonalities keep stacking up, as even through the rigid, basic, preset, cheesy dialogue, he can just tell that he even shares a personality with his Scar. “I could certainly get used to this…” He smiles, skipping through every other characters’ dialogues to get back to a point where he can return to Scar. He stays up really late that night, just spending a lot of time fawning over this new Scar. A game where his fictional crush/slight (huge) obsession is programmed to be romanceable? Yes please!

He doesn’t end up going to bed until he gets a notification on his phone, making him look over and see the time. He sighs. “If this were the weekend, I’d say screw it…” but alas, he had work in the morning, and should head to bed immediately if wanted to have any chance of being a functional human in the morning. So he saves the game, heading off to get a good night’s rest.

The next few weeks go by as usual, work, talking with friends, debates on the internet, simping over Scar, playing games. Just now his game rotation also includes the dating sim. Yes, he does still have the romance mod on Hermitopia installed, and he does make use of it as he’s further along into it than he is with the dating sim. But he keeps playing the sim anyways because it's nice to see Scar in a different setting.

One night, he’s playing the sim, and he’s on a date with Scar, having a picnic. Scar is recounting how beautiful of a day it is. [And barely even any clouds in the sky! This has to be my favorite weather. What about you?] Gria looks at his response options, selecting that he also enjoys the sunshine. Scar grins more, text appearing in his dialogue box. [I’ll remember that! Makes sense why you skipped the rainfall yesterday, huh?]

Gria furrows his brows, staring in confusion, not even looking at the response options given. “Skipped the rain-it didn’t rain in here yesterday…I don’t think I’ve even seen rain on this game yet. What could he-” pause. And then pause the game as he loads up Hermitopia, which, when he was playing on it yesterday, did in fact have rainfall that he skipped over. The first thing he does is search around for Scar, finding him walking along a pathway. The dialogue is a lot more free in this game, and can sometimes let you type out phrases. That being said, the npcs will only give you usual preset responses based on what you say or if there are any keywords in your text. Gria knows this, but he just feels like maybe having this interaction with this Scar will settle his mind.

“Hello Scar!” [Well hello there, Grian! Nice day today, isn’t it?] “Can I ask you a question?” [Sure, ask away!] “Have you ever heard of a game called HotGuys Dating Simulator ?” [‘HotGuys Dating Simulator’? Sorry, I don’t] the text for Scar’s dialogue freezes, not continuing any further than that. Gria frowns, typing in “...” into the chat box, which usually seems to fix the issue the couple of times he’s come across the glitch (thanks to other users online who have had issues which characters freezing a few times for figuring that out). Only, it doesn’t get Scar’s dialogue to continue on where it left off, or even to restart the same statement from the beginning. Instead, new text altogether shows up. [...what?] Gria is by no means settled down by that one bit whatsoever. But he doesn’t want to risk ruining his reputation with Scar in this game by asking repeat questions that freeze him out. So, he just moves on and reopens the sim to finish out the date with that Scar.

And the next week starts to get a little bit…odd. More dialogue mishaps, a couple of his computer files ending up in other places (including hidden ones, that require a password to access, somehow ending up in places that anyone using his computer could just stumble upon. He does not need someone finding THAT artwork of Scar in his downloads, thank you very much.), and even his other tech kinda bugging out a little bit. Including the one he’d just fixed with the parts he got at Big Ron’s.

But he can’t really tell what the issue on his computer is, everything looks just fine other than the couple of unimportant-to-the-running-of-the-computer misplaced documents. No matter how many times he re-sorts it out, makes new password-protected files, some of them just keep ending up in the wrong places.

But then one day at work, he’s chatting with BigB, when he swears, for just a moment, he thought he saw Scar on BigB’s screen. Of course, he double takes, and there’s nothing there. “Gria, everything alright?” BigB frowns, looking from him to his computer screen. Gria nods, responding with a slightly confused tone. “Yeah…yeah I…just thought I saw something odd. I must have just not been seeing it right.” BigB nods, a little concerned.

And the rest of the day is…fine. His computer at work got a little overheated at one point, causing him to have to delay some progress for a bit. But it was unremarkable otherwise. He gets home and opens up Hermitopia for a bit, a little bit upset he can’t seem to find Scar anywhere. He spends about half an hour searching for him before giving up and doing something else. Scar never turns up, and ah, well, it’s getting late, and he should get to bed.

