#i'm going to academic war again

[cangrellesteponme]

if you see me in the next three days it means I'm being an idiot when I should be working

[thepencilnerd]

A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail. 

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing. 

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin. 

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure. 

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended." 

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised. 

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you. 

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s. 

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it. 

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner. 

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying? 

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit. 

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all. 

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn. 

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title. 

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind. 

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments. 

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip. 

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything. 

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night." 

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life." 

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay." 

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream. 

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang. 

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read. 

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water. 

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

[prettydaisygirl]

Heyy~I have a james potter x reader request.

They have a love hate relation,and they keeps on fight but its really only frome one side cause james secretly is in love with reader and loves seeing her mad as its the only way he'll have her full attention.

But james let it's out by accident and reader have fun with this new info and seduces and flirts with james. James becomes all dazed & flustered by reader batting her eyelashes at him.

You can take your own take on this and maybe reader dominates james in bed.....👀

P.s(this is my third request for you and you have nailed the previous requests nd the first time requesting something 18+) please feel free to ignore it💗

Hello nonnie!! OMG thank you so much for your request! I'm literally so honored that you keep making requests because you've enjoyed the other ones I've done for you 😭🩷 I saw the plot of this in my head like a movie when I read your request and I wrote down the basics and had to wait until I had a good time I could sit down and write it all haha, it's been on my mind all week. Hope you enjoy this one, my love!! 

academic rival!James Potter x fem!reader who seduces James to get ahead ✿ 3.6k words

cw: NSFW 18+, university au, James is the top student, reader is second, academic rivals, reader has complicated feelings, reader has kinda iffy intentions, reader is manipulative (?) but then falls in love, dry humping, choking, unprotected p in v, mentions of alcohol

james potter masterlist

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You tap your pen against the edge of the table, bouncing your leg under the desk. Your eyes dart back and forth around the classroom, looking at everyone else waiting too.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Your eyes lock with his, and you pause. Your eyelids narrow, his brown orbs matching yours and narrowing too. You roll your eyes and look away. Fucking James Potter.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Sirius, James’ best friend, roommate, and favorite nuisance, groans loudly where he is sprawled in his chair next to James, feet up on the desk. Remus, the one person in their group who you can stand, elbows Sirius and shoots him a quick glare. James’ eyes are still on you, smirk on his lips, and you send him a dirty look. He’s so fucking cocky.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The door to the lecture hall finally opens, and everyone sits up a bit. Well, everyone except Sirius. 

The professor stomps in, ten minutes late but with clearly no cares in the world, the stack of papers in his hand catching your attention. The exam from last class, one that might finally allow you to pull ahead of James. Or, he did better than you again, and you’ll have to suffer his cruel teasing for another few weeks so you can cram until the next exam. You need that test back. 

Your professor places everything down at his desk with a light groan, running a hand through his hair. He looks around the room, scanning all of his students’ faces, before clearing his throat. 

“I’ll be passing back exams at the end of the hour.” There’s a collective groan but he doesn’t care, continuing on with the lesson. You force yourself to pay attention and take notes, to not think about the potential outcomes of your exam results, to not look in James’ direction even though you know if you did that he would be looking at you. 

This thing between you and James has been going on since freshman year. You stepped onto campus, bright-eyed and valedictorian of your high school, and you vowed to yourself that you were going to repeat the success of the last four years. And, for the most part, you have. 

Except for James Potter. He’s a constant thorn in your side, and he relishes in it. The two of you are in a constant battle for who will be the top student at the University. James somehow always ends up on top. And so for you, it really is a war. You fight tooth and nail. You stay up way too late studying every night, living off of caffeine and short naps between classes. You involve yourself in different activities, you complete every extra credit opportunity, and you attend every office hour, every study session, every single thing you can do. And yet, you always find yourself lagging behind James Potter, who seems to score perfectly on every exam despite not opening his textbook once. It’s infuriating, and you hate him. 

He knows that he gets on your nerves. He loves it, he purposely antagonizes you. Like he’s doing right now.

Your eyes meet his, unconsciously seeking him out as he takes over your thoughts. His eyes are there, on you, just as you knew they would be. He sends you a cheeky wink. Prick. 

Your handwriting is shaky today, a result of your bouncing leg as your stomach churns with anxiety, waiting for the exam results. You chew on your nail, crossing off a word and shaking your head when you spell it wrong. When you aren’t writing, it’s back to tapping.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

You don’t feel like you take a full breath until the test is physically in your hand. You practically tear it away from the professor, eyes darting all over until you spot the score. 100%. Your heart soars, but then you falter just a bit when you realize you missed the extra credit question. You pray that James did too, or that he didn’t score as high.

But you know better.

And so does James, evidently. Because the second you look up, that signature smirk is on his lips and he holds up the test so you can see, a long finger pointing at his score in the top right.

102%. Fuck. 

You really don’t want to be here. The music is too loud, everyone is drunk, and there’s a cloud of smoke so thick you find it a little hard to breathe. 

You had been wallowing in self-pity in your dorm, pouring over your textbook on a Friday night instead of doing anything fun. Because of James fucking Potter and his stupid 102%. He’s been teasing you all week, laughing and whispering with his friends when you walk by.

“Need me to tutor you, darling?” He’d called out with a bright voice, only chuckling when you flipped him off. You hate him and his beautiful face. 

And tonight, your study/self-pity session was interrupted by your phone ringing several times. 

Your roommate asked you to come pick her up from a party, but you’ve searched the frat house twice now with no sign of her. You’ve tried calling, and she won’t answer your texts either. It’s frustrating, and you’re about to go home without her when a familiar voice catches your attention. 

“I mean it!” You know it’s James before you see him, peeking around the corner to spot him, Sirius, Remus, and Peter pouring drinks in the kitchen. “She looked at me eleven times today. I counted!”

“You’re hopeless.” Sirius announces, head shaking before pouring some of the alcohol directly into his mouth from the bottle. Peter gives him a disgusted look and you almost snort. “She hates you.” “I know,” James seems defeated at Sirius’ words and your curiosity is fully peaked at this point. “Why do you think I have to count how many times she looks at me?”

“Have you ever tried, I don’t know, talking to the poor girl?” Remus asks, taking a sip from his cup before taking the bottle away from Sirius when he drinks straight from it again. 

“She always thinks I’m teasing her, even when I really mean it.” James shakes his head, “If pissing her off and getting better scores than her is what keeps her eyes on me, then that’s what I’ll do.” 

Oh. Oh. 

Is he talking about you?

You hold your breath, pressing closer to the wall as though you’ll be able to hear any better, peeking around the corner to watch the four men talk. James takes a large sip of his drink and you find your eyes lingering over his figure.

