#with buttons for the main pages to the right of them

[pileofpawns]

spent a good 20 minutes yesterday daydreaming about what a hypothetical personal website for myself would look like

[2001honda-civic]

hey are you a conclave fan ?? don't understand all the stuff the cardinals are wearing ?? want to write about them celebrating mass but don't know what they wear ?? want to know more about snazzy catholic fashion ?? worry no longer !!

procrastinating hard on writing my own fic so i started researching clerical clothing because i love symbolism and fashion, here are the fruits of my labour. i'm not catholic nor was i raised one so sorry for any inaccuracies, at the end of the day this is just to help people write fic. if you see any spelling mistakes though no you didn't.

i tried to include anything that might help or inspire people, including for aus or just playing dress up with old men. hope its of use !!! this took me a really long time please clap

also i cannot be bothered to change it but on the liturgical 2 page, in the part about ferulas i keep mentioning pius xi. its actually pius ix.

more detailed image id under the cut, with plain text if you can't read my handwriting. really really long so watch out

this is kind of hard to format so im just going to do the image id followed by its annotations as a list, i hope thats good

FIRST PAGE

CARDINALS: everyday wear -> main colour is red, symbolising the blood they are willing to shed for christ.

[image id: three cardinals in everyday wear standing next to each other, smiling at the camera. the one in the middle is not wearing a sash, and the one on the left is not wearing an elbow-length cape. they are all holding briefcases. end id]

zuchetto: scarlet watered silk skullcap

cassock: black wool with red silk piping. 33 buttons for the 33 years that christ lived. sometimes called a soutane, or if the pellegrina is attatched, a simar.

this weird second sleeve thing isn't in the movie design.

fascia scarlet watered silk sash with tassels. symbolises celibacy (wide eyed emoji). optional but almost always worn.

pectoral cross: personalised cross suspended from a chain over the chest.

gold ring: gifted by the pope to symbolise the bond with the papacy.

its hard to see, but the inside of the cassock and pellegrina is also red

pellegrina: optional elbow length cape that matches the cassock. these don't typically have buttons, but in the movie they do. they're also slightly longer in the movie.

clerical collar: white plastic, cotton, or linen collar. in the movie design, there is no slot for the collar in the front.

[image id: a half body image of a cardinal, in a white version of the everyday cassock. end id]

in tropical countries cassocks can be white instead.

[image id: a screenshot from the conclave movie, specifically from lawrence's homily. it is cropped only to show his hand, and there is a ring on his middle finger. end id]

lawrence's ring

[image id: a full body shot of a cardinal walking to the right. he is wearing in a long black cloak. end id]

tabarro: black broad-cloth cloak with shoulder cape. technically no longer allowed (?) but i think that's just the red version.

[image id: a half body shot of a cardinal smiling at the camera. he is holding a biretta and wearing a long red cape that is fastened by a red ribbon. end id]

ferraiolo: scarlet watered silk cape fastened by a ribbon. not that common anymore i think? (hence why only tedesco, being more traditional, wears it)

[image id: a screenshot from the conclave movie, specifically the start, when lawrence is walking down a road. it is cropped only to show lawrence's upper body. he is in his everyday wear, and wearing a black cape end id]

longer, buttoned pellegrina. basically a black mozzetta (see choir dress)

[image id: a screenshot of the conclave movie, of bellini in the cafeteria. cropped to only show his upper body. he is wearing a black coat. end id]

[image id: a poster for conclave, with a line up of tremblay, sister agnes, lawrence, and bellini. cropped only to show their upper bodies. end id]

no opening for clerical collar, with the exception of bellini's coat/jacket.

no second sleeve.

[image id: a small doodle of cardinal tedesco wearing his red cloak with coloured lineart. he is holding his vape. end id]

SECOND PAGE

CARDINALS: choir dress

[image id: a fullbody shot of a cardinal in full choir dress. he is holding his hands at his front. end id]

mozzetta: scarlet elbow length cape. made of wool with silk lining. 12 buttons for the 12 apostles.

pectoral cross: personalised cross suspended from a red and gold cord. the cord also has a tassel in the back.

cassock and fascia: the same as everyday dress except that the cassock is red and not black.

rochet: white linen or muslin tunic, usually with a lace trim. designs of the lace vary from person to person. rochets are very different in the movie - with the exception of benitez, all the rochets are the same. they all reach to the mid-calf rather than the mid-thigh or knee. they're very plain, with no lace trim or other designs.

biretta: square, ridged cap worn over the zuchetto. one corner has no ridge, and is always worn on the left. not actually worn in the movie, but you can see it on the way to and in the sistine chapel.

[image id: two images of the cord used to hang a pectoral cross on a grey background. the first shows the full cord, with a hook on one end and a tassel on the other. there are three knots at different points on the cord. the second image is a close up of the tassel. end id]

[pointing in between the two knots closest to the tassel] neck goes in here, fastened by these knob thingys (you can see this when lawrence is getting ready for the "pope who doubts" homily).

[image id: a doodle of cardinal lawrence with coloured line art. he is in his choir dress, stressed and holding a turtle. end id]

[image id: a cardinal and a monsignor walking past an altar in a church. the cardinal is in choir dress, and is wearing a red cape with a very long train. the monsignor is wearing a purple cassock and holding the train of the cardinal's cloak above the ground. they are both facing away from the camera. end id]

cappa magna: long as fuck red watered silk cape with a 7 metre long train. hood is lined with ermine fur in the winter. rarely worn in modern times, and only in processions. like the galero, generally only the traditionalists care for it.

[image id: full body shot of two cardinals looking at booklets. they are both in choir dress. one of their rochets is more lacy, and the other more plain. end id]

more examples of rochets, including one that looks similar to benitez'

[image id: a half body shot of a cardinal in choir dress. he is also wearing a long red cape and wide brimmed red hat. he is holding his hands at his front. end id]

galero: scarlet wide brimmed hat with 15 tassels attached at the sides. used to be given by the pope to every newly created cardinal, but is no only made on request. the only example i can find of a modern day cardinal wearing a galero is cardinal burke, who is a mega traditionalist/conservative freak. a galero is still featured on the cardinal coat of arms however.

[image id: cardinal tagle's coat of arms. in the centre is a shield, with a long stemmed double barred gold cross behind it. above the shield is a red galero, with 15 tassels attached on each side. they are arranged in a triangle shape on either side of the shield. at the bottom is white scroll with the motto "dominus est" in black text. end id]

shield and motto varies, but always has a galero

[image id: a behind the scenes photo from conclave. john lithgow, carlos diehz, robert harris, lucian msamati, and ralph fiennes are standing together in the set for the sistine chapel, smiling at the camera. the actors are all in choir dress. end id]

much longer, more simplistic rochet with a big as fuck hem. it's also slightly off white?

like in the book, benitez' rochet is too long, reaching to the bottom of his cassock. it also has a more "realistic" trim design. unlike the rest of the cardinals it seems to be pure white (hello symbolism).

benitez doesn't have a cord

THIRD PAGE

POPE -> main colour is white to symbolise purity

unlike the rest of the catholic clergy, the pope's dress isn't strictly regulated. what each pope wears varies and usually reflects their own views - e.g. pope benedict xvi wore a lot of clothes that had fallen out of use in the papacy, while pope francis refused to wear a lot of the more ornate clothing (basically, you can do what you want).

[image id: full body shot of pope francis walking towards the camera. a monsignor stands behind him. end id]

base everyday wear is the same as cardinals a bishops, but all white. always a simar.

[image id: full body shot of pope benedict xvi. he is speaking into a microphone, reading off a piece of paper. end id]

pope's loafers are traditionally red to represent the blood of saints, but both francis and leo instead have black shoes.

fascia has gold tassels, and is traditionally embroidered with the papal coat of arms. francis and leo have plain fascias

[image id: pope benedict xvi greeting people in saint peter's square. cropped to show only his upper body. he is wearing a red straw hat that has gold detailing. end id]

capello romano, red straw hat with a strip of red silk around the crown, embroidered with gold. also called a saturno.

[image id: a doodle of pope innocent xiv in his white cassock, with colour line art. he is smiling and making a peace sign. end id]

yay !

[image id: half body shot of pope paul vi, who has two fingers raised. he is wearing a red cloak that has gold edges. end id]

red papal tabarro, not used since benedict xvi.

[image id: four images of the rings worn by the pope. the first is of benedict xvi's, gold with an engraving of saint peter. the ring is on his ring finger as he hold a piece of paper. the second image is of pope francis', silver with an engraving of a cross. it is on his ring finger as he holds his pectoral cross. the final two images are two different angles of pope leo xiv's ring, which is gold. one shows that the inside has an engraving of leo xiv's coat of arms. the other shows that the inside also has his name engraved, and the outside has an engraving of st peter. end id]

ring of the fisherman/piscatory ring customised to each pope. usually gold (francis' is gold plated silver), with an engraving of saint peter. the fisherman part is a reference to mathew 4:19 and mark 1:17, where jesus tells saint peter and the apostle andrew that he will make them "fishers of men". presented to the pope during his inauguration (there's only been 5 inaugurations - i can't find who presented the ring for john paul i & ii, but both benedict xvi and francis had it presented by the dean of the college of cardinals (i.e. lawrence). leo xiv of course had cardinal tagle, who isn't dean - the rules for papal inaugurations are quite vague so each individual pope does whatever. in the days of papal coronations the ring would be presented by the camerlengo (i.e. tremblay)

[image id: half body shot of pope john paul ii greeting someone off screen. he is wearing full papal choir dress, including a stole. end id]

[image id: a screenshot from pope leo xiv's first appearance as pope. he is wearing full papal choir dress and waving. a monsignor and bishop stand either side of him. end id]

in choir dress, pope wears a rochet and red mozzetta over his everyday wear, as well as a stole sometimes. i don't think francis ever wore ful choir dress, but he did sometimes wear just a stole.

mozzetta is satin, not wool

gold cord

stole of the four evangelists, much more heavily embroidered than a typical stole.

[image id: half body shot of pope benedict xvi in choir dress. he is not wearing a stole and his mozzetta is lined with white fur. he is holding his hands at his front. end id]

pope benedict revived the winter mozzetta - made of velvet and lined with ermine fur

[image id: half body shot of pope benedict xvi waving. he is wearing a bright red cape and a red cap with white fur lining. end id]

matches with the camauro, a winter cap of the same materials briefly brought back by pope benedict.

[image id: half body shot of pope benedict xvi walking to the left. he is wearing choir dress but no stole. his mozzetta is white and lined with white fur. end id]

paschal mozzetta, used during easter.

FOURTH PAGE

LITURGICAL VESTMENTS

you can see lawrence don the following before his "pope who doubts" homily. each item has an attached prayer that should be recited while putting it on. worn over the cassock and fascia. before they even start dressing, the priest/bishop/etc washes their hands. [grey text] give virtue to my hands, o lord, that in being cleansed from all stain i might serve you with purity of mind and body [end grey text]

only writing the translations of the prayers here, but they would be recited in latin

[image id: a drawing of a priest in a black cassock. a white cloth is draped around his shoulders, and he is tying a string that is attached to it around his waist. the cloth and strings is pictured again next to him. end id]

[image id: someone wearing a black cassock, with a white cloth over their shoulders, fastened at the waist. the image is cut off at the person's neck and hips. end id]

amice: rectangular cloth draped over the shoulders and secured at the waist. no longer mandatory. first draped over the head when dressing. [grey text] place upon me, o lord, the helmet of salvation, that i may overcome the assaults of the devil.

[image id: a full body shot of a priest in a full length, long sleeved white tunic. he is holding an open book, and there is a mirror behind him, where you can see his full reflection. end id]

[image id: a screenshot from conclave, specifically when lawrence is getting ready for mass. it has been cropped to show only lawrence. he is wearing a white, long sleeved tunic and is looking down. end id]

alb: long white linen garment that covers the cassock. [grey text] make me white, o lord, and cleanse my heart, that being made white in the blood of the lamb i may deserve an eternal reward. [end grey text]

[image id: doodle of lawrence in full vestments, with coloured line art. he hold his hands at his front and looks sad and pathetic. end id]

he was forced to eat cement when he was 75

[image id: an image of a person's waist. they are wearing a white tunic, secured by a white cord. end id]

girdle/cincture: wool cord worn around the waist. [grey text] gird me, o lord, with the cincture of purity, and quench in my heart the fire of concupiscence, that the virtue of continence and chastity may abide in me. [end grey text]

[image id: a drawing of a priest wearing a long sleeved white tunic. he is placing a cloth decorated with a cross on his left arm. the cloth is show again next to him, where is can be seen that it has two cords attached to it. end id]

[image id: a long silk cloth that is folded over. the inside is gold and the outside is white, decorated with gold crosses. the ends flare out and has gold tassels. there is a gold cord attached to the middle. end id]

maniple: silk cloth worn on the left arm, fastened with a cord. symbolises the devotion & toils of priest. not always use anymore. [grey text] may i deserve, o lord, to bear the maniple of weeping and sorrow in order that i may joyfully reap the reward of my labours [end grey text]

[image id: a mannequin with a long sleeved white tunic. a long purple silk scarf with gold embroidery is draped around the neck. a matching purple cloth is draped over the left arm, which has been pinned to the chest. end id]

stole: silk band worn around the neck, symbolising priestly authority. [grey text] restore to me, o lord, the robe of immortality, which was lost in the transgression of our first parents, and, inasmuch as i approach your sacred mysteries in an unworthy manner, nevertheless, may i be deserving of eternal blessedness. [end grey text] the pectoral cross can be worn under or above the stole.

[image id: a mannequin wearing a purple chasuble with heavy gold embroidery. the mannequin has been positioned to hold a black biretta at the chest. the image has been annotated as "gothic". end id]

[image id: two images. one is a half body shot of a priest wearing a green chasuble and walking to the left. the chasuble is not as ample as usual, and more closely resembles a tunic. the second image is a similarly cut chasuble laid out on a grey background. it is gold and has heavy floral embroidery. the images have been annotated as "roman". end id]

chasuble: covers all other vestments. can't find what its made of but let's be real it's probably silk or brocade. worn during mass. roman style is considered more traditionalist, and is a lot less common. [grey text] o lord, who has said, "my yoke is sweet and my burden light," grant that i may carry it as to merit thy grace. [end grey text]

[image id: two priests at the front of a parade in a street. they both have heavily embroidered gold capes draped over them, and are holding their hands at their front. end id]

cope: silk/brocade heavily embroidered cape worn in liturgical functions outside off mass, such as baptism or matrimony. i don't think it has a prayer?

[the rest of the page is a section with a gold background labelled "bishops only"]

[image id: a plain white mitre on a table, next to a red zuchetto and fascia. the tails have red tassels. annotated as "simplex". end id]

[image id: a high angle picture of a mannequin head wearing a plain gold mitre. the inside of the centre is red. end id]

[image id: a folded white mitre propped up on a table. heavily embroidered with gold thread. end id]

mitre: white or gold silk folding hat with 2 tails at the back. has 3 styles:

simplex - funerals, mass, lent, good friday.

auriphrygiata - celebration of sacraments (baptism, matrimony, ordination, etc).

pretiosa - principal mass, feast days.

[image id: half body shot of three bishops outside a church. they are all wearing full vestments, but with a cope instead of a chasuble. they all have mitres and are holding croziers in their left hands. end id]

crozier: staff stylised like a shepard's crook, symbolising a bishop's role as a shepard.

[image id: a cardinal in a red chasuble walking toward the camera. there is a wool band around his neck. he is looking down and his left hand is at his chest. end id]

pallium: wool band worn around the neck. has sick black crosses. symbolises the lamb carried on christ's shoulders. often has gold pins in 3 of the pins to symbolise christ's crucifiction. given to metropolitan archbishops by the pope (archbishops that oversee multiple dioceses, i.e. tedesco & sabbadin, but not lawrence) can only be worn inside the archbishop's diocese, with the exception of the pope.

FIFTH PAGE

LITURGICAL VESTMENTS ... 2!!

[image id: a screenshot from pope leo xiv's inauguration, specifcally when he receives the fisherman's ring. the image has been cropped to only show pope leo. he is wearing a white chasuble and a pallium. end id]

[image id: pope benedict xvi sitting on a throne. he is wearing full vestments, as well as a circular shawl, and a pallium with red crosses. end id]

benedict xvi briefly introduced a papal pallium with red crosses, but francis eventually switched back to a black one, with leo xiv doing the same.

benedict xvi also reintroduced the papal fanon, a gold striped circular shawl, though it hasn't been used since then.

[image id: a full body shot of pope benedict xvi walking in a precession. he in full vestments and waving. in his left hand he hold a gold staff with a cross on top. the staff has been annotated as "pius xi". end id]

[image id: a head shot of pope francis in church. he is in full vestments and adjusting his glasses. in his left hand he holds a gold staff with a cross on top. the staff has been annotated as "benedict xvi". end id]

[image id: three head shots of different popes in full vestments holding the same staff, annotated as "paul vi". the staff is silver and has a statue of jesus on the cross on top. the first is of pope paul vi. it is black and white, and has been cut off to not show his face. the second is of pope john paul ii turned to the left, waving. the third is of pope francis, looking tired. end id]

instead of a crozier, the pope uses a ferula, a staff with a cross on top. there have been a lot of different designs for the ferula, with the most recently used being the ferulas of pius xi, paul vi, and benedict xvi.