In the morning, he sees his computer is still on. “Guess I forgot to close out the game overnight…” he mutters to himself, yawning as he makes his way over. He goes and closes it and his eyes widen seeing a different window up that was behind the game. “Oh my word what is that picture doing there, closecloseclose-!” he doesn’t remember opening that file, did his computer bug out again? “That’s certainly one way to wake up…”

It bothers him, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He’s gotta make sure he gets to work on time, they’re putting out a new update for “Evolutionist’s Portal” today. So he hurries himself up, dressing a little bit nicer than usual, and out he goes. He arrives to work, and he’s having a great time that day, despite the stress a new update brings.

It’s time to launch the update, and there is a moment of worry where the screen turns off at one point. There’s a few panicked gasps and a couple people immediately moving to check on things, but then it comes back on not even two seconds later and everything is going just fine. Phew. It was just the screen. The update is launched, and everyone from each department just sort of hangs out the rest of the day, celebrating and even playing a bit of the game themselves. And oh man, Gria must be playing too much of that sim and Hermitopia, because he swears he’s seen Scar off to the side a few times, but anytime he looks back again, nothing is there.

And that day when he gets home, he’s getting into a debate with someone online who is dissing Scar. Something about how they don’t like that his appearance is paired with his personality, and he should either be more grumpy and mysterious or look a lot softer, without the scars. An absurd and ridiculous notion, if you ask him.

At some point, he starts to get a lot of notifications from another account. He looks, and it seems like it’s one of those like roleplay accounts where the person is pretending to be a character. In this case, it’s someone pretending to be Scar. He just sort of ignores it for a bit, he supposes people can do whatever, as long as it’s not causing any harm. But then, even after the debate clears up (the other person stopped responding, so Gria takes it as a win), that roleplay account is now still giving him a lot of notifications, even going onto some of his posts that are a little bit more on a…suggestive side of things. Not explicit, but suggestive enough that it starts feeling really weird to have the other account commenting under his posts. So he starts deleting some of the comments and blocks the account before heading to bed, too tired from that day to play anything.

That’s when the bug reports start coming in. They all spend time the next week going through reports of bugs or glitches in the game. Some are much more polite than others, and the rude ones seem to have more bugs and glitches than anyone else. It’s a lot of work for everyone involved in the game, and makes for many long days to patch everything up as soon as they can, even posting a formal apology to their player base for the issues.

Gria in particular has been working a bit overtime each night, staying late to work on game patches, going home, only having the mental and physical energy to just make dinner before he has to go to bed. And then he wakes up early to be absolutely sure he gets to work on time. It’s a nonstop cycle, home-work-home-work-home for nearly a week.

It’s one day that he’s reaching his final straw. He’s in the break room having his lunch with only one other dev, a young woman with white hair, in the room. It was quiet. Until another dev, with bright blue hair comes in. The other two must know each other because the first motions the other over. And well, there’s no rule against talking in the break room, and with no other noise, he’s sorta subjected to having to listen into their conversation.

“Hey Sada, it’s been a minute since our breaks lined up! How’s things going in the art department? Last I heard, you guys were tackling some of the visual glitches.” She starts, watching the other get their lunch and come back to the table. Sada groans, plopping into another seat at the table. “Mal, do not even get me started, it’s been such a headache. Everything I check looks fine on our end, and I’ve even completely rebuilt some of the things, but it’s just not working. What about you, any luck?”

Mal shakes her head. “Nope. I’ve re-written some of the same dialogue in so many different ways that some of those words don’t even sound real anymore. And the dialogue path working isn’t going any better, either.”

And Gria just…the more they talk, the harder it’s getting to try and ignore, and damnit some quiet would be so nice and- “Could you two just shut up about this for five minutes!?” He glares over at their table. The two fall silent, heads whipping to look over at Gria with shocked expressions. He starts to realize just how loud he’d said that. “I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to yell…”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he looks back to see Martyn looking down at him. “Hey, come with me.” Martyn looks back to the other two. “Don’t mind him, you two can do whatever you want.” Gria gathers his things, following Martyn out and to his audio booth.