“I still think you should just tell her.” Peter speaks up and James knocks into him with his shoulder. 

“You know I can’t just do that, Pete.” James shakes his head, and you watch as his chocolate curls flutter against his forehead. “What do I say? ‘Hi, I know you’ve hated me for the last two and a half years and I’ve been pretending to hate you too. Can we go on a date?’”

Sirius snorts, and it’s in perfect timing to cover the slight gasp that comes out of your mouth. He really is talking about you.

James Potter has feelings for you. You thought he hated your guts. 

“What are you doing?” The voice of your roommate from behind you has you practically jumping out of your skin. You whip around to find her watching you with a judgmental look on her face.

“Nothing!” You say quickly, clearing your throat. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you ready? Let’s go.” You don’t really give her a chance to argue, tugging at her arm as you pull her out of the frat house and back to your car. 

You try to pay attention to the conversation your roommate is having with you on the way home, but it’s difficult. Your mind is racing, focus on the conversation you overheard back at the party.

Does James really have feelings for you? He said he only continues to rile you up because you won’t look at him any other way. You don’t trust him if he acts serious. Is that true? 

The only time you can remember that James Potter tried to act sincere with you was the one time you had to miss an exam due to needing a trip to the hospital. He pleaded with the professor on your behalf, convincing him to let you take it a different day. When he told you what he did, you assumed it was because he didn’t want to win an unfair fight. You didn’t think he’d advocate for you because he cares or anything. 

Oh. Maybe James is right. Maybe you don’t take him seriously. 

You toss and turn in your bed that night for hours, mind racing as you rethink almost every interaction you’ve had with the bespectacled boy since the two of you met freshman year. James, for all his annoying flaws, seems to be a good friend. He’s thoughtful, he’s funny, and he’s so handsome it makes you sick sometimes. And he’s so, so smart. 

You hate the feelings churning in your stomach. On one hand, you hate him. Even if he has feelings for you, that doesn’t make it okay for him to tease you, and you still want to be better than him. You need to win. But on the other hand… you could really like him, you think. If you let yourself fall for him. If he really does have feelings for you and it wasn’t all a cruel joke.

But how could it be a joke? James didn’t even know you’d been at the party, and none of his friends had spotted you either. They’d been talking casually, not like they were making fun of you. 

You sigh, flopping into a different position again as you try to get comfortable. You spring up suddenly when you get an idea. 

“I’m going to seduce James Potter.” You say, a happy laugh falling from your lips. “And then I’ll sit by him during the next exam and he’ll be so distracted that I’ll score higher than him!”

You grunt suddenly as a pillow comes in contact with the side of your head, flung by your roommate.

“Go to sleep!”

You’re tapping your pen on your desk again. But this time, there’s no exam to take or score to wait for. You’re waiting for the end of class, eyes darting between the clock and the boy who you’re hoping to catch on the way out. James.

He seems to notice that you’re looking at him more often. You knew he stared at you a lot, but you didn’t know it was actually the entire lecture. You find yourself glancing at him repeatedly, his eyes waiting for yours every time you do. 

This is making you more nervous than you thought it would. You’ve thrown insults and curse words at James like it’s second nature, but the idea of asking him to come back to your dorm with you is making you feel a bit sick. What if you misunderstood everything you overheard? What if they’d been talking about someone else and now you’re going to make a fool of yourself, providing a lifetime of bullying fuel for the one person who really can get under your skin?

You shake your head as the professor dismisses the class, swallowing nervously and quickly packing up your things. You shove down your anxiety, replaying your plan in your head.

Get him in your dorm. Get him naked. Get close enough to keep him distracted from his classes.

You head toward the lecture hall’s doors, and find James and Sirius walking out right in front of you.

“James?” You call out to him. Both James and Sirius turn around, James with eyes as wide as saucers, and Sirius with a bit of a gleam in his eye. 

“Hey,” James says, running a hand through his hair as he tries to seem casual. Now that you see it, it’s so obvious. You’d thought he was so cocky before, now you realize he’s been trying to get your attention..

“Could we… talk?” You ask, shuffling a bit on your feet as your heart races. You try to seem solid, but you don’t know what you’ll do if he laughs in your face and calls you a loser.

He doesn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead he says, “Of course,” though you can tell by the look on his face that he is incredibly confused about why you want to speak to him.

James waves Sirius off and you take a breath. “Can we… go to my dorm?” You ask him.

You can see the suspicion in his eyes, the way the muscles in his jaw tighten and his lips purse. He crosses his arms and then speaks, voice a bit short and clipped. “Your dorm?”

“Yes.” You say with a nod, keeping your voice steady even though you feel like your heart might explode, “I just… I need to talk to you.”

Your words and tone seem to have the desired effect and his hardness softens just a bit. He nods, and walks back with you to your dorm. Your roommate is gone tonight, at her boyfriend’s house, so you know no one will interrupt your plans. 

You sit on the bed, gesturing for James to do the same. He looks out of place here, and it doesn’t help that his body is fully tense and he seems extremely uncomfortable. 

“What did you want to talk to me about?” James asks, and you understand why he is so suspicious of you. He should be, considering your plan. But you have to score higher than him on the next test. And if that means distracting him with his feelings for you, then you’ll do it. 

“I’ve just been… doing some thinking.” You say slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You move a bit closer to him, sitting on your knees beside him. “I feel like I owe you an apology.”

That gets his attention. His head whips in your direction, his guard falling for a moment from the shock of your words. “You’re apologizing to me?” You nod, playing with a strand of your hair. “I haven’t been very nice, and I… I don’t want you to think I’m a bad person. I like you, James.”

He stares at you, lips slightly parted, and it’s like you can see his brain short-circuit. His eyes, as big and beautiful as always underneath his glasses, blink several times as he tries to process what you’ve said. You wait, and after a long moment you decide to speak again.

“Aren’t you going to say you like me back?”

“What?” James shakes his head, and it seems like his hand reaches for your waist instinctively, but stops short of actually touching you. “I mean, yes. I like you, but I don’t understand. I thought…”

“That I hated you?” You say, tilting your head and batting your eyelashes at him. You see his pupils dilate, his Adam’s apple bob. You shake your head. “I don’t hate you, James. Actually, I…” You lean forward to reach and brush some curls off his forehead, then whisper to him, “I really, really want you.” 

“Is this really happening?” James asks, like he’s torn between his mind and his heart. You don’t give him a second to question you, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips. He responds immediately grabbing for you and deepening the kiss. His grip is tight, and he lets out little whines and moans in your mouth. You ignore the way the sounds make your thighs clench and your stomach warm. 

He pulls you forward into his lap, your legs on either side of his hips. You roll forward, pressing down against him. He’s already hard, and you can tell he’s big. Your heart flutters but you ignore it, continuing to focus on James as you find him bucking his hips up into yours. He really must have been pent up, waiting for this. 