[image id: pope francis with a mosignor and two deacons walking to the right in a procession. pope francis and the priests are in full vestments. their chasuble and tunics are green and plain. end id]

[image id: a line up of a priest, a deacon, a cardinal, and another priest. they are all smiling off to the right. the priests and cardinal wear a chasuble, and the deacon a tunic, all of which are slightly different shades of purple with gold embroidery. end id]

[image id: three bishops at church. they are all in a line looking to the right. they all wear plain, pale yellow chasubles. end id]

[image id: a priest and a bishop walk towards an altar in an empty church. they are both wearing red chasubles and holding paper palm leaves. the priest holds an ipad that has been annotated as "ipad ??" in grey text. there is a person filming them on a tripod behind them. end id]

[image id: a half body shot from behind pope francis in a procession, with a deacon in front of him. they are both in full vestments, and their chasuble and tunic are a pale pink. end id]

the colours of the maniple, stole, and chasuble varies depending on the event. only the main events are listed below because theres a lot <3

green - ordinary time (i.e. nothing else going on). [grey text] hope, growth, life. [end grey text]

violet - advent, lent, all souls day, requiem mass (funerals). [grey text] humility, penance, preparation. [end grey text]

white/gold - christmas, easter, baptism, matrimony, ordination (the pope isn't technically ordained but it's also used here). [grey text] joy, glory, innocence, purity. [end grey text]

red - palm sunday, good friday, pentecost, funerals of popes. [grey text] sacrifice, charity, the blood of christ [end grey text]

rose - gaudete sunday & laetare sunday (in advent & lent respectively - can choose either rose or violet). [grey text] anticipation, joy, repentance. [end grey text]

SIXTH PAGE

BISHOPS, ARCHBISHOPS, & MONSIGNORI

[image id: two half body shots of bishops holding their hands at their fronts. the first one is wearing choir dress and against a brown background. the second is wearing his everyday wear and in a church. end id]

bishops and archbishops wear basically the same as cardinals, except with purple instead of red (symbolising authority i think? not as well defined as cardinal red) plus some other details.

this includes accessories like the ferraiolo. galero specifically is green with two sets of 6 tassels for bishops and 10 for archbishops.

green and gold cord

piping on the cassock, mozzetta, etc is more red than the rest of the purples

[image id: a grey mannequin head on a white background. it is wearing a purple biretta with a pom on top. end id]

biretta has a pom

[image id: a full body shot from the conclave movie, when lawrence, mandorff, and o'malley find out about the new cardinal. lawrence is facing the camera and looking at o'malley, both mandorff and o'malley are facing away from the camera and looking at lawrence. they are all wearing their everyday cassocks. end id]

ok so researching for monsignori is driving me up the wall. first of all mons. is not an actual role, it's an address for priests with one of 3 honourary titles (apostolistic protonotary, honourary prelate, chaplain of his holiness). second, mons. o'malley is a bishop in all but title. he dresses as a bishop, and is secretary to the dean, a role typically held by a bishop. idk man ig in the conclave-verse bishops can be monsignori, or maybe a monsignor is higher up in the catholic hierarchy than irl.

monsignor o'malley has the same outfit as archbishop mandorff

[image id: from the conclave movie, o'malley in choir dress. he is holding a clipboard and looking off to the left. end id]

WHY IS HIS ROCHET SLEEVE DIFFERENT ITS THE ONLY ONE LIKE THIS ??? anyways bishop choir dress. i love this picture btw he looks so ouppy

[image id: two full body shots of a monsignor in two different styles of choir dress. both are wearing white tunics over a purple cassock, and the first has an additional sleeveless purple tunic over it. in the first image he is closing the doors to the sistine chapel, and in the second he is outside, holding his hands at his front. end id]

[image id: a full body shot of a monsignor walking to the left. he is wearing an everyday cassock and fascia, but no pectoral cross. he also has a purple cloak, and a black biretta with a purple pom. there is a metal pin on his left breast. end id]

[image id: a half body shot of a monsignor in front of an altar, facing the camera. he is wearing an everyday cassock and fascia, but no pectoral cross or skullcap. there is a metal pin on his left breast. he is holding an open book. there is a "yonhap news" watermark at the bottom. end id]

black biretta

no pectoral cross

no zuchetto

[image id: three simple diagrams of monsignor choir dress. the first two have a purple cassock, and the last is black. they are all wearing a white tunic, and the first has another purple, sleeveless tunic as well. they all have black birettas with poms, the first pom being purple and the last two being black. end id]

choir dress is closer to that of other priests, using a surplice instead of a rochet.

[pointing at tunic] surplice

SEVENTH IMAGE

MISC

[image id: a screenshot of conclave, from the end of the movie when lawrence is looking outside his window. he is wearing a black shirt with a priest collar, and a black sweater vest. the image has been cropped to only show him. end id]

when to wear what:

liturgical vestments -> celebrating/co-celebrating the eucharist.

choir dress -> public liturgical functions that the person is not the celebrant of.

daily dress -> day to day work

informal dress -> can be worn when daily dress would be impractical, in more informal work, or when "off-duty". black or grey clothes, including a shirt that allows the priest's collar to be seen.

[image id: a screenshot from conclave. a half body shot of sabbadin, who is turned to the left. he is in everyday wear, and holding a cigarette. the image has been cropped to show only him. end id]

[image id: six franciscan priests smiling at the camera. they are all wearing simple grey habits and pectoral crosses. end id]

if a priest is a member of an order, they can wear their habit instead of a cassock. sabbadin wears a franciscan habit in everyday wear, but not in choir dress.

[image id: a screenshot of conclave. tedesco sitting in the sistine chapel alone. he is wearing choir dress, and a shirt sleeve can been seen peaking out of both of his arms. he is vaping, the smoke obscuring the bottom half of his face. the image has been cropped to show only him. end id]

as for what they wear under their cassocks, i think it's just a shirt and trousers. you can see the sleeves peaking out in the movie. the only real rule is that the stockings/socks they wear should match their cassock (i.e. black in everyday, red/purple in choir dress, white for the pope). only other thing of not is that the pope typically wears white trousers, though francis wore black. anyways, [homophobic dog "i know what you are" meme]

[image id: several labelled doodles of characters, titled "proper forms of address". the first is of pope innocent xiv, who is calm and smiling. labelled "pope - your holiness". the second is of lawrence, who is sad and looking downwards. labelled "cardinal - your eminance". the third is of archbishop wozniak, who looks stressed or panicked. labelled "archbishop - your grace". the fourth is just text that says "(are there any bishops in conclave ??)". labelled "bishop - your excellency". the fifth is of monsignor o'malley, who is smiling. labelled "monsignor - reverend monsignor". the final is of john ward from faith: the unholy trinity, looking to the left, concerned. labelled "priests - reverend father". end id]

who's winning the sad pathetic priest war, john ward or lawrence.

[image id: a doodle of op, making a peace sign. he is looking to the right and making a ":3" face. end id]

yay that''s it. go forth and make crazy gay fanfic & fanart.

[ddejavvu]

bff james w no boundaries — his main love language is physical touch and that includes biting,, like 😭 you’ll just be minding ur own business n he’ll bite your shoulder or anywhere really.

hope ur doing well angel. ❤️

"Here, Remus," You offer up a spoon of blueberry tart to the teenage werewolf, unphased by now at the closeness of your friends. Perhaps at eleven you'd be worried about swapping cooties when sharing spoons, but now you're only worried about plumping Remus's gaunt frame up again before the next full moon.

You extend the spoon towards Remus but in doing so you have to bypass James who's sitting beside you on the bench. You'd expected him to fake a lunge for the sweet, but when he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth into what's in front of him it happens to be the flesh of your arm.

"Hey-ow!" You yelp, and despite your word choice, it doesn't really hurt. It's more of a grasp than it is a bite, just enough force to pin your arm between James's infuriatingly perfect teeth.

"Prongs," Sirius's face screws up in what you're sure is a mix of embarrassment and confusion at his friend's behavior, but perhaps there's a slight possibility of fear there, too. Fear that James has become a cannibal and the boy with the bed next to his will suffer tonight.

"That's good." James retracts his bite as quickly as he'd dished it out, smacking his lips like there'd been something swallowed and enjoyed, "That's good arm."

"You're a freak." Remus drawls, finally taking the tart from your spoon and letting the flavors wash over his tongue, "Pads and I are supposed to be the biters. Deer are just supposed to run away from everything."

"That's not true." James defends his animagus with a passion while Sirius snickers across the table, "Deer fight with their antlers. Sometimes deer fight so hard that their antlers come off. And deer do bite sometimes, thank you very much."

"Only during mating season." Sirius references the copious research they'd each done into their animal counterparts, "Don't steal another page from the dog book and start humping her leg, Prongs."

"It is not my mating season!" James exclaims, just a bit too loud for the social setting you're in. Your cheeks are blazing but thankfully James is making a fool of himself enough that no one is studying you. "I'm simply overcome with the urge to sink my teeth into people when I'm feeling particularly fond of them. Y/N's making sure Moony's stomach isn't flatter than his ribcage, and I appreciate that. Only a good woman shares her blueberry tart. Hence," He grins, more of a baring of his teeth than a smile, "I bite."

He leans down to take a chunk out of your shoulder this time, and you feel the sharp-but-gentle pricking of his teeth even through three layers of clothing.

You have the time and the power to raise your shoulder and clock James in the teeth with your bone. But you refrain, and perhaps that's why Sirius finally latches onto you instead of James.

"Careful, darling." He warns, his own canines glinting in the candlelight above, "Deer can go rabid. I'd make sure you're not contaminated with his saliva if I were you."

"Too late." James grumbles around the meat of your shoulder, raising his head quicker than you can react to lick a fat, wet stripe across your face, "I'm not rabid, Pads. But I can see why you dogs do the licking thing. It's not bad."

"Yes it is." You decide, smearing away his sticky spit with the sleeve of your button-up, feeling the phantom sensation of his teeth on your skin, "And if you do it again I'll bite you back."

"Kinky, you two." Sirius kicks you beneath the table, a wicked grin on his face, "Remus, I think we should take our meal elsewhere. Prongs and Y/N are about to start necking right in front of the pastries, and that's not the glaze I prefer on my donuts."

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (11) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael brings you home and takes care of you. You talk things through, and by the end, you’re both on the same page and closer than before.

Word Count: 3990

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Non-sexual nudity

Authors Notes: Just one more part. Part 12 will be the last (until futher notice, Maybe a sequel depending on season 2??? I'm sad ngl LOL. I’ll save the sappy talk in the next authors note.) If any of you watch Animal Kingdom I’m writing an Andrew Cody fic. So keep a look out for that. I have it typed, but Idk what the call it. Idk my writing process is wack. I don’t think, I just do. I don’t plan at all and I just make shit up as I go… but whatever works right? All of this is just for fun hence my user lol okay I’ll go now. Enjoy - Ryn (sorry for errors if you’ve been following along for this long y’all know I don’t proof read whoops)

After the end of Michael’s swift, he walked through the ER, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the other intertwined with yours.

He felt the stares immediately—wide eyes from the staff, surprised expressions barely masked. They weren’t entirely sure what they were seeing. Or maybe they were. Maybe they just couldn’t believe it.

Michael caught it too. He met the glances of a few nurses, offered a small, tight-lipped smile, then looked away.

Michael wasn’t embarrassed—he could never be embarrassed of you. That wasn’t it. He just didn’t want everyone in his business. But that line had already been crossed.

Rumor and gossip swirled, but his main focus, his main priority was you. Nothing else matter

Michael, he took you home—his place. He wanted you to stay there; it was easier that way. He had emergency supplies if anything went wrong, and it let him keep a close eye on you.

As the two of you made your way down the hall toward his apartment, neither of you said anything about the arrangement. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He expected you to protest—maybe argue, insist on going to your side of the hall—but you didn’t.

You wanted to. You thought about saying you didn’t want to intrude, that you’d be fine on your own. But the words never made it out. You were in too much pain, too wrung out and exhausted to care. And you already knew what he’d say—something about keeping an eye on you, monitoring for symptoms, making sure you didn’t take a turn.

So you stayed quiet. And followed him in.

“You probably want a shower,” he said softly

You nodded, but your body swayed a little too far to the left.

He caught your arm. “Careful.”

Together, you made your way toward the bathroom. Every movement felt floaty and too heavy at the same time—like your body wasn’t entirely yours. The edges of the room tilted, just slightly, and you blinked hard to stay grounded.

When you enter the bathroom you. “Can you stay?”

Your voice was quiet.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You reach for the hem of your shirt, but your hands fumbled, clumsy. Lifting your arms made your vision blur, and you winced, one hand going instinctively to your lump

He stepped forward. “Hey—stop. Let me.”

You didn’t argue.

His hands were gentle as he helped you out of your clothes, moving slowly, methodically. When he eased the shirt over your head, you closed your eyes against the spinning, and he steadied you with one hand at your waist.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, the shirt now crumpled in his hand.

You nodded again, though you weren’t sure. “Just dizzy.”

You kicked off your shoes, the cool floor sending a small shiver up your spine. Your fingers trembled slightly as you fumbled with the button of your jeans, struggling to pull them down past your hips. The fabric caught at your thighs, and you paused, leaning on the sink to keep from swaying too much. 

When you finally slid your jeans down and stepped out of them, you stood there, vulnerable in just your bra and underwear. 

Michael didn’t move closer or look away. His eyes softened, not with desire, but with something quieter: care and respect. He gave you space, knowing you needed it, but stayed close enough that you could reach out if you lost your balance.

“Sit for a moment,” Michael said softly.

You lowered yourself slowly onto the closed toilet seat.

Michael moved toward the tub, turning the cold and hot taps, adjusting until the water flowed warm. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and stepped out briefly. When he returned, he held a thick, fluffy towel and a neatly folded set of clothes. 

“I don’t think I should stand,” you admitted, voice low, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

“Okay,” Michael nodded understandingly. “You don’t have to stand. You can sit.”

Carefully, you got off the toilet and moved to the edge of the tub, the smooth porcelain cool beneath your hands. You dipped your feet into the water, feeling the warmth as it flows around your feet.

Michael goes to sit on the closed toilet seat. 

“I’m gonna…” you said softly, pulling at the strap of your bra to let him know you were about to take it off.

He shifted slightly, turning his body toward the door, giving you the privacy you needed to strip without feeling exposed.

You hesitated for a moment, then began to remove your bra, the fabric slipping softly from your shoulders. Then your underwear followed. You lowered yourself slowly into the tub, 

Curling your knees up toward your chest, you hugged them gently, covering your body feeling safe and cocooned.

“Okay,” you said softly, signaling that he could turn back.

“You sure?” Michael asked quietly, his voice gentle and concerned, wanting to make sure you were comfortable being this vulnerable in front of him.

“Yes,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but steady. “I trust you.”

“Okay I’m turning around” 

Michael turned and stood up. He reached for the shower head, pulling the pin on the faucet to redirect the water. The steady stream shifted from the tub spout to the handheld shower, and he adjusted the flow gently, ready to help you wash.

Michael held the shower head steady, the warm spray falling in a gentle rhythm. He aimed the water over your shoulders and back in careful movements.

“Let me know if the water’s too hot or cold,” he said softly.

You nodded, eyes closing as the warmth soaked into your skin. The sound of water filled the quiet room, calming your breath.

“I’m going to wash your hair first,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

He adjusted the shower head and used his hand to shield your eyes, carefully wetting your hair. His fingers moved gently through it, avoiding the tender lump where your skull was fractured. He worked the shampoo in with care, soft and slow, then rinsed it clean.

When he was done, he reached for a washcloth, soaked it under the water, and handed it to you.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “I’ll let you do the rest.”

You took it from him with a quiet “Thanks,” and began washing your arms and chest, slow and steady. 

As you washed yourself, Michael respectfully turned his head, gaze fixed on the tiled wall. He kept holding the shower head steady, adjusting the angle when needed, but never looked your way.

Once you’d finished rinsing, you gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Michael turned off the water. He set the shower head down carefully and reached for the towel he’d left nearby.

“Here,” he said softly, draping the towel over your shoulders. His hands were steady, mindful. “Take your time.”

You nodded, then slowly pushed yourself up to stand. Your legs felt shaky beneath you. Michael offered his arm, and you took it, leaning into his steady presence as you stepped carefully out of the tub. Water dripped from your legs onto the mat below.

As he helped you find your balance, you adjusted the towel at your chest, making sure it stayed in place, then tucked the edge securely.

He reached for the clean white shirt he’d brought and gently held it open for you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded.

You held the towel closed as he slipped the shirt over your head, guiding it gently down your arms. The fabric brushed your skin, soft and clean. Once it was in place, you let the towel fall. The shirt settled over your body—short, but long enough to cover you where it mattered.

Michael turned away without a word, facing the bathroom door again to give you privacy.

You reached for the shorts and stepped into them slowly, pulling them up and adjusting the waistband. 

Reaching for the towel you’d just let fall, you brought it up to your head and began to dry your hair gently. The motion was slow, cautious. Each pat was careful, mindful not to press too hard.