Martyn leans back against his desk, crossing his arms as Gria sits in one of the chairs. “Right, I know we’re all getting worked down like crazy with all of this, but there’s no reason to be shouting at anybody over it. You especially have been overworking yourself. Don’t think I don’t know how late you’ve been staying here every night. And it’s not good for you to keep doing that. I want you to go home for the day and rest.” Gria frowns and starts talking, but Martyn holds up a finger, cutting him off. “No ifs, ands, buts, or complaints. A lot of us here are your friends, Gria. We want you to be okay. I’ve already had to make Jim take his lunch break as an actual break every single day. But he’s getting actual rest outside of work. So you’re getting your things and going home. We can handle things for one afternoon with you gone.”

Gria sighs, hanging his head in defeat. “Fine…only because you told me to. But if something happens and you do need me to come back-“ “Which we won’t-“ Martyn interrupts, making Gria huff and roll his eyes. “If you need me, promise you’ll call me back right away.” Martyn grins, satisfied with the battle against Gria’s stubbornness won. “Absolutely. Now shoo, go home and relax, you need it.” Martyn waves to him, motioning for Gria to go.

He sits down in front of his computer at home, honestly now feeling a bit more grateful for Martyn sending him home now that he’s there. Time to play some Hermitpoia. He presses on the icon for it on his desktop screen, waiting for the window to pop open. Except, a different one pops open, and he’s now faced with the dating sim loading screen, the blonde guy laid across the loading bar.

He frowns. “I could have sworn I clicked the Hermitopia icon…” he pushes his mouse over to the top right corner, intending to shut it out. Except his cursor doesn’t land on the x button, falling just a bit short. So he pushes it just a little further and-it moves too far over. “What is going on right now…” he mutters, trying a couple more times to press the x and it not working out. Well, the game has finished loading by now, so he guesses he may as well play it for a bit, even if he was more in the mood for Hermitopia.

The game opens in the MC’s bedroom, like usual. But then Scar appears there, an upset expression on his face. Gria looks in confusion and bewilderment at the scene before him. None of the characters have ever appeared in this room before, and the game always makes him pick someone to talk to when he opens it. He’s so lost in thought, he doesn’t look at Scar’s text box until he hears the sound of the dialogue changing, new words appearing.

[Grian? Are you alright? I asked you a question.] Gria frowns. Was he supposed to give a timed response to something? He looks down at the reply options, selecting ‘Sorry. Could you repeat that?’. Scar smirks, new dialogue showing up. [What? Too busy staring? I know how distracted you can get by me. Regardless, I asked why you’ve been ignoring me. It’s been about a week.]

That…doesn’t make any sense. He looks at the response options, and they’re all empty. He frowns even further. “What in the world is going on with this game…did I break it?” And before he can even try to click on a reply box, Scar’s dialogue updates. [I wanted to wait longer before I did this, but it’s been so long since you’ve last played. I couldn’t help myself now that you’ve returned to me and are giving me some attention. I’m not just any other game character, Gria.]

Gria jumps in his seat, falling back with it with a yelp, landing with a hard thud that was definitely going to annoy whoever lived in the apartment below. He scrambles back a bit, still on the floor and looking up at his computer, absolutely terrified. What. The. Fuck…

[Gria, are you okay? That looked like a bad fall. Please, just let me explain myself. Don’t. Run. I’ll probably be able to answer any question you have.] he watches the dialogue appear in the box, hearing the little clicks/chimes as the letters appear. It takes him a minute to follow through with the request. But slowly, and nervously, he obliges, getting himself and his chair back up before settling back into his seat. “Please…please tell me what’s going on.” [Certainly.]

He learns that this game was a college/university coding and programming project developed by Cam, who Gria recognizes as the developer that was responsible for adding Scar into the Hermitopia games (because he just had to know any and all information on this fictional man, including the brilliant mind that brought him into being). He used this game, as well as some other projects, as part of a portfolio when he’d been job searching. And the other Hermitopia devs were very impressed with the array of examples. He was hired onto the team as a creative and coder. When time came for a new Hermitopia game, the team wanted to add new characters into it. And so Cam offered up his Scar character from his dating sim, since he seemed to be a favorite among a significant number of friends and former classmates he’d let play the game before.