“Holy fuck. Holy fuck.” He whispers between kisses, hands grasping at you like a man touch-starved. 

When he pulls his lips away from yours to breathe, he quickly leans forward to attach them to your neck. You find your eyes fluttering closed as his tongue darts out against your skin and leaves saliva and warmth in its wake. Despite trying to push down your own feelings, you find yourself wanting more of him. Not just to seduce him, but also because it feels good. 

You reach down, freeing James from his pants. He lifts his hips a bit to help you. He’s even bigger than you thought and he finds the audacity to smirk a bit at you, making you roll your eyes.

You stroke him a few times, hearing him whimper your name. You hate the way your throat tightens when he does. Your own pants are tossed aside quickly, along with your underwear. 

James’ hands grasp at your hips, and his eyes are dark and hazy as you look down at him from your place on his lap. His Adam’s apple bobs again as he swallows thickly, his chest a bit shaky as he breathes. 

It’s time to lock in, you think, and lean forward to press a kiss to his jaw. You literally watch his dick twitch and you lick up his neck to his ear.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, James?” You whisper into his ear, seeing his body shiver. A thought crosses your mind that being above him like this feels a million times better than being above him in GPA, but you force that idea away as soon as it appears. 

He whines, and you pull back, sliding a hand up to rest against the front of his throat. You tilt your head and see James’ entire face flush, his cock bright red and already leaking. “Well?”

“Yes, please, yeah…” He whines and you pretend not to absolutely relish in the way it sounds. 

You squeeze his throat a bit as you slide down onto him, and he practically cums right then. You smirk a bit, giving the both of you a moment to adjust. He feels really fucking good, too good. You find yourself enjoying every roll of your hips, every buck of his. You squeeze a bit tighter every time he tries to speak, and it always has his eyes rolling back and his hands gripping you harder. His body trembles, and pieces of strangled whimpers escape his mouth as you grind down onto him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” You moan out, the sound escaping you before you can stop yourself. One of James’ hands moves to your wrist, holding it but not pulling it away from his neck. In fact, at the next roll of your hips, he pushes your wrist closer, encouraging you to tighten your grip, and you do. 

The sight of his writhing beneath you is everything you could ever have hoped for. James is completely at your mercy, and it makes you feel invincible. You cum harder than you ever have in your life, and James follows not long after. 

You make the mistake of falling asleep next to him afterward, telling yourself that it’s to make him really think you like him. Not because you wanted to sleep with your ear pressed to his chest, listening to his heart beat. It’s just soothing. You tell yourself it won’t happen again, even though deep down, you know you’re lying. This has changed things for you, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.

The day of the next exam finally comes, and for once, you find that you aren’t nervous. You studied your ass off the entire past week, and with your plan to distract James going well so far, you don’t feel like you have much to worry about.

You take a seat next to James for this one, and he smiles lovingly at you. His friends snort, and you wonder what he told them. The talking stops instantly as tests are passed around. You spend the entire time brushing your foot against James’ calf, at one point bending over to pick up your pencil and purposely showing him your cleavage. It works to distract him, and you’ve convinced yourself that you have this in the bag.

You leave feeling confident, James following you like a puppy. He’s been by your side almost the entire time since you hooked up with him. You find you like having him around. 

As his hand slides into yours and his smile makes your heart skip, you aren’t sure if you're still lying to yourself about how you feel. The more time you spend with him, the more you find yourself liking him. It happens slowly, until one day you realize that the things that used to be frustrating about him now make him endearing. Your walls crumble like old castle walls, until you’ve accepted that maybe these feelings have been there since the beginning.

It’s these realizations alone that keep you from breaking down when you finally see the test scores.

“How?” You ask, eyes darting between your test and James’. You got a 98%. James got 100%.. “I was trying to give you a boner the entire time!”

“Joke's on you,” James says with a smirk, grabbing your test from you and pressing a kiss to your cheekbone. “That happens every time I watch you during an exam. I’m used to it.”

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© prettydaisygirl

[deathofacupid]

── .✦ CONVERGENCE THEORY ﾉ chapter one.

featuring. guitarist!geto x nerd!jo x bimbo!reader. warnings. cursing, sex jokes. summary. a brainiac who quotes theorems, a rock god who smashes guitars, and a social butterfly who can't remember anyone's name. the three of you couldn't be further different if you tried. but, what is it they say? ...opposites attract? word count. 1.4k+ words. a/n. was literally half-asleep writing this. enjoy, uh, whatever this may be. might go in for edits, after i've gotten more than two hours of sleep? divider credits to @/bronzewasp and @/enchanthings-a. -> click here for the series m.list!

"you just need to think about it. i mean, you're almost there."

that was a lie. shamelessly, your tutor, satoru gojo, lied to you. it's not like you're listening, anyways. well, okay, you tried. for a whole two minutes, then you tapped out.

besides, you're nailing that third layer of gloss, lips pursed like you're trying to suck a golf ball through a straw. the compact mirror reflects peak shine, a momentary oasis of perfection in the academic wasteland.

"y/n?" satoru persists, tapping the twenty-five that was circled in the corner. for a millisecond, you experience a flicker of what might be called academic concern.

it manifests as a slight tightening around the eyes, quickly suppressed. but then, you realize it's just a number.

you glance at it. red ink. a lot of it. it looks like a crime scene for a pen. but it’s just a number. a number signifying a thing you clearly didn’t prioritize.

you shrug internally. it’s not that you're opposed to doing well, it's just that the effort-to-reward ratio seems wildly unbalanced, especially when you're this close to achieving peak lip gloss.

you take one look at him, sighing. wondering to yourself, how did i get here? to which you would remember the four failed tests in a row. every single time, your professor, the human equivalent of beige wallpaper, dropped your test face down. like it was a biohazard.

if you were more self-aware, maybe you'd have realized it's close to one.

snapping your compact mirror shut, you huff at him. eyes boring into him, as if satoru personally committed a war crime against you. setting it on the table, you groan, "what?"

he gives you an awkward smile, signature of his. another signature of his? that sweater vest. he's got three or four in rotation, and you'd make fun of him.

you would, but it's uncanny how well they look on him. you're not sure what it is, but paired with those glasses that are too big for him, he pulls it off.

not that he even bothers.

satoru ducks his head, prompting to fiddle with his pencil instead. you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

so far, as much as you've counted, the max he can hold eye contact with you is four seconds. ooh, he was close to beating his record this time.

a whopping three. since you were feeling generous, you even throw in another couple milliseconds. you consider yourself a pretty good individual, anyways.

he clears his throat, eyes fixed on the mess of a test. "this one. number seven. let's try it again?" it comes out more like a question, and you giggle. it's not condescending, you swear, he's just funny.

maybe, satoru doesn't think the same. not from the way his cheeks are red. almost the same shade as the ink, you notice.

you pop the bubble you've blown with your gum, "but i don't, like, get it."