“All set,” you said quietly.

He turned around and asked, “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

You looked up, a little unsure. “You don’t mind?”

“Course not,” he said with a smile.

“Please.”

The two of you walked into the kitchen. Michael grabbed a pot and started making chicken noodle soup. The soft sound of the spoon stirring and the warm smell of the soup soon filled the room, making everything feel calm and cozy.

He set the pot to simmer on the stove, then turned to gather a few bowls and spoons. The soft clinking of dishes echoed through the quiet kitchen.

You settled onto a stool at his island table.

Michael glanced over and gave you a small, reassuring smile. “It won’t be long.”

You nodded, feeling the calm settle around you, grateful for this simple care.

Michael carried the bowls over to you, setting one down in front of you. You wrapped your hands around the warm bowl, feeling a small comfort in its heat.

He sat down beside you, and for a moment, you both simply savored the quiet. 

The two of you ate quietly at the island, the soft clink of spoons the only sound between you. The soup was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until your bowl was nearly empty.

When you finished, you murmured a soft thank you, and Michael just nodded, already rinsing the dishes in the sink.

Afterward, you both headed back toward the bathroom. Michael knelt down and opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a fresh toothbrush still in its packaging. He handed it to you with a small smile.

“Figured you might want this.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice low with weariness.

While you brushed your teeth, Michael disappeared down the hall. He moved quietly, setting up his bedroom—thinking ahead to anything you might need.

When he returned, he leaned gently against the doorframe and asked, “You ready to sleep?”

You nodded.

You stepped into his room and paused. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the space. On the nightstand, he’d placed a bottle of water, a few folded towels, and a small plastic basin—just in case. The sheets were pulled back neatly.

You climbed into his bed, sinking. It smelled like him, familiar in a way that made you feel safe.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

You heard him moving in the other room, picking up after dinner or maybe putting things away. But by the time he came back to check on you, you were already asleep—curled up beneath the blankets, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sound in the room.

—

You woke in the middle of the night, disoriented for a moment. The sheets smelled of him. 

Michael

You were in Michael’s bed.

Yet, the space next to you was empty. 

Soft snoring came from somewhere nearby. You rolled over, careful with your head. Your eyes adjusted slowly, picking up the outline of a shape on the floor—a silhouette in the dark room. Quiet and still, except for the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. Michael, curled up on the floor with a pillow and a blanket.

“Michael…” you whispered.

Nothing.

“Michael.” You say a little louder. 

He stirred with a quiet groan from the floor. “Hmm? Hey—what’s wrong? You okay?” His voice was heavy with sleep, words slurring together in the dark. 

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“​​I didn’t want to jostle you,” he murmured. “You'd sleep better without someone next to you.” he said, still half-asleep, words slurred with drowsiness. 

You listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing. Then your voice came softly, tentative but firm. “Lay with me…”

He exhaled hard, a sound of reluctant surrender, shifting to find a more comfortable position on the floor. “Not a chance.”

Trying not to sound irritated, you pressed on. “Whatever worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that doctor’s brain of yours, it’s not gonna happen.”

“Just go to sleep. You need the rest.” His tone was gentle but firm, and he didn’t move.

Silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy like the dark itself.

“Your back’s going to be sore,” you said quietly, your words a soft concern in the stillness.

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep, his voice fading like a whisper.

“You’re gonna regret it. You’ll never beat those old-man allegations.”

“I’m middle-aged, not old,” he protested weakly.

“Exactly, you’re practically headed to the old folks’ home.”

“Hey.” He scoffed, a dry laugh slipping through despite the quiet.

You giggled softly. 

The room fell silent again.

“Come on, Lay with me…”

“Sweetheart, please just go back to sleep.”

“Michael, Please?” 

He let out a long breath. You heard the blanket rustle as he sat up, then the creak of the mattress as he eased himself into the space beside you—slow, careful, like he was afraid of accidentally hurting you. 

He stayed on top of the covers, his body turned slightly toward you but keeping his distance.

“Happy now?” he murmured. “Now, go back to sleep…”

And somehow, despite everything—your aching head, the nausea,—you did.

A few times throughout the night, the nausea came back, unexpected and relentless. Each time, you stirred, feeling the sickness twist in your stomach. And each time, Michael was there—plastic basin in hand, ready before you even had to ask.

He got up with you, never once complaining or pulling away. He rubbed your back gently, his hand warm against your skin as he whispered softly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“My chicken noodle soup was that bad, huh?” he joked, knowing you were only throwing up because of your injury.

“Michael…” you groan out a laugh. Your laugh told him everything — that you thought it was funny, but not funny because you were throwing up.

He laughs softly, “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He brushed your hair back from your forehead, his fingers light and soothing. Even in the darkness, his voice was a comfort, steady and reassuring. He leaned in and kissed the spot where your shoulder and neck met, a quiet promise that he’d be there, no matter what.

At some point in the night, Michael had ended up under the covers. Now, the two of you lay curled on your sides, facing the same direction, careful not to jostle your injury. Your head rested on a second, softer pillow he’d propped just right to keep pressure off the side with the fracture. His chest was pressed gently against your back, his body warm and steady behind you.

Michael's arm rested low across your waist, heavy in sleep but comforting. He’d left enough space between your heads to avoid brushing against the sensitive side, but his presence was still close. It wasn’t quite a spoon, more like a careful hover

When you woke, the space beside you was empty. The sheets were still warm, faintly holding the shape of where Michael had been. You blinked against the soft morning light filtering in through the curtains and slowly sat up in bed, careful with your head.

A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Michael stepped in, balancing a tray with both hands — toast, scrambled eggs, some cut-up fruit, and a cup of tea that still steamed.

“Breakfast in bed?” you chuckled, memories stirring of quieter mornings months ago when you’d surprised him the same way.

“Like I said, you set the bar pretty high,” he said, quoting himself from that morning with a crooked smile.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your smile gentle and touched with sleep.

He made his way over and climbed into bed beside you with the tray. You shifted slightly to make room, sitting up a little straighter against the pillows he’d fluffed and stacked behind you the night before. He settled in next to you like it was second nature, his thigh pressed warmly against yours, careful not to jostle the arrangement supporting your head.

The tray rested comfortably across your lap, 

“How are you feeling?”

You took a moment before answering, eyes flicking down to the plate in your lap. “Okay,” you said slowly. “Still a little off, but… I don’t feel dizzy. And my stomach isn’t doing somersaults, so that’s a win.”

“Good. That’s good.” He nodded, though the crease between his brows lingered. Then, more gently, “How’s the head?”

“I’ll give you some meds after breakfast,” he said, his voice low, edged with concern. “Something mild, won’t knock you out.”

You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch just a little.

“Okay.”

He let his hand rest there a moment longer, thumb brushing lightly against your temple. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

“I know...and thank you for yesterday at the ER, and last night...for taking care of me"

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said, his voice low.

He just gave you a soft smiled and leaned in and kissed your forehead—slow, steady, like he needed reassurance as much as you did. When he pulled back, there was a softness in his eyes that lingered just a beat longer before he shifted the mood.

Michael exhaled quietly and gave a half-smile, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. 

“Though I kept it light,” he said, nodding toward the plate. “Hoping it’s not bad enough that you threw it up like the chicken noodle soup a few times last night.”

You groaned through a laugh, nudging his arm. “Stooopp,” you said, drawing the word out as your smile spread. You knew he was joking gently, lovingly and it made you feel lighter somehow.

He grinned and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a soft kiss. “Just saying… if you do throw it up, I’ve got the basin nearby. We’re a well-oiled machine at this point.”

You laughed again, more freely this time, “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he said, handing you the fork. “Just your personal chef, doctor, and comedian all rolled into one.”

You smiled as you picked at the fruit, choosing a slice of melon first. Michael reached for a piece of toast, took a bite, and chewed beside you in comfortable silence.

Then, you glanced over at him, something soft but serious settling in your expression.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

His chewing slowed. He looked at you—really looked at you—and nodded like he already knew what you meant.

“You sure you wanna do that now?” he asked gently. “We don’t have to… we can wait.”

You shook your head. “No. I think we should.” Your fingers toyed with the edge of the tray. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, setting the toast back down. “Of course. Whatever you wanna do.”

Together, without saying much else, you both reached for the tray. He helped steady it while you shifted slightly, and you slid it carefully onto the nightstand beside you. The plates clinked lightly as they settled.

He turned back to face you, one leg bent slightly on the bed, elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you with quiet patience.

“I thought about what you said—the night of my ceremony, sitting on that park bench, and then the morning after, when you told me I needed to figure out what I really want, what I truly need. You said if I kept pushing people away, I’d only end up hurting people who care. And I realized even myself and… after everything went down in the elevator, I broke up with Aiden that night. I told him I was done. That I needed to be on my own. I’ve been working on myself since then. I still am.”

Your voice faltered slightly, but you held his gaze, feeling the weight of every word between you. It wasn’t easy to say, but it was true. You were trying, really trying, to heal.

“You told me a man won’t make me question whether I’m loved… He won’t make me beg for affection, or make me feel like I’m asking for too much just by wanting to be seen.”

You swallowed hard, vulnerability threading through your voice. “That man… that man is you, Michael. And I want you. I want us.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining gently, searching for reassurance. “But I still have so much work to do on myself. I want to be whole before I can really be with someone. I hope you understand.”

Michael’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Hey,” he said quietly, “we don’t have to rush into anything. We’ll take all the time you need.”

A warm relief washed over you, and you exhaled slowly, your heart beating steadier.

“We’ll go slow,” he continued, voice steady and certain. “At whatever pace feels right for you. Because you matter. And this—us—it’s worth waiting for.”

“You’re not worried?” you asked.

“About what?”

You hesitated. “That I’m… 25. Naive. Stupid… I don’t know…

You looked down at your guys hands. 

Michael didn’t speak right away. His, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.

“The age gap crossed my mind,” he admitted. “You’ve still got so much ahead of you. And I’ve lived through a lot. I worried I might hold you back. That one day you’ll see all of this differently, me differently and regret it.”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just full.

After a moment, Michael’s grip tightened just slightly, as if to anchor both of you.

“But the truth is,” he said softly, “being with you… it’s never felt like a mistake. Not once. I’m here because I want to be—with you—not because I’m trying to relive anything, or because I’m afraid of being alone.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes, searching for the certainty you needed.

“I know you’re young,” he continued, “and that life still has so much to show you. But I don’t want to hold you back. I want to walk beside you, whatever comes next.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between hope and fear.

“Do you really mean that?” you whispered.

Michael smiled gently. “More than anything.”

“Like k said we’ll take it slow. You set the pace—always. No rushing, no pressure. It’s about us, moving at whatever speed feels right for you.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

“I just want to be here—with you—however that looks.”

You felt the tension ease, like a weight lifting from your chest.

“Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out together….okay” 

“Okay” you smile. 

Your lips find Michael’s—soft, lingering kisses that make your heart flutter, but you can’t help the giggles that escape between each one.

He pulls back slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as he searches your face, his eyes warm and curious.

“What? What’s so funny sweetheart?” he asks, chuckling softly, his brows lifting in genuine curiosity.

You press your fingers to your mouth, still grinning. “Your beard… It’s tickling my face.”

Michael chuckles, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek. “Oh really?” he teases, leaning in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“It didn’t bother you before,” he says, raising an eyebrow playfully.

You smirk, teasing back, “Because when you first kissed me, tensions were high. I was too distracted by everything else to notice the tickles.”

He laughs quietly, the sound low and easy. “So you’re saying my rugged charm is… too much for you to handle now?”

You laugh again, softer this time, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him a little closer. “I’m saying your rugged charm needs a trim”

His grin widens, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss to your nose. “But no promises.”

No more questions, no more worries—just a shared understanding. Whatever the future holds, you know you’re not alone. You and Michael are on the same page now, ready to take the next step, however slow or steady it may be.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin@capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune@robbyslittlelamb@nicisthename92@littlezee80@lucidanne@spooky-librarian-ghost@the-salty-asian@lonelyheartsm@lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos @guiltypleassure243 @princessjayll @teapartydreams

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11)

[covenofagatha]

A Helping Hand

You're helping your Professor gather ingredients for a potion she's brewing when you accidentally knock over a jar of sex pollen and need help.

Word count: ~3100

Warnings: smut, mommy kink, fingering, Top Agatha, magic cock, blowjob, magic cum, pure filth, teacher x student, age gap (everyone's legal)

Your brow furrows as you stare at the open spell book in front of you. You have a Potions test tomorrow for Professor Harkness, and evident by your lack of understanding of any of the words on the page, you are not going to do well. 

“What’s wrong?” your roommate, Wanda, asks you. The two of you are the top witches at the Academy of Dark Arts, and yet, neither of you has a strong suit in potions. 

And of course, the Potions teacher, Agatha Harkness, is the hardest teacher you have. 

“This is impossible. How am I supposed to remember that, for the Wolfsbane Potion, you have to stir three times counterclockwise, say this incantation, and then stir four times clockwise, all while making sure I’m continuously pouring in Dragon’s Blood?” Your head hurts just from reading it from the book. 

Wanda snorts. “Agatha doesn’t expect it to be perfect.”

You give her a look. You both know that’s a lie. Agatha is the teacher that makes you redo written homework assignments if you leave too much space between the words. 

The Academy of Dark Arts was a home for witches like you and Wanda: witches that did not have a coven, or even a family. The Academy was supposed to teach girls to harness and understand their powers. 

You have been here the longest, ever since you were twelve. You are almost twenty now. You had always put off taking Potions until you could no longer avoid it, mainly just because of how hard everyone else said it was. You had briefly interacted with Professor Harkness before the class, passing her in the corridors or making eye contact at meals. 

And maybe, just maybe, you had developed a bit of a crush on her once you were in her class. 

Who could blame you, though? She was the definition of perfection, with the way power just exuded from her, and the way her long, dark hair tumbled down to her lower back, and her piercing blue eyes that you suspected could see right into your soul. 

But your little infatuation was not what you needed right now – no, right now, you need to study. 

“I just don’t know anything,” you groan, dropping your head into your hands. “I can’t even read my notes.” Agatha often went so fast in class that you had no other option than to just scribble down everything you thought she said as quickly as you could. 

And now you just had pages of illegible chicken scratch. 

“She’s probably still in the green house, why not just go ask her for help,” Wanda says noncommittally, too engrossed in sketching a picture. How she is so calm with this test hanging over the both of you, you have no idea. 

But you nod. That’s a good idea. You can go see Agatha, ask her to clarify a few things, and then stay up all night cramming ingredients and directions into your brain. 

“I’ll be right back,” you promise, and then scoop up your book and your notes. 

You pass by some younger witches in the hallway and you give them a tight-lipped smile. Wanda was really your only friend at the Academy, the other girls too boy-crazy or too self-absorbed for you to really connect with them. 

Other than those girls, though, the Academy is quiet. No sign of any of your other teachers, and you’re sure they’re either in their private quarters or still grading papers in their classrooms. 

You have to leave the main house of the Academy to get to the greenhouse, where Potions takes place. The cold November air stings your cheeks and makes your eyes water, but luckily, it’s a short walk. 

“Hello, Professor Harkness?” you say timidly, knocking on the door as you push it open. She’s sitting at a stool, cutting plants with a sharp knife. Her hair flowing down her back and she's wearing a tight white button-down shirt on that’s tucked into high-waisted purple pants, and a long, navy coat.

She glances up and smiles when she sees it’s you. “Y/n, what can I do for you?” 

“Oh, I just wanted to come see if you could help me clear some things up for the test tomorrow,” you say, a little flustered by how good she looks. 

“Sure thing, hon. First, I need your help. Hand me those powders from over there?” She points the knife over to the counter by the sink and you oblige, grabbing the four vials and putting them down next to her. She picks each one up and examines the label closely. “Ah, shoot. Sorry, dear, could you find the jar with the powdered root of asphodel? It should be in the pantry somewhere. I thought I took it out, but I guess I forgot.” 

“Yeah, of course.” You repeat the powder name in your head a few times so you don’t forget it and then go search for it. 

You finally spot it on the fourth shelf, sitting in the middle of some other jars, and you reach up on your tip-toes to grab it. As you’re pulling down the correct jar, you accidentally knock it into another and it falls to the floor next to you. 

“Shit!” you mutter, immediately crouching down to assess the damage. The jar of some unknown powder has broken and its contents are spilled everywhere. Without even thinking, you start to sweep the powder into your hands so you can try to put it back in the bottom half of the jar that’s still intact. 

You didn’t even notice Agatha coming over after she heard the noise. “Everything okay – don’t touch any of that!” she exclaims, seeing the bottle that broke on the floor.

You drop the mound of powder in your hands and whirl around, eyes wide open. 

“What is it?” you ask, afraid of the answer, but she doesn’t give you one, instead opting to pull you by the sleeve over to the sink. 

“Wash your hands now,” she demands and stands there watching you scrub your skin until it’s red. “How do you feel?” 

“I feel fine,” you say, but as you say that, you notice something. There’s an unmistakable heat growing in your stomach. And it only gets worse when Agatha places a hand against your forehead. You lean into the touch and have to forcibly bite your tongue so you don’t moan. 