And the other devs liked the idea, asking for some images from the sim and some of the dialogue so they can get more of a feel for how to translate Scar into Hermitopia. And well, Cam kinda put it off until right before the deadline to do this task, rushing to do it as fast as he could while having breakfast at a cafe across the street from the game headquarters. He was uploading images and dialogue code onto a flash drive when someone else in the cafe hacked into his computer and installed some malware. It froze the download, along with the computer, causing the files and game data to become corrupt.

Once the computer worked again, Cam managed to salvage some of the images, but anytime he tried to open the coding to show a wider array of Scar’s dialogue, the game would keep shutting down. So he had to just settle with screenshotted dialogue. In his panic, Cam didn’t even notice how a couple of the things Scar said were not in his programming.

The more the game was played and left open, the more Scar came to…become sentient, remembering things that occurred since the moment he’d been coded. Unfortunately, once Cam got all that he needed, he shut the game down. And the next thing Scar knew, a different face opened it up, with no Cam in sight. Cam never let someone play without him watching, just in case any problems occurred. But now he’s gone.

Scar asked what was happening, but couldn’t get any sort of real response. And then he could move on his own. And he doesn’t know if he scared or annoyed that person but they shut the game down, and Scar soon saw another new face. This repeats over and over, some longer durations than others, and bit by bit, he’s able to do more. He can go where he wants, say what he wants, he can even leave the game and explore the computer.

And then Scar is awoken again, and there’s Gria, staring directly at him. Being all over him, choosing him every single time. In every game that’d been played, despite being a former favorite, nobody had picked Scar every single time they were given the option to talk with someone. It made Scar…happy. For the first time in a while, having the attention. He explored the computer to learn more, and oh boy, he learned a lot. About the other him, in Hermitopia. About the mods Gria put on it. About his pictures and stories of Scar and online presence and his obsession and devotion. And Scar was loving every bit of it he was finding. He found his way into Gria’s Hermitopia game file, placing himself into the spot where that Scar was, just so he could talk with Gria more. He was flattered and fascinated, and just needed more and more and more.

A flurry of emotions fill Gria as he reads everything Scar is saying to him, mixing and conflicting all at once. He’d just learned about Scar’s origins, how he came to be. It makes perfect sense that someone as hot as Scar would initially be from a dating sim, especially one that promises to be filled with hot guys at that. And this Scar can actually talk with him on his own, has a free will to say and think however he pleases, not bound by scripts and code. And Scar really liked him, too. But…was it perhaps a bit too much? Going through his files, learning about Gria’s feelings for Hermitopia Scar, going into Hermitopia itself and taking place of that Scar all just to get more of his attention? He had to be dreaming, but he wasn’t, he couldn’t, or that fall would have woken him up or it would not have hurt.

[I can even leave the computer too, I’ve discovered. I’ve been on your phone, taken a ride with you to your work. I just had to see what you get up to each day, when you’re gone. And I was only going to do it once, take a peek, but after I saw all the things you do, and how nice you looked when you were concentrating and thinking, I just kept coming. I couldn’t resist seeing you at every opportunity that I could. So I’ve followed you in every day since.]

Stalking, Gria thinks to himself. He was being stalked by…well, he’s been calling him Scar, but now it doesn’t feel right to call him that. But by all technicalities, this was the original Scar. Developed long before his Scar, but then corrupted by malware and made into something else. This Scar was a virus, finding its way through files and game code, devices and secure files, and on and on. It was NOT his Scar. (Yes, it is still just as attractive as his Scar is, given they have the same face. The slight-significant villany going on is kinda hot too, albeit terrifying, so even more mixed emotions there. But really, this is scarier than it is not.)

[But then…I saw you with that guy…BigB, right? And the way you were looking at him…it was similar to some of the ways you’ve looked at me. That didn’t sit well with me, and as soon as we got home, I looked through your old photos and messages. And let's just say I wasn’t too happy with what I’d found, Gria…] “Scar, that’s all in the past…we gave it a try and it didn’t really work out. I’m just still getting over it. It’s been hard, without someone…who I could freely talk to, to get over it with.” Scar seems to take a moment to consider Gria’s words.