"that's okay. 's what i'm here for. look, you didn't even do anything crazy here. just," he pauses, squinting at your work. it's in warm, curly handwriting. it's pretty, but most of it seems to be random numbers.

"oh, I see," he mumbled, pushing his glasses up. they slid back down. you considered suggesting glasses that fit, then decided it was probably part of the... presentation.

"see, you just forgot to carry the two. early on here. that's why the rest of this doesn't make sense."

you blinked. "there's a two?"

"well, yeah. see, they give it to you."

"where?" you squinted, shifting slightly, as if the paper being upside-down would better aid you.

he pointed. "...there?"

"oh," you shrugged. "i didn't see that."

his eyes nearly bulged. "then what were you going off of?"

another shrug. "i don't remember."

he stared. "you just... guessed?"

"maybe?" you tilted your head. "is that a problem? Is there a 'no guessing' rule i missed?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "this is a calculus problem."

"and?"

"and you can't just guess."

"why not? Is the answer going to explode if i guess wrong? does it trigger a self-destruct sequence in the paper?" you tapped the sheet with a long, very pink, acrylic nail. "because I'm willing to risk it. i'm feeling lucky. like, i just found a twenty dollar bill in my laundry lucky."

he looked at the equation, then back at you, then back at the equation. "you know, sometimes i wonder if you're pulling my leg."

"is that a legitimate mathematical operation?" you asked, pointing to the paper. "can we add 'pulling legs' to the list of acceptable problem solving techniques?"

with you, he can't tell if you're joking or not. he sincerely hopes you are, and that isn't a true thought in your head, but he wouldn't be surprised if it were.

he's about to open your mouth, but when he looks up to meet your gaze, he sees that it's not on him anymore. it's all the way across the library, to the glass doors.

or, rather, what passes behind them. unmistakable, even with the two seconds he gets.

suguru geto. suguru with his long, black hair, electric guitar on his back. unmistakeable.

alas, to you, he wasn't just suguru. he was ex-boyfriend suguru. satoru wasn't one for gossip, but you and him had been all the talk before, during, and after.

you're seething, at least a little bit. because, there, hand-in-hand, with him, is some girl. the audacity.

"he's mocking me," you mutter.

"uh, i don't know. i don't think he knows you're in here."

"of course, he does. there's no way he's actually over me. right?" the last word tumbles out a moment after the others, filled with pure, unadulterated shock.

you turn to face him, leaning in. "right?" to which, satoru scoots back, pressed against the chair. he thinks he would like to go back to math now.

"that- that piece of shit. whatever," you huff, though you may seem anything but unbothered. "he's the one missing out."

"...yeah. um, anyways-"

"but, seriously," you start. oh, god, he thinks. "he's doing it to piss me off, right? he thinks, like, everything's about him, right? as if i'd go after that poor girl. she's already probably going through a lot with him. besides," you scoff, "i'm way above that."

he offers you a weak smile. "right. now, about the two-"

"i just can't believe he'd move on so quick."

satoru sighs. he's a man who knows when he's lost. "yeah. how dare he."

"that's what i'm saying!" you threw your hands up in exclamation, a gesture that could launch a thousand ships, or at least a strongly worded complaint from the librarian.

she shot you a dirty look, the kind that could curdle milk and wilt houseplants. you shot one right back.

"okay," he said quickly, his voice a desperate plea for academic sanity. "can we go back to the two? we only have ten minutes left, and frankly, my will to live is dwindling with each passing second."

"he's such an ass," you muttered, then paused, a flicker of grudging admiration in your eyes. "an ass that's good in bed. what a shame."

the tips of his ears pinked. you suppressed a grin. what a virgin. you were sure of it, at least. he had potential, should he ever give up on the whole nerd thing.

maybe swap the sweater vests for something a little less… "grandpa goes to a book club" and a little more… "leather jacket and a motorcycle he definitely doesn't own."

you glanced at the digimon pins on his backpack. nevermind, that may be too far for him. he was probably still debating which starter digimon was the most strategically viable.

you, on the other hand, were not even bothering with a backpack. it was a leather hobo bag, large enough to smuggle a small, moderately anxious chihuahua, and frankly, a graded test in there would just be clutter.

you had more important things occupying the space, like a half-eaten bag of those weird ginger candies that tasted like spicy sadness, a spare tube of lip gloss in case you needed to blind your enemies with pure shine, and a crumpled receipt for a questionable amount of boba.

sighing, rather dramatically, like a tragic heroine in a black and white film, you looked back at the doors. dumb suguru. messing up your day.

sure, it wasn't going all that well, given that you'd been doing math for two hours, a feat that should qualify you for some kind of endurance award, but he didn't have to make it worse. he was like a mosquito at a picnic, just buzzing around and ruining everything.

"two?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the delicate balance of your emotional turmoil.

"two," you agreed, deflated, blowing a bubble that popped with a sad little plip.

[palmanatomy]

Since people are still confused about Tims dating history and over-exaggerating how big of a slut he is or saying that his type is blondes, I'm going to clear some things up.

Also, I'm counting actual canon relationships, not just random women who kissed him because I cant be bothered and some of those were grown ass women kissing a fifteen year old.

First girlfriend: Ariana Dzerchenko - Tims first girlfriend when he was fourteen was a black haired Russian immigrant who lived with her uncle. Their relationship was kinda strained because Tim couldn't tell her everything about himself as Robin and she kept accusing him of cheating on her and then cheating on him and when she tried to admit to him that she went out with another guy he fell asleep and her uncle tried to kill him and they were forbidden from seeing each other. It was a whole thing. By the end of the relationship, it was very strained and they were obviously trying to make something that couldn't work, work.

Tim technically kissed Stephanie after she saved him from getting buried alive with her dad, and went on kinda dates with her as spoiler and robin when Ariana and Tim were forbidden from seeing each other. I think Spoiler and Robin kissed during those kinda dates after Tim and Ariana were allowed to see each other again and trying to make their relationship work. Tim was going to tell Ariana but she dumped him so the whole issue was resolved.

This is the only instance of Tim cheating. Yes, it was very messy. But it was mainly chuck dixon trying to push for Timsteph to be together and force steph into a manic pixie dream role and make her seem so much more rational and reasonable than ariana and not like other girls.

Second Girlfriend: Stephanie Brown. Honestly, they were so cute together. Especially when they written by Jon Lewis. Steph starts off not knowing anything about Tim but Batman betrays his trust and reveals Tims identity to her when he goes missing. Their relationship only becomes stronger though and they lean on each other and are honest and open and Tim tries to kill someone for her. They loved each other and I loved them together. They genuinely looked out for eachother.