She looks you up and down and you can feel yourself getting hotter. You’re sure your cheeks are flushed. 

You’ve never felt this way before. 

“Um, just out of curiosity, what was that powder?” you ask, wetness pooling between your thighs. The ache between your legs is becoming hard to ignore. 

Agatha meets your eyes. “It’s called sex pollen.” Your heart skips a beat. “I honestly forgot it was back there. I came across some a few decades ago and wanted to study it.”

You swallow hard. “So if someone gets some of it in their system, do they just need to touch…” You feel yourself blushing, not quite believing you’re asking Agatha Harkness if masturbation is the key to get this heat inside you to die down. 

She smirks. “You can’t get it out of your system by yourself.”

Well, fuck. “There’s no other way?” 

“Where would the fun in that be?” She winks playfully, and you wonder if she’s ever used it, or used it on someone else. “But you said you feel fine so you shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

“Right,” you reply shakily. Her fingers brush a strand of hair out of her face and you literally clench at the sight of them. You feel so empty, so needy, so desperate for her. 

“You said you had some questions for the test tomorrow?” She takes the root of asphodel that you had forgotten you were holding and beckons you back over to where she’s working. She pats the stool next to you and you sit, the pressure on your clit making you jump. 

You just have to make it through this, go back to your room, and then drag Wanda out with you to a club or something so you can get fucked. 

The only problem is, you’re not sure you can wait that long. Your hips have started squirming on the stool beneath you and you can’t control it. 

“Um, so,” you start, opening up the textbook to the Wolfsbane Potion you were studying earlier. “The directions for this potion are–”

You’re cut off by her putting her hand on top of yours and you literally whimper at the contact. You stiffen and see her turn her full body towards you, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on your forehead, your darkened eyes, the way your hips are moving on the seat. 

“Oh, you poor baby,” she taunts. 

You give up the pretense of being unaffected by the pollen. “Professor, I’m so…I need…please…I think the pollen...” 

She laughs. “Yes, dear, I think the pollen got into your system. Do you have anyone who can take care of you?” 

You blush at the implication of Agatha asking if you have a fuck buddy and then shake your head pathetically. “I was gonna go out with Wanda and try to find someone,” you mumble. “I’ve never…” You trail off, not wanting your incredibly hot professor to hear you say out loud that you’re a virgin. 

“Honey, you can’t have your first time with a random person from a bar,” she tuts. “Plus, sex pollen amplifies feelings you already have. Getting fucked by a random person won’t help as much as by a person you already want.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” you whine. “Can you…will you…please?” You can tell the pollen is affecting your ability to think straight because there is no way you just asked your centuries-old professor to fuck you. You’re about ready to run out of the room and die of embarrassment when she grins. 

“You want me to help you?” 

Your breath catches. “Professor, please, please, I need it. I need you. I just feel so…hot.” 

“I’ll say,” she says appreciatively, this time letting her eyes wander over you slowly. “Are you sure? I don’t want you regretting this when the pollen wears off.” 

You shake your head. “I won’t. I’m sure. I want you so bad. I have for a while. And you said it has to be someone you already want.” 

Her eyes darken. “Get on the table.” 

You’ve never moved so fast in your life. She takes your shirt off and throws it somewhere else in the room, and then her hands are cupping your breasts and her mouth is on yours. 

You moan hungrily into her hot mouth, feeling her tongue against yours. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling it gently, and she groans into your mouth. Agatha quickly undoes the clasp of your bra and finds your nipples, tugging at them. She kisses down your neck and your fingers leave her hair to hike up your skirt. 

“So eager for me,” she whispers against your clavicle. You gasp when she bites down. 

“Please, professor, touch me.” 

“I am touching you,” she teases, fingertips lightly skimming down your stomach. You tense at the touch as she gets lower. 

Your moan is downright pornographic when she first slides her hand into your underwear, sliding through your folds. She makes a sound as well. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” she says. 

“All for you,” you say weakly, hips grinding up and down against her fingers. She’s yet to touch your clit, but you fear the second she does, you’ll cum. 

“My dirty girl.” Agatha finally pushes her middle finger into you and you clench down immediately, needing more. She easily finds the spot that makes you squeal, and her thumb brushes against your clit. “Do you think you can take another finger?” 

“Oh my god, yes,” you enthusiastically agree and she slides in her ring finger as well. It’s a bit of a stretch but you’ve never felt better. 

“Your cunt feels so good around me,” Agatha says, grabbing your chin with her other hand so you meet her eyes. “So wet, so warm. I want to stay here forever. You can’t get enough of my fingers, can you?” 

“No, Professor, I love your fingers,” you babble, right on the edge. She knows it too. 

“Be a good girl and come for mommy,” she whispers right into your ear, her hot breath warm, and the name, coupled with the way she twists her fingers and roughly strokes your clit, sends you climaxing. 

“Fuckkkk,” you moan, your nails digging into her shoulders. She fucks you through the aftershocks of your orgasm and then slowly pulls her fingers, which are drenched, out of you. You can’t help but feel empty and the heat inside you isn’t completely gone. 

Before you can say anything, she slides her wet fingers into your mouth and you lazily lap at your juices. She bites her lip at the feeling. 

“How are you feeling now, baby girl?” 

Her fingers leave your mouth with a pop. “Better but I still think I need more.” 

Her eyebrow raises playfully. “My fingers weren’t enough to quell your thirst?” 

You shake your head, feeling a little embarrassed. 

“I think I know something that might help.” She waves her hand and a poof of purple smoke appears. You’re not quite sure what she did, but she gives you a wicked grin and unzips her pants, pulling out a purple strap-on. 

Your mouth falls open. 

She grabs a hold of the base and starts to stroke herself, groaning. 

“Wait, can you-” 

She looks up at you. “Feel it?” She nods. “I wanna feel you clench around my cock. Wanna fill you up.” 

You let out a small gasp. “Mommy, please, I need your cock.” 

She steps back over to you and runs a hand up your slit, collecting your wetness, which she then rubs on her cock. “You’re plenty wet already, but why don’t you get on your knees and show me how much of a good girl you can be.” 

She doesn’t have to tell you twice. You practically fall to the ground in front of her, ignoring the sharp pain in your knees. You look up at her, awaiting instruction, and she bites her lip softly at the sight of you. 

She puts a hand on your head and pushes you closer. “Put a hand around the base and then run your tongue up and down the length.” 

You do as you’re told and you delight in the loud moan that tears from her mouth. Her hand just rests on your head as you then experimentally suck the tip of her cock between your lips. 

“Good girl,” she says gruffly, and her praise drives you to test the waters and go down further. You bob your head on her dick, never breaking eye contact. “Fuck, baby, your mouth is so hot.” 

Meanwhile, the need inside you is growing so much you can barely fight the urge to slip a hand up your skirt. But you don’t. You figure Agatha won’t like that, and also, you want to focus all your attention on making her feel good. 

“Such a dirty slut on her knees for mommy. So desperate for this cock,” she says and you groan around the strap-on, making her hands tighten in your hair. She pulls you back and a string of saliva connects your lips to her. “Get up.” 

Once you’re standing in front of her, she flips you around and bends your front over the table so she’s standing behind you. She pushes your skirt up and traces your pussy with her cock, sliding it up your slit to your clit and then back. You’re grinding against her, trying to get some stimulation. 

“Are you ready?” Agatha asks. 

“Yes,” you answer, voice hoarse with anticipation. You feel her line the tip up with your hole and then slowly start to push in. 

Both of you moan. She is so big but the stretch is exactly what you need. Once she bottoms out, she holds still for a second, letting you adjust to her size. 

“You take my cock so well.” And then she’s pulling out and thrusting back in, picking up speed and intensity. You lift a leg up so she’s able to get deeper and you can feel her hips stutter. “You pretend to be so innocent but look at how desperate you are for me. Just a little slut, needing me to fill her up.” 

“Yes, just a slut for you, mommy.” 

Her nails dig into your hip and her other hand comes down to rub your clit. You clench around her. 

“You’re so tight, so hot, you feel so good squeezing my dick,” Agatha murmurs, saying the filthiest things right into your ear. You’re so close and it’s only been a few minutes of her pounding into you. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. Her hand leaves your clit and you gasp. 

“Not yet, baby, wait for mommy. Do you want me to fill you up?” 

“Want you to fill me up, mommy, wanna feel you dripping out of me,” you babble. 

“Oh shit, baby, gonna cum in you. Cum for me,” she says, and you do. This orgasm is even more intense than the one before and you feel her give you one last hard thrust before warmth spreads through your cunt. She stills for just a second and then gingerly pulls out. You can feel her cum dripping out of your hole and down your leg and it almost makes you cum again. 

Agatha turns you around and spreads your legs so she can watch it better. She takes two fingers and lazily smears her cum mixed with yours all over your pussy lips. She raises her fingers to your lips and you eagerly taste both of your juices, moaning around them. 

“Do you feel better now?” she asks, a playful glint in her eyes. 

You sigh dramatically. “For now. But who’s to say I won’t get into more sex pollen some other time?”

She chuckles and matches your smirk with one of her own. “Well, I guess I better keep a careful eye on you then.” 

[headkiss]

non bau! reader suggestion! : librarian! reader!!! oh how i love librarian! reader...

-🪲

tysm for your request!! <3 | 0.8k words, r wears a dress and is referred to as she twice

As a library assistant, you’re used to receiving phone calls. Turning on your customer service voice, answering questions, wishing them a nice day, hang up, repeat.

It’s one of the main things you do, stationed at the desk for most of the day until there are enough returns on the cart to put away. You’ve already answered four calls this morning. Easy ones, at least, about whether or not you have a book in stock or your hours.

It’s the fifth phone call that surprises you completely.

“Hi, my name is Spencer Reid, I’m with the FBI.” is what the voice on the other side of the phone says to you when you pick up.

“Oh! Um. How can I help you?”

“We’re working on a case here, and I’m looking for a book that might help us. Would you be able to see if you have it in stock?”

“Yeah! Yes, of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

“I’m looking for a copy of Wuthering Heights. It would have been checked out and returned recently, probably by a white male.”

Your stomach sinks a little. “Is that the, uh, guy you’re looking for?”

“He might be,” Spencer says. Then, as if he can sense your spike of fear, “Let us worry about that, you focus on the book.”

“Right,” you flex your fingers and turn to your computer, pulling up the records. “Yes, it looks like a copy was checked out on Monday and returned.. yesterday evening.”

“Would you be able to set that aside for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you so much,” he says, then the line clicks.

You keep the phone in your hand for a moment, grasping on to the fact that someone the literal FBI is looking for might have been here just yesterday. Hell, you might have even spoken to him before.

Just as you snap yourself out of it and set the phone down, the front door is pushed open, a gentle breeze ruffling the pages of the books nearby. Through it walks a man wearing a sweater vest over a button up, a tie around his neck. His hair gets ruffled by the wind, too.

“Hi, I’m Spencer. We spoke on the-” he pauses when he looks at you, his eyes flitting across your face to your nametag and back up. His voice is quieter when he finishes “-phone.”

It’s then that you notice the credentials he has clutched in his hand. “Hi! That was faster than I expected.”

“The precinct is just around the corner,” he says.

You nod. “Let me just go grab that book for you.”

Spencer watches you go, your dress sweeping against your thighs as you slip out from behind the counter and into the aisles. He rocks back and forth on his feet, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.

When you come back, Wuthering Heights in hand and cardigan slipping off your shoulder, he almost forgets why he’s there in the first place.

“Here it is,” you say, walking up to him, the book held out in front of you.

“Thank you,” he takes it from you, fingertips brushing yours.

You scan his face, and he looks so gentle, so sweet, that you let your curiosity slip out. “Can I ask why you need a book to solve your case?”

“We think the unsu- the man we’re looking for might have left a clue behind in it.”

“Like, a highlighted passage or something?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Defacing library books and wanted by the FBI… this guy really sucks.”

Spencer laughs. A quick, surprised thing that makes you smile, too.

“I hope it helps you find him,” you say.

“Me too. Thanks again,” Spencer says, looking at your nametag again and then letting it slip from his lips. “I’ll bring it back as soon as we’re done.”

“You don’t need to do that,” you say. “It’s considered damaged and, well, I’d rather not have a book read by a killer on the shelves.”

Spencer nods, saying yet another soft ‘thank you’ before heading out the door.

He slides into the passenger seat of the SUV (he would have walked to the library but they were kind of in a rush, active killer and all), and Morgan is immediately suspicious. “What took you so long, pretty boy?”

“She had to find the book,” Spencer says, clearing his throat.

“Oh, okay. Weren’t getting your flirt on or anything, huh?”

“I wasn’t- she was nice.” Spencer can feel his cheeks warming. He hopes Derek doesn’t notice as they pull out onto the street.

He knows you said not to return the book, but Spencer thinks he’ll bring it back anyways. Eidetic memory works better on printed words and images, after all. Maybe he’ll just.. forget.

[scannainscanrula]

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

[athingofvikings]

I've been trying to keep this blog more fandom-focused, and keeping political stuff to my main. I don't always succeed, but I try.

But for a moment, let me just get up on my soapbox and give a quick message.

I am a Jew. I am a "Zionist" in the direct and explicit sense of "I support Jewish self-determination and sovereignty in our historic homeland from which we were exiled" and nothing more. I do not support Netanyahu, and would dearly love to see him jailed. I am not an Israeli citizen. I feel that war crimes have been committed during Israel's war with Hamas, and those crimes should be investigated and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

However, I view accusations of a "genocide" against the Palestinians by Israel is nothing more than Holocaust Inversion, and an insult to survivors of actual genocides. Were there horrible, terrible things happening? Yes. Was it a deliberate and organized attempt to wipe out the Palestinians? No. You can tell, because they're still alive.

And the only way for people to square that circle of "Why are there any Palestinians still alive if Israel is trying to kill them all, given the military power Israel has?" was to engage in disgusting antisemitic conspiracy-mongering.

If any of this offends, there's the Unfollow button.

Now, I bring this up presently because I got a lot, and I mean a LOT, of antisemitism aimed at me from people I once considered acquaintances, associates, even good and dear friends.

One of my less... salutatory character traits is that I hold grudges. I'm not as bad as my father, who holds grudges until they die of old age and then has them stuffed and mounted, but it's something of concern to me.

That being said, when I see on my activity page a notification for a New Follower, and I recognize the name as someone who accused me of supporting genocide, or even personally killing Palestinian children...

Yeah.

I feel that grudge is warranted.

It's the audacity of coming back after more than a year and expecting everything to be fine when they called me a monster, a murderer, and worse, where I basically go, "Nope. You can fuck right back off."

To many of them, this was a fandom.

To me, this was personal on a level they cannot comprehend.

[katamari-of-luv]

Every new Spamton Sweepstakes page I've found so far:

(Spoilers if you want to find them for yourself! If I missed something, feel free to add on!)

Clicking the "What's next?" link at the bottom of the main page takes you to /chapter3/, which simply reads "Not applicable." and has an ellipsis for a page title. UPDATE: Holding down the left arrow on your keyboard on this page causes the word "But..." to slide in from the right side of the screen.

Manually inputting /chapter1/ yields the same result (notably without the "But..." -- thank you rollingdanielle for pointing this out), while /chapter2/ reads "Applicable." instead. /chapter4/ has a red pixel slowly fade in at the center of the screen. Clicking that takes you to /chapter4/message/, which appears the same at first glance but actually contains several hidden links under the red pixel:

These link to one of two different six-second audio files: e.mp3 ("fading in" sound effect?) and m.mp3 ("fading out"?). I would love to hear it if anyone else finds a way to translate the "message". The placements of e's and m's don't appear to coincide with either binary or Morse code, but I could very well have missed something. Perhaps something Wingdings-related but I'm only a third of the way done with writing this post and that would be my fifth time pausing to puzzle out this one page. Maybe later.

UPDATE: HOLY SHIT. This comes from convobreaker on Bluesky's very informative thread. The layout of the audio file links correspond to a QWERTY keyboard, and the m.mp3 links match up to letters that can be unscrambled to spell /chapter4/thankyou/. The page is titled "How long did it take her to smile?" and presents you with two boxes to input text and a button to confirm. Pressing it with nothing in either box or anything but a valid email address in the first displays the text "Unknown contact." Pressing it with only a valid email address in the first box gives you the hint "She never smiled?" Filling the first box with an email address and the second with anything at all replaces everything with text reading "Thank you." Presumably the correct answer will send you a response.

On that note, /chapter5/ (titled "back") sends you here:

1 is unclickable, 2 takes you to d.mp3, a six-second drum and organ loop (that I could swear I've heard before-- can anyone identify it?) (UPDATE: Thank you to vividviolence and rollingdanielle! It plays before fighting Berdly for the second and final time in the Snowgrave or Weird Route, and may imply the "Applicable/Not Applicable" text refers to whether a Weird Route is possible in a given chapter.), 3 leads to ma.mp3, a warbling sound effect that fades out towards the end, 4 takes you back to /chapter4/, and 5 is h.mp3, a short acoustic guitar-like clip. It seems like manually inputting any "chapter" pages past 5 only takes you to room-dogcheck (they don't redirect, just display the little white dog).