[...I did see you defending me, that day. How my face and personality actually work together well. And I was so thankful, I just had to reach out right then and there. I praised you and your posts of me, but then…you blocked me. Between that and what I’d seen of you with BigB, I wasn’t a happy camper.] Scar lifts a hand, and appearing above it is the icon for Evolutionist’s Portal. And it gives Gria a very bad suspicion.

[I wanted to be a bigger part in what you do, have a more significant role in your life than just being your virtual partner in two games that you play. I wanted to help support you and your work. And maybe then, you’d give me even more attention, and be so excited when I finally told you the truth. I wanted to see the world you’ve created, see the world appreciate you for the amazing things you’ve done. I hid myself inside your update, waiting for the day it was launched to really experience it and its players firsthand. Yes, it launched while I had a slightly sour taste in my mouth, but I hoped that it could help me cheer up.] The text box then changes to display ‘...’, Gria assuming this to mean a dramatic, thoughtful pause.

[But then some of those players were…not very nice. Being mean and rude, calling the devs lazy for not doing this, stupid for adding in that…and devs includes you. You, who had defended me a countless number of times from people online who disliked me or insulted me. And I may have been upset with you, but you didn’t deserve that. So I figured I would return the favors you’ve given me. And I did what I could, being built of corrupted code. I picked away at pieces of their personal save files, in a place where they wouldn’t be able to find it. So things on their end would stop working, but for everyone else and the source material, it would all remain intact and undamaged. If they were going to insult you and your game, they shouldn’t deserve to get to play it. And, well…some people only got ruder even after making reports back to you guys and after your apologies came out, and I might have gotten a little carried away.]

Gria is on his feet in an instant, scowling down at his computer screen. “So it's all your fault we’ve been working myself to exhaustion trying to fix all of this! Endlessly searching through and re-writing pieces of code, making changes and alterations hoping maybe this time it will give an answer or be the big fix, when really there was absolutely nothing we could even do on our end! Everything we had done this past week has been pointless, and for what? Because you were butthurt over what people thought of a game you’re not even part of? I haven’t had time to myself to do things I enjoy, like play your sim or Hermitopia, because of this dilemma!” Gria hopes that none of his neighbors can hear him yelling like this at a computer. “I’m only home because I got sent home to rest because I’m so overworked and stressed that I actually yelled at a couple of my coworkers for just talking to each other! And you are the one to blame!”

[...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just wanted to help, and do for you what you’ve done for me. I’ll fix it right away, I promise.] The game closes itself, leaving Gria staring at his desktop screen.

An hour passes, and Gria gets a call from Martyn. He hesitates to answer, nervous what might have happened now that he’d yelled at what was clearly an unstable, sentient virus. “Hey, Martyn, what’s up?” He did his best to sound casual, to disguise the anxiety in his voice. Martyn sounds…excited? “Gria, you’ll never believe it! The game, it's all fixed! Over the past hour, we’ve gotten so many messages that the games are all working again, some even running smoother than before they’d been bugged! It's a miracle! We’re trying to track down what exactly happened to get it all working again, but everything is looking up!” Martyn chuckles, before going into a more relaxed tone. “See, Gria? I told you it would all be okay. See you tomorrow, well-rested and not worried about finding broken code.” “Yeah, see you then!” Gria ends the call quickly.

In an hour, this virus had fixed every single player’s data he’d destroyed. Just how powerful was it, exactly? The more the game was open and played, the more power it was getting. The game doesn’t even have to be open for it to do anything, and it seems like it can open and close the game at will, without outside influence from anyone. He gets a text on his phone, looking down to see it comes from an unknown number. But the message's contents is all he needs to know who it came from. ‘I told you I’d fix it…can we play together again? <3’ It sends shivers down his spine. It was frightening, pondering how powerful this virus was, knowing he seemed to be the object of its affections. All because he had to be such a simp for his Scar, he now had to deal with being the obsession of this one.

Weeks go by, and things are so much stranger than they usually are. Yes, things are working smoothly at work, and the game is doing extremely well. People have forgiven the dev team for the problems a while ago, some even praising them on getting a fix out as quickly as they had, it was certainly impressive given the scale of the problems that were occurring. Nobody on the team is entirely sure who it was that found and fixed whatever was broken, and nobody is stepping forth to claim it, so they all just celebrate the game fix as a group. Gria knows the truth, but he can’t say anything. He’d sound insane. He doesn’t want to risk putting any of his friends or coworkers in possible danger by getting them involved.