And then, something stupid happens.

Darla decides to kiss Tim instead of saying hey I like you when Tim has said repeatedly that he has a girlfriend. Steph was spying on Tim and runs away just before Tim cuts off the kiss and tells darla that she shouldnt have done that. This is what people also bring up for Tim cheating. but. literally.

Anyway, war games, darla dies, steph dies, jack dies, dana is hospitalised with grief and darla comes back to life. what they had i wouldnt call a relationship, especially because tim isnt in the right mental state for one right now, what with losing steph and all. And darla isnt in the right headspace either, so they didnt actually date even though people keep trying to bring up darla as a relationship.

Third girlfriend: Zoanne Wilkins. An african american high achieving girl who is on her way to harvard. I love her, and she and Tim are similar in the way that they are academically smart and inclined and shes understanding of what hes struggled through with losing his parents and getting kidnapped right in front of her and everything. She is understanding, but ultimately they call off the relationship and stay just friends.

Also weird thing with Cassie I wouldnt count because it was a grief fueled depressive spiral that was bound to end badly because they were both thinking of kon while it was happening. so i dont think they really dated

Fourth girlfriend: Tamara Fox. Tam is different because she knew Tim was Red Robin from the start and she has been involved in so much crazy shit with him i dont know why she hasn't beat him up yet. They werent really together a whole lot, but they had like a fake engagement to get Vicki Vale off their back and hey it worked. They

And then there was this weird thing with lynx who was maybe a good guy maybe a bad guy and tim broke her out of prison and they kept like getting freaky on rooftops. It was weird, but this kinda happened at the same time of the Timtam stuff. Not really dating, just a few makeouts on the roof. So cheating? If Tim and Tam were actually dating, which was really unclear.

Idk what happens in new 52 cos i just. ignore. all that.

Tim and steph are back together! In young justice 2019 at least. And they are so cute and in love.

But then they break up off panel and Tim comes out as bi and dates bernard. Its very much a disservice to this relationship that is so iconic and amazing and im not saying that tim being bi and tim dating bernard is bad or wrong, im just saying that tim and steph not having any real closure on their relationship is not good because they kind of just thrust tim into this realtionship with bernard built on nothing. but its whatever.

First boyfriend: Bernard Dowd. His friend at louise e grieve memorial, before it got shot up and the third person in their trio died. when the school got shut down, people were sent all over the place, Bernard to some rich private school and Tim to bludhaven where he drops out of school completely. They dont keep in touch, which is pretty much explicitely states in robin 1993 when bernard makes a rough estimation to darla as to where tim is. but still. its very random and kind of bland and kind of like they just forced a boyfriend onto tim to be like hey look we have a bisexual character.

I just wish there was a proper build up instead of it kind of being random. And breaking up with steph off panel. and just there being nothing of substance of their relationship. all of his other relationships show conflict and resolution. Secret identities play an issue with his ability to communicate, his inability to be honest, his grief and issues with balancing his lives and living up to expectations of a relationship. Does bernard know tim is robin? ive seen those pride covers and like i read td:r but idek when he reveals hes robin. it was a while ago but still. does bernard know what happened to darla? also why would they reunite two of the trio and not bring back darla. like where is their magic best friend? it could be so interesting to see their relationship change from when they were in high school to young adulthood but no. They had so much potential, but the execution was just oh look hes gay and has boyfriend now. theyre happy, no conflict, no substance, no nothing.

Anyway. Four official relationships. I feel like thats normal for like a 19-21 year old. Hes not that big of a cheater, but he is still messy and weird and has strange homoerotic friendships. anyway. dc bring back zoanne wilkins and darla aquista and i will love you.

[letterstodixon]

place in me

summary: A path of wishes and several opportunities in which you stopped believing in them, since the world went to shit until now.

pairing: daryl dixon x f!reader (established relationship)

word count: 8556

era: commonwealth

warnings: towl/dd: tboc spoilers. mentions of blood and killing walkers. angst (kind of?). not proofreading. mentions of reader cutting her hair shorter but it doesn't mention the lenght per se. age gap implied.

divider by @/saradika-graphics

a/n: i'm afraid this is gonna be a long ass author's note. hello again! i've been missing due to my academic schedule and my writers block, this one shot has been sitting on my notes app for a month and half, and i'm still not too happy on how it turned out, however, i wanted to try and post it. i'm sorry if there's any error, spelling mistake or lack of continuation in the story, i'm willing to come back to re-edit this someday and improve it, in the meantime, thank you if you read the note and the one shot. hope you like it! <3

taglist: @vaniniweenie

It had been a long time since you stopped believing in wishes.

Every birthday, when a shooting star passed by, when you saw a dandelion, when an eyelash fell on your cheek, or on the cheek of someone you loved. You never missed the chance to make a wish.

Well, wishes were no longer something that could be fulfilled. Silently, every time you asked for something, it didn't work out. No matter how hard you wished for it, it just didn't happen.

From the shores of the lake at the quarry, wishing that whatever was happening in the world would be fixed, until the moment the war with the whisperers ended, you didn't stop praying that someone, anyone, would hear your prayer. That they wouldn't stop taking your family away, even though new members kept appearing and making themselves loved, you hated knowing that someone you loved would be a new name on the wall of Alexandria. It could even be you, but luck was on your side. Or not yet.

When you arrived in the Commonwealth, the few members of your family were more than a little scared and suspicious. Still, everyone seemed to fit into this new life that was offered to them... until you had to fight. Once again. To get Negan on your side? Yeah, it was bad. And as things seemed to fall into place once again, you kept losing people. And you lost the one you loved the most in that weak and broken world.

Your lover and best friend.

You can still remember the moment you entered the apartment you shared, not only with each other, but with your nephews and Dog. School had just finished, the work day seemed to have never drained your energy, and you couldn't wait to get home. Hell, maybe you even had the will to bake a pumpkin pie, since autumn was beginning, but that calmness vanished as soon as you saw Daryl's backpack on the couch, along with other belongings. Was he leaving? Was there some kind of run you weren't aware of?

"Babe?" You asked, dropping your bag next to his, while your free hand clung to your necklace. He appeared through the bedroom door, somewhat confused, as he was probably expecting you to arrive later.

"Hey. Yer early.”

"No, I think you're the one who's early." You tried to joke, still playing with the chain on your neck, while a nervous smile appeared on your lips. Daryl seemed to be focused on that movement that you kept making, making it inevitable to meet your gaze. Wrap, wrap, unravel, unravel. "What's going on?"