Upon returning to the main page, clicking the "glitches and secrets Web Ring" banner, and continuing through to the /egg/ page via the "clues" link, a new link can be found embedded in the words "secret cats". /rain/ is another of Noelle's private journal entries, regarding the time she invited Catti over to play a "sillyriffic" Cat Petters minigame together. As per usual, she reminisces on seeing things in video games nobody else is able to replicate (but suspects Kris of knowing about it this time?) The "try it yourself" text leads to a playable version of this minigame at /rarecats/. The green dancing cats bouncing around the screen award points when clicked in accordance with the rarity scale on /rain/. An "angel wing" cat causes a stained glass window to appear onscreen and fade after a few seconds. Clicking that in time brings you to /windows/, a page titled "Aren't you forgetting something?" containing many instances of the same window sprite repeated over and over.

Each window links to a different combination of the same six words. Every page except one brings you to /room-dogcheck/. The correct combination, /lostwheretheforestwouldgrow/, leads to a page titled "ROOTS" which displays a blue tree that slowly floats up and down. It plays a single somber piano note the first three times it's clicked, then sends you back to /windows/.

UPDATE: Thank you to theyloy for tipping me off to this! Clicking the tree three times actually takes you to /window/ with no S. All the windows but one are now scrambled versions of the phrase /thepoorchildren/. Clicking and dragging to "draw" on this page, titled "Therapy", for long enough eventually reveals the red tree the man who gives you eggs hides behind, and clicking that links back to /egg/.

And last but not least, there's a new clickable area in /ramb/. The red desk at the front of the swanky, inviting green room now leads to /romb/, a silent set of wooden doors with the page title "No one will shed a tear for him." Clicking on them plays a door-opening sound effect and causes the screen to go black for a moment, then this text appears:

The text cannot be highlighted, and clicking either of the empty spaces plays the ma.mp3 sound effect associated with Chapter 3 via the /chapter4/message/ page discussed earlier in the post. This is wholly conjecture, but it may be of note that the spaces appear to be the right size to contain the word "egg".

UPDATE: Thank you once again to rollingdanielle! After clicking the door, but before the text appears, you can ctrl+A to click an invisible button floating around the screen. Doing so changes the page title to "You can never defeat us!!! Let's rumble!", plays ma.mp3, and then redirects to /chapter3/. This text could possibly be used in the Lanino and Elnina fight, as the speaker refers to fighting alongside at least one other person and "rumble" could be a pun on thunderstorms.

With that, I've listed off everything I know! Again, you're welcome to reply or reblog with anything I may have missed. Just one more month and Deltarune will be Tomorrow...

[failbettergames]

Fallen London Player Survey Results 2024/25

We put out a player survey in December that was taken by just under 8,700 of you.

To the half a dozen people who suggested that we open a communications channel via onlyfans, may god bless and save you. Our apologies to the individual who asked that we ‘do less;’ unfortunately we are bound only ever to do More, and Worse. One person asked for more ways to not be an awful person, but sadly we’ve spent fifteen years writing Awful Person Simulator and we’d find it hard to stop now.

The word 'love' was used in the responses 16,687 times. An order of magnitude more than all of the expletives combined! So we must at least in part be on the right track.

We hope you found it valuable to take part. We’ve already picked off some of the notes we received, where these were tiny things that took moments to fix. As to the rest, here’s a non-comprehensive breakdown of what we heard and what we’re planning to do with it.

There are two main things we want to look at in the coming six months or so:

Recaps and Journal Changes

The overwhelmingly thickest thread of feedback was about remembering what you’re doing in the game when you come back to it. This came from a breadth of players: from people returning after a break of years, to people coming back a few days or weeks after an intensive play period only to wonder why they were collecting so many Counterfeit Heads of John the Baptist.

We’ll be working on improvements to help you return to the flow of gameplay without difficulty after a period away. This will probably include (but not be limited to) more recaps in serial stories, and a rework of the Journal. (We undertake that it will not mess with your existing Journal entries. That would be madness.)

This is our first priority from the survey feedback; thank you very much if you gave details about your experience.

Click-finger Saviour

Chief among the reports from the most committed players is that there are places in the game where their clicking fingers particularly suffer. We can appreciate this, given the depths and lengths that the game has grown to! We have a few things in mind to offer respite, among them being: a version of the Perhaps Not button at the top of the page as well as at the bottom, some streamlining of content, and additional outfit slots, which will reduce some of the click burden of outfit switching.

From today, there will be a maximum of four additional outfit slots available in total: one more unlocked during game progression, one more for Exceptional Friends, and two more for Enhanced Exceptional Friends. This is an increase from 13 to 17 potential slots.

All that and more

Looking further ahead, we also have our thinking caps on regarding:

Additional cameos!

Making Lodgings prettier

A review of Port Carnelian

A way to make a sample Exceptional Story available to non-subscribers, so you can get a better idea of what to expect from one

A persistent place to find news and patch notes within the site

New, different social features

A way to be married to the zee, aka non-romantic spousal options

Finally, some feedback questioned whether we have been using generative AI in our games: we don’t. We wrote an AI transparency statement to make this clear; it’s at the bottom of the credits page for your reference.

Thank you again for completing the survey, if you were able to. We may well do another one. It was lovely to read what you think, especially those of you who aren’t commonly found in our community spaces. Until next time!

[vaadazen-codes]

How To Get Started Making Visual Novels

Wanna make a visual novel? Or maybe you've seen games like Our Life, Blooming Panic, Doki Doki Literature Club, etc. and wanna make something like that? Good news, here's a very basic beginners guide on how to get started in renpy and what you need to know going in! Before you start, I highly recommend looking at my last post about writing a script for renpy just to make it easier on you!

LONG POST AHEAD

Obviously, our first step is downloading it from their website

thankfully, its right on the home page of their site. Follow basica program installation steps and run the program. I highly recommend pinning it to your task bar to make it easier to access.

From there, you're met with the renpy app, it's a little daunting at first but let's talk about what all these buttons are for.

Projects

This part is simple, it just lists the current projects in the chosen directory. You probably won't have any in there of your own. You should still see Tutorial and The Question!

Both of those default projects are super helpful in their own ways, i highly recommend testing out the tutorial and playing around with it just to get comfortable with some of the basics.

Create New Project

The first step to actually making your game into a game!

You'll be met with a prompt letting you know that the project is being made in English and that you can change it. You can click Continue.

From here, you'll be asked to input a project name! Put in your games title, or even a placeholder title since this Information can be changed later! (this is also the title the folder will be in your file browser, be sure to name it something you won't overlook)

Now we get to choose our resolution!

If you have no idea what to choose, go for 1920x1080! This is the standard size for most computer monitors and laptops, but it will still display with moderately decent quality on 4k monitors too!

You can choose 3840x2160 as well. This is 2x the measurements of the default, with the same ration. These dimensions are considered 4k. Keep in mind, your image files will be bigger and can cause the game to have a larger size to download.

Now we get to choose our color scheme!

Renpy has some simple default options with the 'light mode' colors being the bottom two rows, and the 'dark mode' colors being the toop two rows.

You can pick anything here, but I like to choose something that matches my projects vibes/colors better. Mostly because depending on how in depth you go with the ui, it minimizes the amount of changes I need to make later.

Click continue and give it a minute. Note: If it says "not responding" wait a moment without clicking anything. It can sometimes freeze briefly during the process.

Now we should be back at our home screen, with our new project showing. Let's talk about allll that stuff on the right now.

Open Directory

This just opens that particular folder in your local file explorer!

game - is all the game files, so your folders for images, audio, saves, and your game files like your script, screens, and more.

base - this is the folder that the game folder is inside of. You can also find the errors and log txt files in here.

images - takes you to your main images folder. This is where you wanna put all of your NON gui images, like your sprites, backgrounds, and CGs. You can create folders inside of this and still call them in the script later. EX: a folder for backgrounds , a folder for sprites for character a, a seperate folder for spirtes for character b, etc.

audio - Takes you to the default audio folder. This is empty, but you can put all your music and sound effects here!

gui - brings up the folder containing all of the default renpy gui. It's a good place to start/ reference for sizes if you want to hand draw your UI pieces like your text box!

Edit File

Simple enough, this is just where you can open your code files in whatever text/code editor you have installed.

Script.rpy - where all of your story and characters live. This is the file you'll spend most of your time in at first

Options.rpy - Contains mostly simple information, like project name and version. There aren't a ton of things in here you need to look at. There is also some lines of code that help 'archive' certain files by file type so that they can't be seen by players digging in code however. Fun if you want to hide some images in there for later or if you just dont want someone seeing how messy your files are. We've all been there

Gui.rpy - where all of the easy customization happens. Here you can change font colors, hover colors, fonts, font sizes, and then the alignment and placement of all of your text! Like your dialogue and names, the height of text buttons, etc. It more or less sets the defaults for a lot of these unless you choose to change them later.

Screens.rpy - undeniably my favorite, this is where all of the UI is laid out for the different screens in your game, like the main menu, game menu, quick menu, choice menu, etc. You can add custom screens too if you want, but I always make my own seperate file for these.

Open Project - this just opens all of those files at once in the code editor. Super handy if you make extra files like I do for certain things.

Actions

last but not least, our actions.

Navigate Script - This feature is underrated in my honest opinion, it's super handy for help debugging! In renpy you can comment with # before a line. However, if you do #TODO and type something after it, it saves it as a note! You can view these TODO's here as well as easily navigate to when certain screens are called, where different labels are (super great if your game is long, and more. It saves some scrolling.

Check Script (Lint) - also super duper handy for debugging some basic things. It also tells you your word count! But its handy for letting you know about some errors that might throw up. I like using it to look for sprites I may or may not have mispelled, because they show up in there too.

Change/Update GUI - Nifty, though once you start customizing GUI on your own, it isn't as useful. You can reset the project at any point and regenerate the image files here. This updates all those defaults we talked about earlier.

Delete Persistent - this just helps you delete any persistent data between play throughs on your end. I like to use it when making a lot of changes while testing the game, so that I can reboot the game fresh.

Force Recompile - Full disclosure, as many games as I've made and as long as I've been using Renpy, i have never used this feature. I searched to see what it does and this is the general consesus: Normally renpy tries to be smart about compiling code (creating .rpyc files) and only compiles .rpy files with changes. This is to speed up the process since compiling takes time. Sometimes you can make changes that renpy don't pick up on and therefore won't recompile. In these cases you can run force recompile to force it. Another solution (if you know what file is affected) is to delete that specific. rpyc file.

The rest of your options on this right hand side are how you make executable builds for your game that people can download to extract and play later!

Sorry gang! that was a whole lot of text obviously the last button "Launch Project" launches an uncompiled version of the project for you to play and test as you go! Hang in tight because my next post is about how to utilize github for renpy, so you can collaborate easier!

[numinously-yours]

Choose a letter: A message from your future spouse

In this week's reading, I have letters from your future spouses <3 Each reading will also have a love song attached along with a specific line from that song that stuck out. Choose a group and happy reading!

Like your reading? Reblog and tag your group!

$1 and $5 tip options are available on my Etsy shop! These are 100% optional, not expected, and always appreciated.

Leave a Tip

Letter 1

Song: True by Spandau Ballet Lyric: "This is the sound of my soul"

Cards for your letter: ace of swords reversed, three of pentacles reversed, queen of cups reversed, and the two of cups

Text: Hi Darling, I’m sure that you’re wondering where I am & when I’ll finally show myself. Right now, I am working to make sure I will be the best version of myself when we finally come together. Past relationships haven’t worked out. I know I get to meet you eventually, but the journey’s been a bit exhausting. I bet you can relate. As I take this time to work on myself, I feel my soul being pulled closer and closer to yours. I know this is a test of our faith. The universe is asking us to following our souls’ purposes. Among all the signs, synchronicities, prayers, and intuition, if we always come back to the needs of our souls then we’ll always be on the path to each other. I don’t know when we’ll meet (I hope it’s soon!) but I know that when we do, this will all make sense. With love, Your future spouse

Letter 2

Song: You're the inspiration by Chicago Lyric: "You know our love was meant to be; the kind of love that lasts forever, and I want you here with me"

Cards: The World reversed, Justice reversed, The Lovers, ten of wands reversed, seven of pentacles reversed, The Fool

Text:

Dear X, The main purpose of my letter is to let you know that our relationship will be unlike anything either of us has experienced before. Where there used to be passive aggression, there will be healthy communication. Where there used to be blame, there will be accountability. Where there used to be burdens we carried alone, there will be an extra set of hands to distribute the weight. In my own life, I am finally gaining the closure I need for the experiences that have brought me down. I am feeling rejuvenated and optimistic. I know for a fact that all the bullshit was to show us we don’t deserve anything less than the feelings above. We will take this upcoming adventure together and I think you’ll be convinced, too. I can’t wait to show each other what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like. Let’s find each other soon, okay?? I love you! X

Letter 3:

Song: I swear by All-4-one Lyric: "I'll build your dreams with these two hands"

Cards: Six of wands, page of cups reversed, four of pentacles reversed, The Hierophant, The Empress

Text:

Dear future spouse, This is the fourth draft I’ve written of this note to you. The first three were on paper but with all the scratching out I’ve been doing, I decided to skip the paper and find a keyboard with a backspace button. I want to get my words just right. Up until recently, what mattered most in my world was fancy gadgets and making enough money to buy them. But then something changed and all I can think of is wanting to create a life of substance, not a life of things. My viewpoint of the world has been opened, and with that, comes longing for connection and sharing the beauty of life with someone else. I am ready for that feeling people talk about when they speak on love. I am ready to show someone how important their mere existence is. Now more than ever, I truly believe we only get this one life to live, and it shouldn’t be wasted on the material. I hope that when we meet you will know it’s me. My yearning to connect with you is strong and I would be surprised if my energy hasn’t made it your way yet. If it hasn’t, that’s okay because I won’t stop trying. I finally know what is most important in this lifetime and I won’t forget it any time soon. Sincerely yours, Your future spouse

Letter 4:

Song: Meant to be by Bebe Rexha (Acoustic version) Lyric: "We got nothing but time. As long as you're right here next to me, everything's gonna be alright"

Cards: The Lovers, The World, Seven of Cups, The Chariot, Queen of Swords

Text:

Hey you! Our meeting is right around the corner, I can FEEL it. I’ve been working hard on manifesting the life I want and you are an integral piece of that. You emit an energy that I can’t get enough of. I can just tell how smart, true, and incredible you are. When we get together, there will be a sense of fulfillment that neither of us knew was missing. So many opportunities are on their way to us! I know you share the same value for relationships as I do. I want you to know that I will always work my hardest to make you aware of how special you are. It is my promise that I will be honest, open, and respectful to you. I am SO ready to make these manifestations come to fruition. See you soon! - Your future spouse

[dmitriene]

cw: age gap, confused feelings, glimpses of smut.

professor john price is a man far from being an complete idiot, he knows how to communicate with people, where to press to get what he wants, where to change the volume and pitch of his voice, how to see right through pretenses, and he sees how you stare at him, here and there, under fluttering eyelashes, with dilated pupils, with darting eyes, hiding away when he meets your gaze with his own, disciplined cold, blue color dazzling, even more than the sun against which you squint, just to find him with your lingering gaze.

silly, young thing, you have so many years ahead, so many boys of your age, but you cling to the way the muscles in his arms twitch, exposed by the rolled up sleeves of his blouse, showing his sinewy forearms, skin covered with webbing veins, a smattering of dark, thick hair, down to his long, broad fingers as he turns the pages of a book, grabs a chalk, stretches his arms out, you notice every movement and scar, eyes round and full of sweet, dazed admiration which causes you to bite down the pillowy flesh of your bottom lip, pull at the plumpness with your teeth and make his gaze narrow at the uncontrollable action, growl under his warm breath, blunt nails digging into closed palms.

you should know better, notice that john is trying to avoid you, as an older, wiser, and more responsible individual, but you you persist in trailing behind him, appearing around the corner of the corridor, on his right hand, meet his gaze nearly without blinking, fixing an overlooked button on his stuttering chest, brush the cigar ash from his graying mutton chops instead of merely drawing attention to the stray particles, you know what you're doing, or maybe it's just a game of his mind that he loses so easily, he is no longer sure.

it's a lapse in control, a gross omission that he allowed himself, and immediately paid for it, when even when he closed his eyes, the image of you flashed before his eyes, keeping him from sleeping, when he started to imagine everywhere the subtle, lung dwelling scent of your perfume, your smiles, the light, gentle laughter that accompanied some of his jokes, you turned him into a madman, a man who hunted you around campus like a hound dog, just to see you, hear you, and touch you, so that he could not sleep at night again, irritated sclera, and palms stained with something that could not be scrubbed off or told about.

john has no idea what happened or how long ago you filled a once empty, locked space in his chest with your presence, you make him fantasize about things he shouldn't, which is taboo, disgusting, and incredibly tempting, to imagine what it would be like if you spread your legs wider, just for him, lifting your skirt to your pretty, sodden panties and tease him with outline of your puffy folds, imagine your supple skin under his rough pads of fingers, under his hungry lips, and his scratching beard, how you would call him, sir, professor, john, how you would sob in pleasure.

something has changed, because now your professor returns your frequent glances, looks at your face even when you break contact, turning away with a swoop of eyelashes and warming cheeks, smiles at you with a slight lift to the corners of his lips, hiding beneath his moustache, eyes narrowed with warmth, exposing deepening wrinkles around them, everything you wanted is now given to you on a platter, and all you have to do is go up to him after lectures, close the common trap.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[ellesthots]

code of ethics

iii. “possessive”

read on AO3 🤎

parts: previous / next

plot: things become a bit easier between you and your professor (now mentor)—but something isn't adding up.

pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader

cw: 18+

word count: 3k

a/n: listened to 'bad decisions' and 'hands on me' by ariana grande on loop while writing this—if this were my main fic, i would've written like fifty bajillion scenes of lusting and personal time, but this is a miniseries, so, we move right along! trying new things <3

A one-on-one mentorship didn’t require a classroom, so you found yourself sitting across from Professor Wayne in his minuscule office. Evidently, billionaire or not, every faculty member got the same 100-square foot space that left barely enough room for one student in addition to a desk, filing cabinet, and two chairs. Deep brown tones filled his office, making it appear stuffy. 