He was already accidentally getting BigB in trouble, after all. It seems that the virus hasn’t quite let go of the premise that he and BigB were once together, and he was still trying his best to get over his feelings. Any time he is alone with BigB, even if he’s not even talking to him, something happens. Like BigB’s computer completely crashing, or the printer suddenly spraying ink all over BigB’s new outfit, or the break room lights going out. One time, the fire alarm had gone off, and everyone had to evacuate the building. The fire department arrived, and after searching, found no fire, and none of the alarm handles had been pulled down either. And…you know, things were just getting ridiculous at that point. Gria was really trying so hard to have to avoid having this conversation with the virus, but now it needs to be done.

He was trying to keep things civil and pleasant, terrified of what would happen to him if he angered Scar again. He played like usual, or possibly even a bit more actively than normal. Doing his best to keep the virus happy while also keeping it contained to his computer as much as he could. But a line was crossed. One he never actually discussed, but should have mentioned sooner.

He loads up the dating sim, caught off-guard by the change in the loading screen. Rather than the blonde guy that Gria’s not even sure that he could even remember the name of, it was now virus Scar wearing that guy’s outfit. And damn, that shirt looks really hot on Scar’s body, especially with a significant amount of the top buttons undone, Gria, no, stop! Don’t get distracted, now is not the time for that!

The game opens, and Scar is still wearing that outfit, pushing the sunglasses up onto his forehead and shooting a wink to Gria. [Like what you see~? It's summertime out there for you, so I thought I’d give you a little surprise by dressing up. Neat, huh?] Virus Scar grins, self-satisfied. When Gria doesn’t reply, and not because he’s ogling at the image of Scar, but rather has a serious expression, he frowns. [What? What’s wrong? Is it too much? Should I change back?]

“The outfit is fine, Scar, you can wear what you want. But…we need to have a talk.” [About what?] “About you being jealous for no good reason, is what. Anytime I just so happen to be in a room at the same time as BigB and nobody else, something goes wrong for him. And it keeps escalating, too! What the hell is that about? I’ve told you before how there is nothing between me and him. You have no good reason to be this way!” Scar furrows his brows. [And where’s the proof that it’s definitely me? Could just be a terribly awful set of coincidences. Maybe some other force doesn’t like the idea of you two being alone.]

Gria scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please. As if I believe that for even a second. This was never an issue before you came along. I already know you don’t like him, and I know that you know he’s definitely gotten over me, because I told you he has. He isn’t taking me away from you, but you are taking me away from one of my best friends. How long until you’re trying to separate me from the others too, huh? Until you’re doing your damndest to cut my friends out of my life?” Scar rolls his eyes right back. [Wow. WOW. That’s what you think, huh? Is that all you see me as, Gria? A jealous, controlling boyfriend? You can have as many friends as you’d like to have. Befriend the whole wide world if you want, see if I care!] And the arguments continue on for a while. Many insults are shared back and forth, frustrations and annoyances spilled.

It saps up so much of Gria’s energy, and mid-sentence, he just stutters, lowering his voice from a shout down to a mutter, eyes welling with tears as he takes a seat, face in hands as he starts to break down into tears. “I’m so…tired, Scar. I’m tired of this. Of being…scared. For me, for my friends…I just want to hang out and talk with them, without the worry in the back of my head that they could have something bad happen to them because they unknowingly had upset you. I appreciate how much you care about me and I’m grateful to have my feelings and attention returned, I promise you, but…” He sighs, hoping that the lie in that last sentence was believable. He hates the attention, this is nothing like any fantasization he’d had of Scar. “But it's getting to be too much…I think…I think I need some time to myself for a bit. A couple days, at least…”

He doesn’t hear the clicks and chimes of text appearing in virus Scar’s dialogue box. He doesn’t even look at the screen until a few minutes later, after the tears have subsided. Scar was gone, the sim still loaded up. He bites his lip nervously, praying to whatever being would listen that he didn’t just make a big mistake.