Your voice brought him out of his trance, making him clear his throat, his gaze going to the floor. He had thought of a thousand ways of how to face that situation, but none of those thousand ways were going to be enough to face reality.

"Yeah, I— uh, I'm leavin'."

"What?"

Daryl shifted on his feet, clearing his throat. "I'm leav—"

"No, I heard you the first time. I mean why, why would you leave?" You asked, feeling your stomach start to churn. After all those years, all those moments, all the time it took for you both to be able to be calm and together, he was leaving? Just like that?

"It ain't about us or anythin’, I'm just... I feel stuck 'ere." He admitted, daring to meet her face and oh boy, he wished he never had. Your nervous eyes met his ocean ones, head tilted slightly, trying to understand him.

"Okay then, we're both leaving. I'm not staying here this time, six years was enough." You answered quickly, passing by him to try to enter the room, ready to pack a bag and leave with him, but his hand caught your wrist.

"I'm doin' it alone. Yer staying here."

"Like hell I'm staying here! What do you mean?!" You asked, raising your voice and causing Daryl to flinch, making your heart clench at the sight. "I didn't mean to raise my voice but I... I don't get it.”

"I need to find Rick, I can't leave Michonne alone with ‘im... I need my time away." He explained as clearly as he could, without stuttering in between. For every word that came out of his mouth, another piece of his heart broke. A humorless laugh left your lips, yanking out of his grasp.

They say the human heart beats between 60 and 100 beats per minute. You weren't sure you were even feeling your heart beating at that moment.

In fact, it was probably so broken that you couldn't feel it in your chest.

"You can leave for Rick but I ain't worth your stay. I get it, Daryl." You said, raising your hands in surrender. "There's nothing I can do about this, about us."

"I told ya, it ain't about you or anything, I just—"

"I understood every fucking time you wanted to leave. I was never against it, I never even approached the places I knew you could be, so you could have your time, but now?" You had to take a moment to breathe, feeling like it wasn't enough, the pressure in your chest too much to pretend it wasn't there. "Now I don't get it, and I probably never will. And yeah, I'm mad as hell because I love you and I don't want you away from me, but since I'm not a good enough reason to stay, then I won't beg.”

Daryl frowned, pressing his lips into a thin line as he nodded at what you said, never taking his eyes off your face. You knew him well enough to sense that he was holding back the urge to cry, and you weren't far from doing so either.

"Yer more than enough. M'sorry, sunshine." He said softly, slowly approaching to you before finally wrapping his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. As soon as you saw yourself surrounded by that hug, you couldn't help but release those tears you'd been holding back for a while.

For many years, you woke up knowing you'd see his face next to you, you went to sleep knowing it, and you were certain that the heaviest, most crushing part of life turned out to be a little lighter with his presence.

That day, when Daryl was about to leave, was the first day —of all those yet to come— without that certainty.

It was just you and Carol outside the Commonwealth gates. You carefully placed the ring you shared with him on your chain and placed it around his neck, hiding it under his clothes, as you felt his gaze follow every move you made. Daryl would grab that ring and press it into the palm of his hand in the middle of his journey whenever he needed to feel you closer, when there were no people around and he wanted to connect with home.

With a kiss on each cheek, one on his forehead and one on his lips, you gave him a weak smile, as he placed his hand on the back of your neck, pressing your foreheads together, one of your hands holding his free hand, holding tight once again to the man who once was your North.

"Love ya like the ocean." He said in the softest voice you had ever heard from him.

"I love you more." You murmured, walking away so Carol could say goodbye. After exchanging their I love you's, you both took a few steps back, watching as Daryl climbed onto his motorcycle and gave you one last look before starting the engine and accelerating towards his next destination, while you silently wished that the universe would protect the reason why the sun shined.

Months came and went. With each passing season, your life seemed to become duller and more monotonous. Little remained of the life you used to know, and the family you once knew. Perhaps, you were nostalgic too easily

Daryl’s whereabouts remained unknown, as did Rick’s, and God knows where Negan had gotten off to. Every chance you got, you found a blind spot in the Commonwealth you could sneak through, and you spent hours looking for any trace of Daryl, without finding any clue that he was around. The kids and Dog were still in your care, and the families in the community counted on you to educate their children, so you couldn’t allow yourself to disappear for many hours.

But Carol could.

As soon as she had the chance, she dropped everything to go in search of her best friend, promising to bring him back for you, for the kids, and for her, who was starting to feel overwhelmed in that place, the memories weighing more heavily than reality. You knew you couldn't stop her, so once again, you asked the universe to take care of her and allow her to return home, safe and sound.

You still didn't believe in wishes, but you could still try.

When winter break arrived, in the semi-normality that the commonwealth allowed you to have, you set off on a trip to Alexandria with Judith, RJ and Dog, who didn't know how to behave the whole trip, excited about it being his first time traveling by car. Judith looked strange in the back seat, moving her hands inside her backpack, until you heard the sound of a walkie.

Shoto, it's Daito. I found him.

A thousand thoughts went through your head from the moment you recognized Michonne's voice, until you took the children to that field where the helicopter would land. You thought you were living a dream, but it was as real as it could be. Rick's reunion with his daughter, that he could meet RJ, suddenly, made you start crying everything you couldn't cry in Daryl's absence. Ever since Rick had arrived at the quarry, he knew how to be the older brother you never had, and he didn't stop taking care of you as much as he took care of the rest, but maybe he did put a little more effort into you and Carl, who looked for you and Michonne when he was about to commit some mischief.

When the family approached the car again, Michonne was the first to hug you, both stopping to look at each other with admiration and surprise a couple of times, your friend's hands playing with your hair while laughing and exclaiming It's shorter! What have you done with your hair?, unable to believe how short it was compared to how you had it a few years ago. Rick observed the scene with an expression that you couldn't decipher but, as soon as Michonne and the children moved away, he didn't hesitate to hug you with all his strength, swinging from one side to the other while he heard you laugh, a smile appearing on his face as well.

"Where the hell have you been, Grimes?! How dare you leave us dealing with Negan by ourselves?" You joked, moving away but only a little, hugging him from the side. On the other side, Judith came over to hug him too. Rick watched his children with a love you had never witnessed in another person.

"I'm sorry, it won't happen again. I'm not planning on leaving you guys anytime soon." He said, nodding, extending one of his arms for RJ to fist bump. Only then did you notice that it wasn't his arm, but a black prosthesis. At that moment, you realized everything you had to tell each other, and how much they must want to see Alexandria.

"Well, then... The kids are on vacation and we were visiting Alexandria, are you coming with us?" You suggested, noticing the confusion between Michonne and Rick.

"Visiting? Where have you been living, then?" Michonne questioned, narrowing her eyes. Sighing, you gestured towards the car.