You felt awful watching him squeeze into his tiny seat across from you; had he opted for the smaller seat so you could have room? Surely the higher-ups could accommodate him. Like you’d spoken aloud, he apologized while hunting through his desk. 

“Emailed the admin about booking a conference room, but they’ve yet to get back to me. Hopefully,” he pulled out a bottom drawer, a small, satisfied sound slipping past his lips that made you sit straighter. “They’ll respond soon, and we can get somewhere more comfortable.” 

Comfortable. You’d repeated that word like a mantra in the mirror as you picked your outfit for the first day. Against your better judgment, you’d gone with sweats and a tee; unprofessional, you’d chastised, but wearing anything else felt promiscuous. Hyperaware of how tightly the jeans hugged your waist and ass—and oh, god, you avoided your skirts like your life depended on it—you’d landed on a perfectly comfortable pair of thick, cozy sweatpants. You tugged at a loose thread as your focus landed on his hands. 

Blue was the color he’d chosen for his pen. Not black, not red, but a cool, even blue. How sweet. You pulled at the thread harder. 

“Do you have topic ideas?” 

“Yes.” Dutifully, you slid a folder out of the backpack you’d obsessively cleaned the night prior. Smooth manila protected your typed list, ranging from strict academia to looser creative pursuits. You pushed the paper to him, heart pounding. 

He stared, his head cocked slightly. He looked to you, the paper, then slid it back. “Which are you passionate about?”

“I thought we’d look over them and decide together,”

He shook his head, lips pressed in a thin line. You felt what he wasn’t saying. “I won’t be the one writing it. It should be about what you want.”

Your professor held out his pen, and your fingers brushed as you took it. It was weighty in your hand, and you very well could’ve imagined it, but the cushion where his fingers had been held warmth. His big, long, warm hands… they were what you wanted. Manicured nails caught your attention, and you bit back an audible ‘of course’. His hygiene was impeccable. What else did you expect from a man like him? Was he manicured elsewhere? 

“Circle the topics you’re most interested in. If you still need my help,” yes, I do, “then we’ll talk.” 

You knew it would be bad after the break you had, but not this bad. You were achingly aware, in fact, following out of the corner of your eye while you pretended to deliberate topics, that he’d switched his usual sweater for a button-up. With the top two buttons undone. 

Focus. 

You snuck another look, and he caught your eye with a curious squint. 

FOCUS!

In truth, none of the topics genuinely interested you. Scouring his faculty page online, you’d gone down his research and found topics he was engaged with, and went from there. Sitting only a few inches from him now, your play felt embarrassingly obvious. It could’ve been minutes or could’ve been hours, but nothing was circled, or underlined, and the pressure in the room shifted. 

“I don’t like any of these,” you admitted, once again feeling like a child owning up to a Big Mistake. What would the slap on the wrist be? Sending you home early? Emphasizing that you really needed to take this class seriously, only making you feel worse? 

Instead, he bridged the space between you. The depth of his blue eyes this close had you genuinely worried you’d drown. “If you had to write the paper right now, and no one would read it, what would you write about?”

You hoped he couldn’t feel the heat emanating off your cheeks, and fought to keep your voice steady. “But you will read it.” 

“I’m here to support, not punish.” He lingered a moment, holding your gaze so firmly that a small gasp escaped when he sat back against his chair. “The process will be more enjoyable if it’s a subject you want to dig into, and your writing will be better for it.” 

It’d been hard enough getting grades back throughout undergrad knowing someone had read what you wrote, perceived you, judged you. It was an entirely new thing when the single most attractive, naturally charismatic man you’d ever seen was judging it in real time, intimately. If you didn’t know him, and had seen him on the opposite end of the same coffee shop, you would’ve hightailed it out of there, holding your breath—never would you have even thought it an option to approach him. 

Yet here you were, mandated to share a teensy room with the object of such desire. 

“This isn’t like last term. This course is about development and revision, pass no pass.”

“Alright.” It didn’t settle the rhapsody that threatened to overwhelm you, but nothing would in his presence. He appeared to attune to your continued hesitance at once. 

“What makes you afraid of me reading it?” 

That you’ll think less of me. “You’ll think it’s elementary.”

“Pick whichever topic without regard for how I might receive it.” He waved his hand over the carefully crafted options. “Or pick from the assembly of my research credits you collected there.” 

Crap. Of course he could tell. 

It took you the rest of the class, but you finally selected your paper topic. When you shared it, Professor Wayne’s eyes flashed, and after your internal recoil, you noticed him grin. “It’ll certainly make for an interesting essay.” 

You shifted in the chair, the space between you and the shared desk seeming too tight. “Bad or good?”

“Neutral.”

He’d been too thoughtful when he said it. Pause… ‘neutral’. “A professional way to say ‘bad’ without hurting my feelings?” An hour spent with him and your filter was slowly removing itself. A smidgen of bravery gathered within you, though you couldn’t imagine how with the adrenaline-spiked overwhelm at how fucking perfect he was.

“Seems to be your Achilles heel, Y/n.” He stood, somehow managing to pull on his coat in the meager space. His perfect hair fell perfectly around his ears, swishing slightly as the jacket’s collar grazed it. “A harsh inner critic will only get you so far.” 

“Mm.” Your throat went dry as he towered over you. It was as if he’d plucked last night’s fantasies from your bedroom. Now, just press his hands onto the desk… lean closer… tell me he wants to…

“I mean it.” 

You bit your lip, blinking at warp speed. “Yeah?” Too pitchy, shit.

He nodded, oh, even just a nod… and it was only the first day! “Almost dropped out of my doctoral program twice.” 

“No way.” 

He grabbed his mug, and your eyes trained on the movement. Does Professor Wayne know all I can think about is his hands on me? “Overthought my dissertation from the day of admission. Didn’t think I could measure up.” 

Him having anything outside of strict confidence was so shocking it pulled you out of your lust. “And?” 

“Now I get this spacious office all to myself.” 

Your cheeks hurt from the slope of your grin, digging into the apples of your cheeks. The man was endearing; certainly more than he’d been a term prior. Was it pitying? Did he see you as fragile? Because good god, you wanted him to break you.

“My point being: I had to write it despite my concerns. Follow where my mind went. Learn to trust it.” 

“How did you?” If you could mimic a single crumb of how he moved so effortlessly through the world—billionaire near-miss-A-list-celebrity notwithstanding—you’d take it. Managing a string of conversation that didn’t make your core tighten would be helpful, too. 

“Trusted my supervisors. That if I were truly out of line, someone would’ve told me.” He walked around the desk toward the door, but stopped between you and it. The noise got harder to ignore, but you managed. 

“Like you did last term.”

“A bit kinder than that, I’ll admit.” He gestured for you to lead the way out of his office, and you shakily got up from your chair to follow orders. You stalled in the slim, empty hallway, lit mostly by passing headlights through the window at its end. 

He clicked the lock and strode just ahead. “You have a strong voice. It’s a shame you’re not trusting it.” 

His smooth speech was beginning to genuinely unravel you. If he’d been speaking to you like this in his office, when you had to stare into his face instead of at his broad, flowing shoulders… 

“I just can’t believe you ever felt that way. You seem like you knew all this stuff from birth.” 

He tossed a look back at you, the whisper of a smirk wearing his mouth. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?”

Mmm…

Professor Wayne held the door open for you into the building’s main hallway, and you hugged the folder tight to your chest as you skirted past. “Come with an outline for next week’s session.”

“Will-do.” Your voice was too deep, thrown, almost ragged.

“Hopefully we’ll have a more accommodating room by then.” 

You did not have a bigger room for the rest of the term. 

“Wonderful.” 

He handed your essay back without comment, which was too confusing to internalize his praise. “No edits?”

“Stellar paper.” 

“Like, I’d get 100 if I turned it in for a grade?”

“I’d invite you to TA on the back of the rubric.”

“Shit.”

If you had to pinpoint the moment you and Professor Wayne’s communication had become less rigid, it might’ve been at the reveal of his dissertation insecurity. Or two weeks later when he made an offhand joke about being an orphan, and his cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink when it didn’t land. 

Either way, things had become easy. For the last day, you’d brought him a coffee. With sessions being in the evening, you usually showed up with water or the occasional herbal tea; however, as your roommate made customary for the end of a term, you were headed straight for the club after. A latte for you, black coffee for him. 

And a pastry, as a parting gift. 

“What now? Since I’m apparently perfect?” You tapped your fingers against your exposed thighs, the minidress you’d thrown on only covered from the waist-up by a baggy sweater. Things were pleasant between you two, sure, but that didn’t mean you didn’t ache watching his lips curve around the edge of his cup, or linger when he rolled the cuffs of his sleeve. 

He checked the clock, and you attuned to the movement of his waist when he shifted. You’d miss this. His tiny office that made you both sweat, his dry one-liners, the perfume of citrus and musk that followed you on your walks home. 

“Guess you get out half an hour early.” A bit curt of a nod, you noted, but it could’ve been in your head. 

What wasn’t in your head, however, was how he didn’t rise to follow you out the door. You withheld a pout as you tucked your folder into your bag and stood. It was your favorite time of the week getting guided down the hall with him. It felt delightfully possessive; he was your mentor, you were his student. 

“Not coming?” One hand on the doorknob, watching as he glanced halfway up at you, then quickly back to his desk. 

His voice went quieter. “Have finals to grade.”

“That’s why my paper has no errors?” You teased. “Antsy to finish?”

“Have a good night.”

No joking, no awkwardly-delivered story about some niche aspect of his personal life: nothing. 

With a level of awkwardness that hadn’t existed since the first meeting in ethics, you caught his hint for you to leave, and left. The hallway felt massive without him guiding you, the walls colder. What the fuck?

The walk home was quick, his TA comment stuck like glue. The first order of business when you slumped into bed involved pulling out your laptop to peruse the class listings. After such a lackluster goodbye, you figured you could make up for it through another term. A jarring crack in your chest festered when you considered the possibility of that being your last ever interaction.

Ethics 511: Ethics Matters, An Explanation of Moral Qualities (TA)

Time: Wednesdays 4-6:40pm

Faculty: Bruce Wayne

Seats: 0/1 [OPEN]

You slammed it shut and paced the room, drawing an invisible pros and cons list, a frustrating experience that ended with you flipping it back open, wildly moving your cursor to the REGISTER button, and clicking SUBMIT with your eyes closed. 

The computer made a bad sound. 

Registration Locked: Requires Instructor Approval.

“Hey, Professor Wayne.”

He glanced at the yellow office slip in your hand and sighed. “The assistant position is no longer open.”

“Oh!” Your spine tingled at his flat affect, disappointment disorienting you. With one term left, this had been your single opportunity to work with him again. “Damn. It wouldn’t let me sign up online.” Had it gotten sniped in the two days it took the office to get back to you with the override form? 

He didn’t look over, opting to concentrate on whatever lay within his notebook. Right off the bat, it was apparent you were a nuisance. Your stomach twisted into a knot. 

You parted your lips to speak, but nothing came of it. Fuck. Say anything. 

“Get a conference room yet for your new mentee—”

“Sorry to cut you short, but I have a deadline to meet.”

He didn’t sound sorry. He wouldn’t even look at you, and practically cut off the last syllable of your sentence. 

You swallowed back bile and a thousand other questions. It was a knife to the heart that you weren’t worth looking at for two fucking seconds now that he wasn’t obligated to teach you. At least you’d go out politely. Kindly. Maybe that could be enough. You faked a cheery grin. “Good luck!” 

“Have a good evening.”

Invisible bruises peppered your skin moving down the hallway from his classroom. Reduced to tears once again, like the past three months hadn’t even happened. Prideful, you leaned against the wall before the exit and searched the schedule to double-check.

Ethics. 511. Ethics Matters. An Explanation of Moral Qualities. (TA). Wednesdays. 4-6:40. Faculty: Bruce Wayne.

Seats: 0/1 [OPEN]

You stomped back to his classroom, pausing for a beat at the door to catch your breath and reign in tears. Clenched fists at your sides. Biting your cheek. It didn’t make sense. He always made sense.

Peeking through the window panel, Professor Wayne looked beaten; his posture hunched over the desk unlike he ever sat. He ran a stiff hand through his hair, and the huff of his exhale ruffled the papers below him. He adjusted uncomfortably.

He seemed… flustered. Strung-out. You pressed the pushbar.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He startled like a gun had been shot, but his recovery was smooth. You thought an additional button had been loosened on his shirt. “I’m immersed in my work.” 

“Did you just pass me and say all that because I cried at the midterm?”

His shoulders dropped in disillusionment, and you tensed. He squeezed the words past his teeth. “You did good work. Now let me get back to mine.”

Vulnerability spilled out of you, your voice cracking. “I just—”

“Y/n.” His voice was firm, an edge creeping in. 

“You acted like I would be the perfect candidate. Classes start next week.” 

“I no longer need an assistant.”

“I just checked, and it still says ‘open’ online.”

“I’ll get it changed.”

“This doesn’t seem—”

“Let it go.” He glared at you while he said it, as fiery and brutal as swallowing hot coal. 

“So it is something.” Whatever window he’d opened for you was bolted shut, and it felt like it snapped off a finger as he slammed it. He faced his desk, an absent stare at the empty monitor. His silence was the final brick, and you chewed on your cheek as hot, angry tears wet your lashes. He didn’t respect you enough to even tell you why. 

He repeated himself, weaker this time. “I no longer need an assistant.”

You stepped closer, and his shoulders drew inward. What the hell was his problem? 

“Hi,” another student maneuvered around you to set up at the desk in front of his. Precisely where you’d chosen the first day of ethics. You could’ve fallen to your knees as she took your seat. “I hope I’m not interrupting, I wanted to go over expectations for the mentorship next term when you’re available.”

“We were just finishing, Isabel.” 

So much for his deadline.

The ease of the last term sat differently in your chest. Had it been so relaxed because he hadn’t actually cared? You stopped yourself before scowling at the woman—it wasn’t her fault she was his next mentee, but god, jealousy nipped at the tips of your fingers as she rose from her seat and walked toward what used to be yours. His attention, his consideration, his time; his eyes, his scent, the way your name sounded in his mouth…

“Appreciate the transparency, Professor.” You spun on your heel and left without looking back. Fuck him.

taglist: @noisylime, @serynstorylover, @crayzmarvelfan800, @dreamer7black, @sad-ghouls, @smellingbats

[zaddizu]

𝓜Y OWN 𝓢𝓤MMER

(shove it)

xᴀɪᴠᴇʀ ᴢᴇᴘʜʏʀᴜs sᴏʟᴀᴄᴇ . 29 . ᴏᴜᴛʟᴀᴡ

Derived from the Latin word noua domus, meaning the new house, Xavier carries with it a sense of renewal and progress. Its roots can be found in ancient Rome, where the idea of a new dwelling was often associated with the promise of a bright future.

The name Zephyr means "west wind". It's a Greek name, originating from Zephyrus, the Greek god of the west wind. Zephyrus was also known as the god of spring and a gentle, refreshing breeze. The name Zephyr, now often used as a gender-neutral given name, evokes a sense of calmness, lightness, and freedom

solace; comfort or consolatiron in a

time of distress or sadness.

.

.

.

WANTED : DEAD OR ALIVE

male . brunette . green eyed

typically seen wandering town dressed in chains and a button up, just raised enough to show off his belt.

a scar stretches across his neck.

has been sitting on an $1000 bounty since the incident in black water. now that the gang has moved east, towards rhodes, he has a clean slate. kind of. as long as as no unlucky person recognises him. joined — more so taken in — the van der linde gang at the ripe age of thirteen after his mother was wrongfully killed. was raised around dutch, didn’t know much else about life before hand.

SIGHTINGS ,

ACCORDING TO THE LOCALS.

spotted near the valentine town stables; gets around on a mare, its main falling down in a wavy brown curl, covering its light brown fur, which stays dotted with white. he carries a journal and what seems to be a gun with handmade engravings carved down the side of the silver metal.

he has been heard calling the mount fawn, claimed by the general store owner, perhaps because of its resemblance to the likes of a baby deer.

on multiple occasions, xavier has been seen with a man now identified as as javier escuella. the long haired, mexican man is often seen associated with other supposed members of this gang and is suspected to be involved in this case.