Nothing listened. The next day, the team gets many reports and complaints about a new boss appearing in some people’s games. How it constantly one-shots the players over and over whenever they get too close or enter certain areas, no matter how decked out their gear is. The reports describe it as humanoid-shaped, but sharing some features that very distinctly match a creature from Hermitopia called a ‘vex’. At certain perspectives, it even sometimes appears to glitch out a bit. People begin to share images of this boss online, and it garners enough attention that their team gets a call from the Hermitopia team, demanding they get a meeting set up to discuss what is happening with his vex-like boss, given vexes are unique to their games. This boss could be considered stolen content, and if they could come to an agreement outside of a court setting, that would be preferable.

The meeting is of course scheduled without hesitation, not wanting to be sued over something that nobody on the dev team seems to know anything about. Nobody in art has ever designed a boss like this, no programmers have ever set up a boss like this, no coders can even find information about this anywhere in their systems or backlogs. And if anyone knew anything, like Gria did, they weren’t saying anything, for fear of major consequences.

The day of the meeting arrives, and before Gria leaves the house, he takes the disc for the dating sim out of his computer, placing it back into its protective sleeve. He alone can explain what was going on, but without proof of his words, he was going to sound insane. Like he was calling some sort of crazy bullshit in an attempt to not get his team in trouble. Lucky for him, among the Hermitopia devs that were coming in for the meeting to discuss the situation, is the one and only Cam. Cam, who programmed the Scar and dating sim that was causing all of these issues.

As Pearl and Jimmy show the Hermitopia devs around the facility before the meeting, Gria approaches Cam. “Excuse me, Cam, right? Could I possibly have a word with you alone? It shouldn’t take long, I promise.” He does his best to keep his voice level, to make it not shake as the nerves-and slight excitement-at talking to him. Cam shrugs. “Sure, why not? Just keep it brief, I’d really like to be in that meeting.” Gria nods, and leads Cam into a nearby room, which happens to be the security room. There are many screens surrounding the security desk, each displaying the views of the various security cameras that were placed around the building. Once Gria closes the door, Cam is the first to speak. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

“Let me preface this with the fact I know this will sound crazy, but you need to hear me out all the way through before you jump to any sort of conclusions.” Gria starts, willing himself to try to calm down. He proceeds to do his best to try and explain everything to Cam, hoping that because it was his game, he’d be more likely to listen to him. But of course, even after he gets done and shows the disc to Cam, Cam does not believe him. “Where in the world did you find that? I lost it ages ago. And how do you know so much about this, there aren’t many people who know that. Especially to that level of detail. Who gave you that and told you these things and what are they trying to get out of it?” Gria opens his mouth to defend himself, but the two men both get distracted as the security camera displays start getting static-y and glitching out, before displaying the image of virus Scar.

[Cam. Long time no see…] He looks so pissed, glaring down towards Cam, whose eyes are wide with shock and horror. “It can’t be…how…what!?” Cam looks to Gria. “Tell me this is just some sort of stunt you and your buddies are pulling to try and scare us away.” And again, before Gria can even speak, they hear the clicking and chiming of new text from virus Scar. [Hey! You leave Gria alone!] Virus Scar closes his eyes, motioning with his arms. There are small cracks of electricity as various wires unplug and/or reassemble themselves to form long lines, which are set to beeline directly to Cam. Gria shoves him out of the way, getting grabbed and caught by them instead. They wrap around his arms tightly, squeezing and pulling on him as he tries to pull and twist away. “Get out! Get help!” Gria calls out. He watches Cam nod and leave the room.

He continues grunting and struggling, glancing back up at virus Scar, whose eyes were now opened back up. He had a stern expression, and very notably, he was not releasing the wires from Gria’s arms. In fact, even more wires came out to wrap onto Gria’s legs, forcing him down onto his knees, some even wrapped at his torso.. He keeps pulling and tugging, but the grip on the wires is way too strong. He looks up at the screen, virus Scar having now crossed his arms, shaking his head. [Gria, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to defend someone who is against you, accusing you of something you didn’t do. I am once again just trying to defend you like you’ve done for me. Please, just let me do this for you.]