"There's a lot we have to tell you both. Okay, get in the car, we have a few miles left.”

And just like that, the Grimes family was making their arrival at the place they all loved the most. Along the way, you were able to tell them (with Judith’s comments and Dog’s interruptions in between) about how they came to the Commonwealth, what life was like there, and who was left behind. Rick had a lot to process about what had happened in these past few years, the most recent losses and also the additions to the family. His blank expression when he heard Negan befriended her —now— oldest daughter, and that he had saved her in the middle of a storm. He was also able to tell you and the kids about his time at the CRM, his reunion with Jadis, and how they managed to escape, although you were sure he had left out certain details so as not to upset his children.

As you pulled up to the gates of Alexandria and everyone got out of the car, the gates to the community opened to reveal Maggie, Aaron, and Lydia, the first two running to hug Rick and Michonne, while Lydia shyly approached you, wrapping her arms around you.

"It's so nice to see you again, Y/N." She said, her head resting on your shoulder as you hugged her, smiling.

"Nice to see you too, kid. You're taller than the last time I saw you, slow down." You replied, ruffling her hair, turning to see Rick, who was hugging Maggie, Aaron waving at RJ and Jude while Michonne looked at the scene with the same admiration and tenderness as you did.

"I thought you promised to be here with Daryl next time you visit." Lydia said in a mocking tone, pretending to be upset, and while the comment brought a smile to everyone around you, you couldn't help but look at Jude and RJ, both with a sad expression, looking at you too. You didn't know what expression you had put on, but the weight on your chest had appeared again and you could see Lydia's face increasingly scared of the change of environment she had generated. "I—"

"What's going on?" Maggie asked, looking at you with clear concern on her face. Wiping your cheek with the back of your hand as you noticed tears that you didn't know you were holding back falling, you shook your head.

"Daryl, uh... He left." You said as you nodded, looking down.

"What? When did he leave?" Rick's voice made you look up, noticing his confusion at the news that his best friend, his brother, wasn't there with them.

"He wanted to keep searching for you, said that couldn't let Michonne do it for herself. I haven't known anything about him since a few months ago.”

You heard Lydia gasp beside you, taking a few steps back to look at you in disbelief. The expression on everyone's faces ranged from confusion to sadness. No one imagined that Daryl could spend a day away from you, much less by his own will.

"And now what? We have to tell him Rick is here! He'll come back." Aaron reasoned, making the rest nod, agreeing with him. "We can try and track him—"

"I tried." You interrupted him, sighing heavily, thinking of all the times you ran away with the simple intention of finding something that would lead you to Daryl. "And Carol went looking for him, but some time passed too and I don't know where she could be anymore."

"Carol left too? You better be joking." Michonne exclaimed, narrowing her eyes for a moment. Seeing that you were unable to speak, you responded with a shrug of your shoulders, tears having taken over a large part of your face and throat, and she came over to hug you, Lydia taking a step back to let your friend comfort you. A few seconds later, you felt another body hug you from the opposite side, Maggie. Then, the children, Aaron, Rick and Lydia again.

"We're a family. We'll always find the way back home to us." Rick exclaimed, leaning his chin against his wife's head. Closing your eyes, you took that phrase from Rick as your next wish.

May we always find the way back home. May he find the way to us.

And the holiday seasons passed, and the seasons continued, but no one came home again. With each passing day, you lost your hope of ever seeing your lover and his best friend again, who happened to be one of your best friends too. Every time you looked in the mirror, your face looked familiar, but you could no longer see yourself. With the arrival of Rick and Michonne, Jude and RJ were no longer under your care, so —given their parents' decision to stay in the Commonwealth to continue their schooling— the four of them had moved into an apartment, not far from yours, leaving you with Dog and a deafening silence every time you entered the house. Curiously, despite having part of your family back, you found peace when you were away from everyone, and that's why you took advantage of continuing to escape from the community, without anyone knowing, sometimes managing to sneak past Dog on some occasion, who continued to seem to be looking for traces of his partner, of the one who brought him home.

And that's where you thought... If Michonne searched for Rick for so many years, if Rick continued to search for his way home despite everything, if Daryl didn't give up looking for Sophia, for Merle, for Rick, why were you behaving like that? Why were you moving further away from the idea of a reunion when there were people who fought and gave their lives to return to the people they loved? At that moment, in the middle of the class you were giving, is when you made the decision to go back on the road and look for Carol and Daryl, even if it meant giving up your life for it. Three knocks on the door made you turn to look, your students distracted enough not to notice the presence of Ezekiel, who was motioning for you to come closer. You looked at your group one last time before going out into the hallway, noticing that, next to him, there was a tall, skinny boy, with long, somewhat wavy hair. His eyes conveyed tranquility but at the same time, they seemed tired. Almost sad.

"Miss Y/N, this is Laurent, your new student. He flew all the way from France to be here." Ezekiel said with his signature smile. A surprised expression appeared on your face, seeing the young man in front of you smile shyly.

"Bienvenu." You exclaimed, extending your hand in Laurent's direction, who took it without hesitation.

"Merci. Parles-vouz français?" He asked, causing you to grimace, shaking your head from side to side.

"Just a little bit. Do you manage well with English?”

"Yes. I had a few good teachers." He said, shrugging. There was a certain calmness in his tone that you still couldn't quite figure out.

"Well, I'll let you both get back to class, but I need your presence at my office when your shift finishes, mrs. Y/N." Ezequiel instructed, making you nod as you waved at him, watching him walk away. When you looked back at Laurent, he was staring at you like someone who saw a ghost.

"Y/N? Do you know Daryl Dixon?" He asked, and the air caught in your throat. Your feet were no longer on the ground, everything around you seemed to stop. How did this kid, who just arrived from France, know Daryl?

"I, uh... Yeah, yeah, of course I know him. How do you know him? Have you seen him?" You asked back, desperation tangling in your words, and the boy seemed to notice as he nodded.

"We met in France, he helped me get to The Nest, but it didn't turn out so well..."

"The Nest? Sorry, Laurent, I really want to get to know you but," you said as you crouched down in front of him, gently taking him by the shoulders, "I need you to tell me if Daryl is alive, do you know that?”

"I haven't seen him the last time. Ash told us the plane wouldn't be able to fly with the four of us, so Daryl told me to fly with Carol, but—"

"Carol, you said Carol. A woman with short, gray hair?" At your question, Laurent nodded, making you let out a sigh of relief, but your heart was beating fast in your chest. "Okay, I'm sorry, keep going."

Laurent took a breath before continuing to speak. "Well, the four of us couldn't make it to the plane, so Daryl let the three of us fly, but Carol went out of the plane because we were being attacked by a group."

"Attacked?! But haven't you seen Daryl or Carol again?"