❛❛ him and a few others, ❞

stated a bypasser,

❛❛ i’ve seen them, down by the saloon.

lenny, i heard one say, ❞

AND NOW,

A LOVE STORY.

xavier has had his fair share of love interests, ranging from pathetic to serious, men to women. if you looked back into his journal, you could find the god forbidden pages of his 16 year old self ranting about them. humiliating, really. it always will be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*.・゜゜・༶

despite being in a big, scary gang, he found himself a girl at seventeen. lily was her name. safe, sweet, sometimes a bitch but in the best way. of course, that ship sunk as soon as her father laid eyes on the gentleman, battle scars and all. it was to be expected, she was a well off girl with a future, xavier was… well, a broke outlaw who’s been in a gang all his life.

ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ . ғᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ

┆ i still think of her sometimes, but i don’t regret a thing.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*.・゜゜・༶

and now? javier. javier escuella, the man xavier’s been eyeing for years, yet pushed to the back of his cluttered mind. perhaps it was the accent. maybe the way spanish rolled off his tongue like honey, the way he harshly whispered his name and tugged his arm whenever he did something stupid during a mission. or maybe he was just hot. either way, that’s his current love interest right now. of course, i didn’t list all of them, just a few, as im not going to bombard you guys. plus it’s humiliating to think i was kicking my feet like a loser for these people. (cough cough sean)

ғʀɪᴇɴᴅs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs . sᴇᴄʀᴇᴛʟʏ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ . sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ

┆ i fell first, he fell harder. (like face planted.)

could you tell i had fun making this? anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this!!!! (*ˊᗜˋ*)

[honeyedmiller]

A Burning Desire part seven

firefighter!joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist

rating: explicit. 18+, minors do not interact.

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, extreme vulnerability, brief mentions of emotional abuse and manipulation in a past relationship, mentions of infidelity in a past relationship, shit ton of fluff, smut (nipple play, teensy bit of dirty talk, semi-public?? firetruck fucking!!! unprotected piv, ass play, ass slapping, brief choking, spitting, cum eating), reader’s brothers and tommy are little shits as always, no use of y/n.

word count: 7.1k

a/n: i’ve been feeling a little feral lately which resulted in the smut. apologies🧍‍♀️and yes that third picture is the 911 lonestar firehouse LMAO it was perfect for this okay 😭 anyway i hope y’all enjoy <3

synopsis: a drunken joel asks you to take your relationship with him to the next level.

A week had passed since Joel’s birthday party, and you’re now alone in a house that’s usually bustling with people. 

Sarah had gone off for the weekend to spend the night at a friend’s house while Joel went out with Tommy, your brothers, and Josh. You were curled up on the couch reading an invigorating romance novel. The quietness was accompanied by the ticking clock above the mantle and the soft scrape of paper rubbing against paper as you turned the page of your book. 

You find yourself so immersed in the book that when your phone rings, it nearly startles you half to death. You pick it up to see Emily FaceTiming you, and you dog-ear the page you’re on before setting the book down and sliding the answer button. 

“Hey Emi,” you smile at her as you bring your knees to your chest. 

“Hey sis. How are you?” 

“I’m good. Just reading a book and drinking some wine,” you say, lifting your glass up for her to see. She grins and holds up her water bottle, making you laugh. 

“You got the house to yourself?” She asks. You nod, chewing on your bottom lip. 

“Sarah is at a friend’s and, you know, Joel is out with the boys.” 

“The boys,” she snorts. “I can’t believe they all actually formed a little friend group and are going out.” 

“Tell me about it. I’ll take this over Andy and Cole chewing Joel’s head off any day, though.” 

“Seriously. Remember how long it took them to stop torturing Josh?” 

You think back to when your brothers would give Josh shit a lot when Emily first brought him around, but he stuck it out because he’s so head over heels for Emi… as he should be. Good man. 

“God, yeah. I also remember mom yelling at them both, saying something like ‘this is why you’re both single’,” you laugh at the memory, taking a sip of your wine. 

“I remember that, too. But I’m glad Josh stuck around,” she has a soft smile on her face before she twists her lips to the side. 

“Okay, so, I have something to tell you. But you can’t tell anybody. Well, you can tell Joel if you want,” she sighs, and you furrow your brows. 

“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong. In fact, everything is perfect. You know how I told mom like a week ago at Joel’s birthday party that Josh and I didn’t use… anything on our honeymoon?” 

You nod, recalling the moment in Joel’s kitchen. Then you go completely still as your heart drops to your ass. 

“Emi, oh my god, is—are you—holy fuck,” your brain is scrambled right now, eyes going wide as you stare at the screen. 

She tears up and lets out a happy sob that sounds like a laugh, holding up a pregnancy test that so clearly has the word pregnant across the tiny screen. 

Your hand flies over your mouth and tears sting your eyes. 

“Oh my god!” 

“I know, crazy isn’t it?” She laughs, happy tears streaming down her glowing cheeks. 

“When did you find out?” You ask. 

“Literally like thirty minutes ago. You’re the first person I’ve told,” she pauses. “Let Josh think he was the first, though. This is what he gets when he leaves his wife at home to go out and drink with his brothers and new friends,” she jokes, and you laugh with her. 

You hold up your right hand, seriousness in your tone. “Scouts honor.” 

“Thank you,” she says, sniffling before wiping her tears away once more. 

“I’m so happy for you, Emi. I know how much you want to be a mother.” 

“I love you, my dear sister,” she beams at you, and you can’t help but return the same radiant smile. 

“I love you too.” 

“Sorry to cut the conversation short, but Josh just texted and said he’s coming home in a few and I want to be prepared and all that,” she waves her hand around, and you can’t help but huff a laugh. 

“No worries. I’m so excited for you. I love you and I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?” 

She nods and blows you a kiss through the screen, saying bye before she hangs up. 

You can’t wipe the grin off your face or the warm feeling in your chest at her news. You try to go back to reading your book, but your mind can’t stop from wandering to your sister. 

Your thoughts are torn from your mind just a few short minutes later as you hear the front door handle jiggle, opening up to a completely happy and very drunk Joel.  

“There’s my beautiful lady,” he says, stumbling a tiny bit in the entryway. You laugh and stand up to help him, giving Tommy a wave as you see him watching Joel from his truck to make sure he gets in the house okay. He gives you a wave and a smile before peeling off, and you close the door. 

You steady Joel and help him walk over to the couch with you, settling him before you sit down next to him. 

“I gather your night went well,” you giggle, and he turns to smile at you. 

“Your brothers are two of the funniest damn guys. Josh too. This bromance is coming along just nicely.” 

You can’t help but laugh at his words, leaning forward to plant your lips on his cheek. 

“Oh, speaking of Josh,” you start, taking Joel’s hand into yours before rubbing your thumb across his knuckles. “Emily called me a few minutes before you came home. She told me some wonderful news and said I can share it with you.” 

Joel’s gaze meets yours as his eyebrows shoot up. “What is it?” 

“They’re having a baby. Emily is pregnant.” 

“Oh wow, that is great news. You think they’ll announce it to everyone soon?” He asks, bringing your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. 

“I’m sure they will soon.” 

It’s quiet for a couple of minutes before you switch positions on the couch and lay down, Joel following suit as he begins to tuck himself between your legs. You’re situating yourself before you look up at him with a small smile, his gaze already intensely on you. 

“We should have kids,” Joel says, a smug, sappy smile on his face. His words halt your movements as you eye him wearily. 

You quirk your brow at him and tilt your head. “Oh?” 

“Don’t ya think they’d be so cute?” He gushes, and Drunk Joel truly is a sight to behold. He’s all soft and cuddly. Practically a human teddy bear. 

“Just think about it,” he laughs, “They’d have your beautiful eyes and your smile and your laugh and—” 

You put a hand on his chest to stop his words, and he looks at you with so much love in his eyes you think you might burst. 

“Slow your roll, cowboy. How about we discuss this when whiskey isn’t in the equation.” 

He pouts at you and you have to stifle a laugh. He looks so fucking cute. Your heart blooms at the fact that he wants that type of future with you, and it cracks through the remaining pieces of the walls you’ve put up. 

He sighs and lays down on you, nestling his broad body between your thighs and clings to you like a koala. You kiss his temple and run your fingers through his hair, feeling so content and in love that it makes you nearly choke up with tears. 

He presses gentle kisses to the skin of your chest as he buries his face there, sighing in content. 

“Well if we’re holding off on the discussion of kids, then maybe we can start a few steps before that one,” he says, and his words barely make sense as he half-mumbles into your chest. You catch it anyway.

“And what would the first step be?” 

He lifts his head up to meet your gaze, eyeing you knowingly before giving you a soft but sure smile. 

“Move in with me.” 

-

“That’s the last of it.” You wipe your brow and exhale an exhausted breath, admiring the pile of boxes that overtook Joel’s living room—well, your living room now, too. It was only two months ago that Joel had drunkenly asked you to move in with him, and when morning time came, you had to make sure he was sure. 

He’d reassured you easily that he meant what he said and would love it if you moved in with him and Sarah. Sarah had been on board with it all along, wanting you to stay permanently after the few weeks you’d spent there taking care of Joel and helping with her. 

You had some things to figure out with your lease to your apartment, seeing as it wasn’t up until January, but your landlord was a godsend and the sweetest woman, letting you break the contract two months early with your full deposit back. 

Joel wraps his arms around you with a prideful grin, kissing your sweaty forehead. You grimace at that, but you’ve come to find out early on in your relationship that this man isn’t easily disgusted by much of anything, really. 

You gaze at the tower of boxes and it tugs at your heart strings. Just a couple of months ago, you were crushed by the prospect of having to go back to your apartment when Joel was fully healed, but it turns out he didn’t want you to leave, either. He’d come to your place on nights Sarah was with friends and would spend time with you there after you’d left his house and he got cleared for light duty at work. 

Turns out he’s just as clingy to you as you are to him. That’s not to say you both don’t mind spending time apart from each other, but you’d much prefer to be wrapped up in each other or simply enjoying each other’s company. 

You’ve already established that allowing yourself to get attached to someone scared the hell out of you, and Joel had sensed it, too. You finally opened up to him one night and laid all of your cards out on the table for him. Confessed that your ex had been emotionally abusive toward you, manipulating you and gaslighting you into thinking you were fucking nuts for wanting to feel something with him and be loved the way you knew you deserved to be, and that you were too much for wanting the bare fucking minimum. That he made you feel like you didn’t matter. That he made you feel unworthy of true love after you finally put the finishing pieces of the puzzle together, seeing the bigger picture, and coming to the conclusion that he was a fucking prick who didn’t deserve you or what you had to offer. The final cherry on top of this monstrosity was catching him fucking his coworker in his bed. 

You told Joel, with tears in your eyes, that your heart was completely his and it had taken you a while to get over the hurdles and constant battles in your mind. You told him he’s the one who crumbled all of those walls completely. He’s the one that made you believe in love again, no matter how much it terrified you. You confessed that he was it for you. He’d ruined every single other man for you, ever. 

With glossy eyes of his own, he pulled you in tight and held you for what seemed like hours, kissing your temple repeatedly until you completely melted into him. He’d made you a promise that night he’d do his absolute damndest to protect your heart and take care of it, and if he ever saw your ex, he’d beat the shit out of him. You’d never seen Joel so furious, but with the look he had in his eyes, you could tell he really wasn’t joking. 

It’s only been a few months, but you feel like you’ve come a long way—mentally, physically, with Joel, your family, and your dearest friend Maria. Without them, you don’t think you would’ve had the strength to overcome your worst fears that involved love. It took you a while to finally love yourself again after you ended it with Christian,  and even longer to allow someone else to love you the way your heart desperately desired. 

You couldn’t have been more grateful that the person to give you that is this handsome, strong, loving man that stands proudly beside you. Someone who’s unabashed about showing you off. Proud to love you out loud. Isn’t afraid of giving you a big, playful smooch in public and doesn’t hide you from his coworkers or his family or any of his friends. 

You’re irrevocably in love with Joel Miller, and you’re damn proud of it. This man has saved you—literally and figuratively. 

“I honestly thought you’d have more stuff than this,” Joel says with a teasing undertone. You snort a laugh and roll your eyes, looking at him with amusement. 

“My apartment wasn’t that big, Miller.” You pat his chest and move toward the boxes, luckily thinking ahead and separating everything into which room they belonged in. You lift the first one up that’s labeled bedroom in big bold letters, heading toward the stairs. Joel follows suit and picks up another one labeled bathroom, following you up the steps. 

You set the box down on the floor and open the drawers that Joel had cleared out for you. You smile at the thought of him being nice enough to clear out some of his space for you. He’d told you it gave him the perfect opportunity to clean up around the house and get rid of stuff he didn’t need or use anyway. He donated most of the stuff he got rid of, saying someone else would get much better use out of the various items. 

Joel sets his box down in the master bathroom, setting it on your side of the sink. Your side. Your lips curl up at that, and Joel comes behind you before nearly tackling you onto the bed. You yelp out in surprise, a breathy laugh escaping you as he straddles you and looks down at you from above. 

Your hands land on his torso, coercing him down with a mischievous smile and a curl of your finger, silently telling him ‘come here’. He licks his lips and leans down, elbows on either side of your head. 

“Fancy meetin’ you here, darlin’.” His Southern charm is something you’ll never tire of, especially if it’s regarded in a playful mood. 

“Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?” You quirk a brow at him and grin, fisting the front of his shirt to tug him down so you’re nose-to-nose. 

“You’re right, pretty lady. Severely rude. How long until everyone gets here…?” He trails off, kissing the line of your jaw before nibbling at your chin. Your eyes glance at your watch-clad wrist as you lift it up in your line of sight. 

“About forty minutes or so,” you breathe out in a sigh. Joel hums against your neck now, licking your pulse point before nipping your skin slightly. You arch your body up into his, neediness rolling off of every limb as you lick your lips in anticipation. 

“Enough time for me to show you how not rude I am,” he murmurs. You laugh at that, threading your fingers through his thick locks. 

“I think this lady would very much indeed like a proper demonstration.” 

Joel’s eyes turn dark and he nearly growls, tugging your tank top up and over your head before unzipping your sports bra. Your breasts bounce as they become free, and Joel chuckles deeply at the way your nipples tighten and become erect with such little teasing and some cold air. 

“So fuckin’ pretty. I love these tits, baby.” 

He leans down and sucks a nipple into his mouth, swirling his warm tongue around it before tugging on it with his lips. He scrapes his teeth over the sensitive bud and you gasp, hands landing on Joel’s chest as you fist his shirt once more. 

Wetness easily pools in your panties as he continues his ministrations, giving the other nipple as much attention as the previous. He eventually licks down your sternum, nipping his way down your torso before grabbing leggings by the waistband and yanking them down. 

“Joel, I’m all sweaty,” you whine, not particularly keen on him going down on you when you feel… musty. 

“Since when have I given a shit about that, baby? You know I’d eat this pretty pussy for breakfast lunch and dinner, given the chance. Now hush up n’ let me eat you like you deserve.” 

And he’s about to dive right in when the doorbell rings. You whine in frustration, rubbing your brow impatiently. 

“Guess we don’t have forty minutes,” you bite, and he has to roll his lips into his mouth to refrain from laughing. You roll your eyes at him and gently push him off of you, standing from the bed to adjust your clothes. You make your way out of the bedroom, and Joel can’t help but land a hefty smack to your ass. 

You swivel your head to look back at him and give him an unconvincing scowl. He’s sporting an amused expression in return. “Hands off, Miller.” 

“Uh uh. We’re in our house now, sugar. Not a chance.” 

He wraps his arms around your waist as you both pad over to the front door, opening it to see your brothers standing there. 

“Hey look, it’s Dumb and Dumber,” you muse, and you scrunch your nose with a laugh as Andy rolls his eyes. Cole flips you off with a saccharine smile plastered to his lips as you step to the side to let them in. 

“Just to let you know, Miller, you’re insane for asking our baby sister to move in with you. Woman’s a goddamn menace,” Andrew starts, setting the six pack he brought onto the kitchen counter. 

“That’s rich considering you and Dumber over here decided to harass him about treating me right the day before Emi’s wedding.” 

Joel’s lip twitches up at the corner, and your gaze meets his as you both share an amused look. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, kissing your temple as he turns back to your brothers. 

“She’s my menace. I love it. I love everything about her,” he says, giving you a chaste kiss as you beam at him. 

“Eugh. Get a room,” Andrew says while he scrunches his face up in mock disgust. 

You point at him in an accusatory fashion. “‘Y’know, Andy, you won’t be talking so much shit one of these days when the woman of your dreams swoops in and knocks you on your ass.” 

“Jeez, who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?” Cole asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Both of you did. Cockblockers.” You brush past them to get a bottle opener for the beers, tossing it to Joel when you find it. 

“Dude, come on!” 

“Fucks sake.” 

Your brothers groan in unison as they pick up exactly what you were putting down. 

A flush of deep red creeps up Joel’s neck and face as he opens beers and doesn’t meet either Andrew or Cole’s gazes. 

“When’s the rest of the Brady Bunch supposed to get here?” You ask, pulling a water bottle out of the fridge for yourself. You uncap it and take a long sip, eyeing your brothers over the frosted plastic. 