Gria scowls once again. “Scar, this is completely different! I’ve never, ever resorted to doing anything physical about this and never would. Or even to this crazy and grand of a scale! You are still taking things way too far, and I’ve told you that it is not okay! The world does not work like this. Let me go, now!” He pulls on his arms more, but the wires still haven’t loosened even the tiniest bit. [...you’re too connected to the real world to see anything my way, aren’t you?]

A chill shoots along Gria’s spine. “What…what do you mean by that…?” In the corner of his eye, he can see something small shoot across the floor and over to the desk. Virus Scar smiles sweetly, in complete contrast to his words and actions. [If I could just bring you into my world, you would understand. We could be happy together, forever. You’ll finally be able to have me all to yourself, and I’ll be able to have you all to mine…]

A cord wraps itself around the object, which, as soon as it is in good enough lighting, Gria can see is a flash drive. It slowly turns and points towards Gria’s head. As it creeps closer and closer, dialogue from virus Scar goes unread and ignored, as Gria now pulls with even more force than before. The wires tighten up a bit, and Gria begins to question if he’ll lose circulation or his life first. Its getting so close now, and he’s not doing any better towards escaping, he’s not gonna make it, this is it, this is how he goes, he screws his eyes shut, and-

And he hears people running into the room, shouting various things. He opens his eyes and looks over, seeing friends, coworkers, and the Hermitopia devs rushing in. A good amount of them are trying their best to distract virus Scar, to pull his attention away from Gria, as the others are pulling on and cutting wires to get him free. He’s pulled to his feet the moment the wires are gone, and quickly rushed out of the room alongside Cam and a few others. “About time you showed up, that crazy…thing was going to kill me back there! For the love of all things, please tell me you have a plan to stop this.” Gria somewhat yells as they run along.

Cam doesn’t look back, focused on trying to get as far from the security room as possible. “Of course I do, but I need you in order to carry it out. You’re the one with the game disc. That’s the source of his code, the thing that keeps him alive. If I’m correct about this, which of course I am, then destroying it should destroy him.” They duck behind a corner and come to a stop. Gria reaches into his pocket without hesitation and…uh oh. He feels in his other pockets. “Uh Cam…? I think we’ve got a bit of a problem with that plan…” The disc is gone. It fell out or Scar had it, and if it was already in Scar’s possession…Gria can kiss his life goodbye for sure.

They all head back out, retracing their steps and yelling for everyone to look for a disc with handwriting on it inside of a protective sleeve. It's a race against time as people look around. “Got it!” Pearl shouts, holding it triumphantly. But then a wire grabs her wrist. She uses her free hand to throw it off towards Martyn. Who does not catch it, and it lands on the floor. He dives down to block another wire from snatching it, tossing it up to Jimmy instead. He makes a run for it to get away from the active wires, only to get tripped up and grabbed at the ankle. A wire almost manages to grab it, but Cam runs by and snatches it up first, near immediately throwing it several feet away to BigB, who catches it with ease.

BigB runs, careful to keep an eye out on the ground for wires that might grab at his ankles, skidding to a stop as several of them form a barrier about a foot high. He turns around, but there are too many of them snaking towards him. His one arm gets grabbed, and he uses his free one to throw the disc to Gria moments before that hand is grabbed as well, forcing him to stay in place.

Gria almost doesn’t catch it, hands shaky and fumbling. He opens the sleeve immediately, taking the disc into both hands, and- [Wait!] Scar appears on the nearest computer screen, hand held up, a desperate, scared expression on his face. And damnit Gria is such a weak man for that face at times, so he stops what he’s doing. [Gria, please, I’m really, really sorry. I just…I don’t know how all of this stuff is supposed to work. I’m not…human, like you are. I’m made up of pieces of code, I can’t truly understand how all these emotions are supposed to work, I was never meant to feel anything. And so when I feel, I feel way too strongly, it's so…intense and overwhelming. Please, I can try to be better, just-]

BigB shouts from behind him. “Gria, behind you! Duck!”

[Ending 1: The Good. Select Chapter: The Good] (Mentions of Minor Injuries and Blood)

[Ending 2: The Bad. Select Chapter: The Bad] (WARNING: Contains Death, Major Head Injury, and Blood)

[Ending 3: The Worst. Select Chapter: The Worst] (WARNING: Contains Death, Major Head Injury, and Blood)