“Probably twenty minutes or so. We were already in the neighborhood so we thought we’d swing by early.” 

You nod and shift your gaze back to the boxes. Your family was nice enough to volunteer to help you unpack and get things all organized, along with Tommy and Maria. 

A few hours later and the once-full boxes are broken down and flattened, piling high in the living room. The rest of the stuff you need to unpack is stuff for the bedroom, but you decide to take care of it a little later.

You can’t stop thanking everybody as the day goes on, and in truth, it warms your heart that you have so many people in your corner. 

“I’m happy for you, sweetheart,” your mom says as she nudges you with her hip. 

“Thanks mama.” You give her a side hug and lean in to her just as Joel catches your eye and winks at you. 

Your mom huffs a laugh beside you, looking at you with a knowing smirk. “That man really is your soulmate, baby girl. I’m so glad you’ve found someone who loves you the way he does.” 

“You know, I told him about everything that Christian had put me through. That man looked me in the eyes and told me he’d do everything in his power to protect my heart. I completely opened up my heart to him, mom. That’s something I haven’t done in such a long time because I was so fucking scared of me being hurt again being the outcome.” You finish putting away some baking tools in a kitchen drawer before you sigh and shake your head. 

“It was so clear to me, especially after his accident. I can’t fathom losing him.” You start to choke up on your words as your eyes get watery. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. 

“Oh, honey,” your mom coos, wrapping her arm around you while rubbing your arm lovingly. “I know that time was super difficult for you and you had your reasons as to why you didn’t want to talk about it. It killed me seeing you going through such a tough time. If I could’ve taken your heartache away in a beat I would’ve.” 

Hot tears are fully rolling down your cheeks now and you sniffle, giving her a sad smile. “I love you, mom. Thank you for sticking by my side even during the ugliest of it all. I never meant to push you or dad away. Just know that Joel treats me so well and I don’t have to second-guess things with him. I know it’s only been a few months and it may seem like things are moving fast, but I’ve never had stronger feelings than this for someone. He’s it for me, mom.” 

“I’m so proud of you for opening your heart up again, sweetheart. You deserve this happiness and love. I can’t wait for the day I get to see you up at the altar with him, and, you know, follow in Emi’s footsteps in having a baby.” She gives you a wink and a kiss on the cheek before wiping a tear from your face before rejoining everyone in the living room. 

And it’s at this moment that you feel your heart grow fuller, completely surrounded by love—and, for the first time in years—full contentment and certainty. 

-

The quietness of the usually noisy home the following day was almost unsettling. It’s something that you know will take time to get used to, but luckily you have your Bluetooth speaker and your favorites playlist to keep you company. 

You make a checklist of everything you need to do today, and you’re determined to get it done before Joel and Sarah come home. The first thing on the list is to put away the last of your stuff and tidy up the house, which you get done in a couple of hours. It’s around eleven when you finish, so you decide to freshen up for the day and shower before heading downstairs to see what groceries they have in the fridge to make dinner. 

As soon as you open the fridge, you spot Joel’s forgotten lunch bag. You roll your lips into your mouth before checking your watch again, figuring he’d probably eat lunch soon. You decide to pay him a visit at the firehouse to drop off his lunch and get all of the flattened boxes that lay in the living room to a recycling facility. 

You load up the cardboard in your car and grab Joel’s lunch, starting the twenty minute drive to the firehouse. When you get there, you notice one of the trucks missing from the apparatus bay. Other than that, everything else is in place and the firehouse is completely quiet, except for some faint clinking noises coming from the second level. 

Your mind reels for a second, remembering the first time you walked through these doors. It had only been a few months back, but it seems like a lifetime ago. You truly couldn’t fathom how far you’ve come not only personally, but in your relationship with Joel as well. 

You remember being so uncertain about all of this. Nervous to take the next step. Push yourself to trust Joel and see where the leap of shattered faith would take you. You never in a million years thought it’d land you here, but you were beyond indebted to the universe that it did. 

You climb the stairs to the second floor and see Joel standing with his back to you, washing dishes. You take this time to eye him head-to-toe, admiring his strong build and tall stature as the muscles in his biceps and forearms flexed while he scrubbed away what looked like egg scraps off of a plate. His uniform is fitted to his figure like a glove with the navy blue Austin Fire Department t-shirt tucked into his crisp navy blue slacks with black steel-toed boots to finish off the look. His brown curls are neatly combed, and you just know he’s sporting that one Clark Kent curl in the front that drives you absolutely nuts. 

The dull ache in your core resurfaces from yesterday before you were so rudely interrupted from getting your pussy eaten like it was Joel’s last fucking meal. You nearly moan at the thought and shake your head with a brief sigh before you bite your lip. 

You let out a low whistle and giggle. “Looking good, Miller,” you say, stepping closer to him now. Joel swivels his head to look over his shoulder and his gaze meets yours with surprise written all over his expression. 

“Hey baby,” he says, finishing rinsing off the last of the dishes before turning off the tap and wiping his hands. He makes his way over to you with a grin, planting a sweet kiss on your lips before wrapping his arms around your waist securely. “This is a real nice surprise. Watcha doin’ here?” 

You hold up his lunch bag with a smirk. “Someone was in a rush this morning,” you tease. He chuckles and takes his lunch bag from your hand. 

“Guess I was. Didn’t even realize it. Woke up later than I intended to, but leavin’ you behind in bed is just so damn hard.” He kisses your forehead and you sigh in contentment. 

“Tell me about it. The bed gets so damn cold without my own personal furnace right beside me.” You giggle as he tosses his head back with a hearty laugh, and you admire the crow’s feet around his eyes as they crinkle. Everything about this man is just so damn beautiful. 

He fixates his gaze on you once more before sliding his free hand down to your ass to give it a love tap. 

“Thank you for bringin’ this to me. Probably woulda just stole Tommy’s lunch if I didn’t have one.” 

You huff a laugh before you finally look around, noticing that there’s nobody else in the vicinity. 

“Is it just you here?” You ask, and he lets go of you so he can put his lunch bag in the fridge. 

He nods. “Mhm. Everyone’s on a call. Left a couple ‘a minutes before you came here.” 

“Oh,” you grimace. “I’m sorry you’re not out with them,” you say sympathetically. 

“Ain’t a worry, baby. Gives me the chance to tidy the place up and rest my bones. Just glad ‘m not drivin’ you crazy at home anymore.” 

“You didn’t drive me crazy,” you laugh. “I’m already there.” 

“Funny.” 

“I know,” you gleam at him before scrunching your nose, heading toward the steps. 

“Leavin’ already?” He falls in step behind you and follows you down the steps. 

“Don’t wanna bug you too much while you’re at work.” 

He scoffs and shakes his head before stopping you next to the firetruck. “Woman, when you gonna learn that you never bug me?” He’s got a teasing glint in his eyes and you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Guess you’ll just have to teach me that lesson over…” Your eyes trail down to his lips and the corner of your mouth tugs up in the slightest. “And over.” 

He moves toward you so your back is flush against the sleek red engine, caging you in as he places both hands next to your head on either side. He’s got that look in his eyes that drives you wild, and the dull ache isn’t so dull anymore. It’s a full-fledged throbbing that has your breath picking up in the slightest as you look at him staring back at you with a fire in his eyes. 

“I don’t have a single problem doin’ that, darlin’.” 

You swallow harshly as his eyes flit behind you for a brief second before they settle back on your face. 

“You ever been inside a firetruck?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. He moves closer to you so his body is nearly flush to yours, give or take two or three centimeters. 

Your mouth goes dry and the words you want to say seem to die on your tongue. You opt for shaking your head no. Joel smirks at that, reaching up to pull open the back door to the firetruck. He nods his head upward, and you immediately get what he’s hinting at. 

“After you, baby.” 

You slowly turn around and climb into the back of the truck, looking around in pure curiosity. There’s two captain’s chairs right next to each other, and Joel takes a seat on the one closest to the open door before he shuts it. The sound makes you jump and you look down at him as he tugs on your hand. He spreads his legs wide and the slacks he’s wearing hug his thighs deliciously. Your mouth nearly waters at how fucking good he looks in his element. He pats one of his thighs and you sit down on it, looking around a bit more before he gently grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look at him. 

“This is actually really cool,” you say, eyes finally settling on his face once again. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just staring at you with a lustful look in his eyes. You can practically read his mind from a mile away.

“Joel, no, we’re at your job and—”

His lips on your jaw distract you and you suck in a sharp breath as he licks at your pulse point on your neck. You know this is so wrong on so many levels, but you can’t seem to get yourself to stop and think about the consequences. 

“They’re on a call,” he mumbles into your neck. “‘S gonna take ‘em awhile.” 

He grabs your hips and swings your other leg over the other side of his lap so you’re straddling him. You can’t deny the slick heat between your legs and the prospect of doing something insanely inappropriate in a firetruck. This was never on your Bingo Card of Life, but when the opportunity arises, you take it. 

“We never got to finish what we started yesterday,” Joel states matter-of-factly before his warm hand plunges into the front of your leggings. He raises a brow up at you when he realizes you’re going commando today. His middle finger slides through your slit easily, and you moan at the contact as you loll your head to the side. You grip onto his shoulders and lean down, crashing your lips to his in such fervor that it nearly knocks the wind out of you. 

He circles your clit skillfully with the tip of his finger, and you can’t help but grind yourself onto his hand. He’s swallowing every whimper that bubbles up in your throat as you move your hips back and forth, and his free hand grabs your ass before giving it a smack. 

“A little rough today, are we?” Your voice is breathy and you let out a small laugh, slowing down your grinding motions. 

“Is it too much?” He asks, and you nearly want to melt into a damn puddle at how considerate he is being so concerned like this. You grin down at him and smooth out the worry line in his brow, bending down to give him a lengthy kiss. You peck his lips a couple of times before sliding your hands down his chest, feeling his strong heartbeat beneath your fingertips. 

“Not at all. I like it rough.” You smirk at him as you feel his cock straining against his slacks at your words. A low growl rumbles deep in his chest before he closes his eyes for a beat. They snap open again and this time, you’re met with a darkened gaze that’s full of lust and determination. 

“Yeah? How rough?” His hand slides out of your leggings and he swipes the tip of his middle finger across your bottom lip, coating it in your arousal. He coaxes your jaw open to slip his finger into your mouth, and you suck his finger willingly. You taste yourself then before you shoot him with a dead serious stare. 

“Ruin me.” 

He stills at your words for a beat as he sucks in a sharp breath. He grabs the back of your head and crashes his lips to yours, hands now roaming wildly before he’s frantically sliding down your leggings. You’re trying as quickly as possible to blindly unbuckle his belt and unbutton his slacks, and you slide his clothing down his thighs before he presses the head of his cock against your folds. 

Before you can even think to sink down onto him, he grabs you and forces you to face downward toward the seats so you’re ass up and completely exposed to him this way. 

“Such a perfect fuckin’ ass too, baby.” He grabs both of your arms and holds them behind your back, wrapping one hand around both your wrists to keep you steady. You whimper as he slides his cock through your folds once again before he suddenly slams into you. 

Your mouth goes agape and your eyes roll to the back of your skull as the air in your lungs dissipates. You clench hard around him and you feel your mind completely slipping away as you see stars. 

Joel presses his free hand down on your lower back and soothes you lovingly. “Breathe, baby, breathe,” he says through clenched teeth, and you can tell this is a lot for him, too. 

“Move, Joel,” you choke out, sucking in a big breath of air. He does as you say, moving his hips at a brutal pace so he’s pistoning in and out of you. 

You have to concentrate on breathing because it’s damn near impossible. The sound of skin slapping on skin reverberates inside of the firetruck, and your mind was absolutely reeling at how you two were doing something this scandalous. 

You feel Joel’s free hand rub your ass for a brief second before he lands a harsh smack on it, and you cry out in both pain and pleasure as your skin stings from the contact. 

“You like that?” He asks, somehow pounding into you even harder. Your limbs are like noodles at this point and your mind is so foggy. You try to answer him again but nothing comes out. 

“Answer me, sweet girl. You like when I’m rough with you?” 

You whine before you finally find your words again. “Fuck! Yes!”

He lands another harsh smack against your ass and you moan loudly before sucking in a breath when you feel his thumb circle your other hole, and he spits on it. 

“J-Joel—”

“One of these days I’ll fuck you here, too.” His husky voice is full of promise as he slips his thumb into your  asshole, and all you can do is nod as you feel so full like this. 

“Yesyeyes oh, god—”

“He ain’t here right now, baby. Just me.” Joel darkly chuckles as he releases your wrists and uses that hand to slither between your legs, furiously and skillfully rubbing at your swollen, aching clit. 

You brace your arms on the seats below you as you try to hold yourself up, but your legs are shaking uncontrollably. Joel takes his thumb out of you before sliding his hand around your body to hold you up against his body as his relentless pace begins to get sloppy. 

He brings his hand up to your throat and wraps around it, yanking your head back against his shoulder as he looks down at you with a chillingly carnal stare. He almost doesn’t even look like the sweet man you’re in love with, but a darker version that’s consumed his being. 

Seeing this side of him makes you even more hot and bothered and your body easily succumbs to his ministrations, so reactive to his touch and words. 

He uses his thumb from the hand on the throat to tug at your chin, coaxing your jaw open as a wicked grin curls onto his lips before he spits into your mouth. 

The heat that was once a low simmer in your belly is now a fire roaring throughout the veins in your body, igniting you and consuming you as a whole. You swallow before he leans down to kiss you hungrily, and that’s what does it for you. 

You surge over the edge, orgasm crashing over you like waves on a shore. Joel swallows all of your cries and pleads against his lips, groaning at how you’re pulsing around him as you ride through your undoing. He squeezes the sides of your neck as he comes undone, arm moving down to wrap around your waist as his whole body stills. 

You feel his hot spend fill you up with each last harsh thrust he gives you before he stills completely. He kisses your shoulder lovingly before pulling out, groaning into your sweater as he does so. You feel his spend leak down the apex of your thighs, and Joel collects some on his finger as he swipes it through your folds. 

You shiver at his overstimulating touch, looking back at him as he smirks and brings his finger toward your mouth. You eagerly open it for him, moaning around his finger as you get a taste of the both of you. 

“You know, for someone who’s such a sweetheart, you really are a lil’ freaky. Just how I like it,” Joel says with a chest-rumbling laugh. You roll your eyes at him before he kisses your temple and helps you pull up your leggings before he tucks himself back into his boxers and fixes his uniform to look somewhat presentable again, opening the door to get out. 

“You’re one to talk, Miller,” you say, grabbing his hand as he helps you hop down out of the firetruck. 

“I’m an angel. Completely innocent. No idea what you’re insinuatin’, pretty lady.” He wiggles his eyebrows as you roll your eyes at him once more before laughing. 

“Sure, and I’ve got telekinesis.” 

He opens his mouth to retort, but is cut off by the sound of the other fire engine beginning to back up into the empty spot of the bay. 

Everyone starts to unload one-by-one, waving hi to you as they see you and Joel standing there. You’re hoping to god you don’t have a ‘we-just-fucked-in-the-back-of-the-firetruck’ look slapped across your forehead. Luckily, nobody seems to notice, and if they do, they don’t say anything. 

Until Tommy rounds the corner of the smaller truck. He looks at you both and pauses, taking in your appearances. Your face burns and you know if you look down at the ground it’ll give you both away, but anything is better than being under the younger Miller’s scrutinizing stare. 

Everyone’s gone upstairs at this point except for you three, and the sudden howl of laughter Tommy lets out makes you jump. He’s bent over with his hands clutching his knees, face and neck turning red with how hard he’s laughing. He’s got tears in his eyes that he wipes away with a knuckle, and it’s a couple of minutes before he finally calms down and catches his breath again. 

He straightens out and looks between the two of you again, lips wobbling as if he’s trying to hold back more laughter. 

“Oh for fucks sake, out with it.” Joel rolls his eyes at his brother as he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you back so you stumble into his solid body. 

“You two are unbelievable. You’re not that slick and you know, you both have guilty written across your foreheads. I know what you did, you nasties.” 

“Might I remind you about that time I caught you and Maria—”

“Hey hey hey, this ain’t about me and my girl, this is about you two.” Tommy chuckles as he holds his hands up in surrender. 

“Don’t y’all get enough time at home?” Tommy teases, and you bury your face into Joel’s chest with a groan. 

“Shut up Tommy,” you say. 

“No actually, because you’re always there,” Joel retorts, which causes Tommy to laugh again. 

“Oh please, like that’s stopped y’all before.” 

“Not another word about it, brother,” Joel warns, and Tommy smirks at him. 

“Fine. But ya might wanna take care of that stain on your pants.” 

Joel’s eyes snap down to his slacks the same time yours do, but you don’t see anything.

Fucking Tommy. 

“Bastard,” Joel mumbles. 

You decide to get in on the teasing. You pat Joel’s chest and sigh, shaking your head. “Guess that means no more sex for us, cowboy.” 

You give him a loving kiss on the cheek before you pry yourself out of Joel’s grip and turn to walk out of the firehouse, fighting your giggles as you leave a dumbfounded Joel who calls out ‘you’re not serious, are you?’, and a, yet again, doubled over Tommy with tears in his eyes from laughing so hard behind you. 

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