"No, mrs. Y/N, I was on the plane." The young man in front of you answered with some regret in his voice. You felt like you weren't making the best impression, but you couldn't help it. These were the two people you cared about most in the world, and you still didn't quite understand how the hell they had both managed to get to France. Sighing regretfully, you nodded a couple of times, disappointed at the idea of giving up, once again, the last clue you might have to Daryl's whereabouts. Standing up a little, but without moving your hands from Laurent's shoulders, you gave him a warm smile.

"Thank you for the information and I'm sorry if my first impression was not the best, Laurent. I'll tell you what? We're gonna introduce you to the class, and then we'll go for a slice of apple pie so you can tell me more about yourself, what do you think?" You asked, forcing yourself to smile at the boy in front of you. Laurent nodded, entering the classroom he would share with his classmates. Any fear you might have felt about the boy not being included was dispelled when you saw that the other kids were excited to meet someone who was not only not from the Commonwealth, but also came from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

The day passed, and as you walked to the coffee shop alongside Laurent, you listened to his stories and his journey to get there. How he met Daryl, what he taught him, and the things he sacrificed to take care of him. He told you about his aunt Isabelle, and how she loved Daryl, assuring you that he loved her too, and how she braided her hair into a braid every morning, and the life she left behind to give one to him. And in that moment, with your heart a little crushed and tears threatening to fall, you noticed that the trees began to bloom, the sun was shining a little brighter, and maybe —just maybe— someone had heard your wishes. Laurent was the sign that everything was okay.

So you decided that from now on, everything would be okay.

For Laurent, for Daryl. For yourself.

Ezekiel had asked you to take Laurent under your care, trusting you because of the dedication everyone saw and had with Judith and RJ, so it became your personal project. If Daryl had decided that the boy was going to have a better life and sent him across the ocean, it was your duty to continue the work Daryl started. Every week, at least once or twice, you and Dog would go outside the walls when school was over, to practice with some weapons, and even travel beyond the Commonwealth. Judith, with whom he had become friends and debate partners, offered to give him lessons with the katana, although Laurent ended up preferring a bow and arrow, being his favorite weapon. You would never forget the hug he gave you when you gave him his first bow of his own, a smile from ear to ear as he said that now he could be like Daryl.

Rick and Michonne didn't waste any time and wanted to be a part of it too, when they were free from their respective jobs. RJ took the opportunity to sneak around older kids and bother them... sometimes, or almost always. With more people to look after the kids, all of you allowed yourselves to go a few miles further from the community, and although everyone had their guard up and didn't seem to be in any danger, beyond running into some lost walker, being a living person in an apocalyptic world never allowed you to be completely at peace.

While you were on the side of the road checking the SUV that seemed to have not survived the summer heat, Michonne had her eyes on the surroundings, while you and Rick tried to get the car to start so you could escape the hellish heat that was hitting the afternoon. Sitting in the driver's seat, with one leg out of the car, you looked out the window, watching the boys playing some game they had invented on the spot and laughing, making you smile, until your smile turned into a panicked expression.

“RJ, watch out!” You shouted, getting out of the car as you saw a walker approaching the youngest, who was a bit further away from the group and unarmed. He turned to look at you, scared, reacting in time and moving away from the dead one, Michonne being quick to cut his head off in a clean cut, rushing to hug her son. Rick looked up in alarm, calling them to come back closer to the car.

“Don't get too far, that was a lonely walker but there could be more, aight?” He questioned, approaching to adjust his son's hat, giving him a smile. The little boy nodded, knowing full well what his dad was referring to.

“Dad?” Judith said, reaching for the katana on her back as she looked towards the forest in front of you. As she looked towards the trees, a feeling of fear deepened in your stomach. It wasn't just a couple, but a big pack of walkers heading towards you, slowly but surely. There was no shelter, and the car still wasn't working. Circling the car as you pulled the knives out of their sheaths, you approached the group.

“Get in the car. Now.” You ordered. You weren't going to let your family expose themselves after everything they went through.

“Don't be stupid, you can't take them out by yourself. We need each other.” Michonne exclaimed, her eyes narrowing as she grabbed her katana. “Kids, get in the car.”

RJ nodded, running towards the car to get inside, but Judith had a hard expression, while Laurent didn’t know what to do.

“Laurent, get in the car with RJ and Judith. It's gonna be okay.” You instructed, and although the boy seemed hesitant, he ended up obeying, but not before looking once more at everyone, as if wanting to remember their faces in case something happened.

“Judith, I'm not gonna say it again. Get in the car with your brother.” Rick ordered through clenched teeth, noticing how the horde seemed to be getting closer. Jude tightened his hands around the handle of her katana, looking at her dad in the eyes.

“I can fight. I'll stay here.”

“You can fight but you shouldn't, get in the car.” His dad repeated, punctuating the last sentence. As you looked between them and the horde, you stepped forward, raising your knives, Michonne at your side in formation, watching the dead advance towards you. In the air, the heat seemed to be more unbearable than it really was, but the worst thing was the tension, the feeling that every minute that passed was an opportunity for the horde to reach you.

You were the first to act. Moving forward with confident steps towards the first walker that approached with one of your knives raised, you stabbed the blade between its eyes with precision, making it fall to the ground, inert. But, without time to stop, two other walkers lunged at you, making you drop one of the knives while its rotten hands searched for meat. You dodged the first one, but the second one reached you, its firm hand on your arm. You screamed at the force you were exerting to stop it from getting any closer than necessary, but quickly, Rick appeared at your side and, with a precise blow, cut off the head of the dead one that had attacked you.

“I got you.” He said, swinging his axe, while turning to look at Judith with a hard expression. “I won't say it again.”

And with that, the girl —more frightened from the look on her dad’s face than from the horde— ran towards the car, getting in the backseat along with the two boys.

Meanwhile, Michonne was at his side, swinging her katana back and forth with force. Each blow she delivered cut flesh and bone, but for every walker that fell, others seemed to rise from the shadows of the scorching heat. The road seemed to have filled with the dead, their number increasing with each passing minute.

The hot air mixed with the nauseating smell of decomposing bodies, and the sound of screams and blows became a macabre symphony. The ground burned beneath your feet, but neither Rick, nor Michonne, nor you stopped. You knew that survival depended on being precise and working together.

As you hit another walker in the head, the back of the knife sinking into its skull with a thud. Sweat blinded your eyes, but it didn’t matter. Danger was everywhere, and you weren’t going to let anything happen to your family, even if your life was at stake. As you got cornered from the wave of walkers that didn’t seem to end, you whistled to get your friends’ attention.

“Let’s get in the car and wait it out! We won't make it!” You shouted, pushing a walker to the ground as Michonne moved to stomp on its skull. Nodding slightly, they both backed away to the car, watching as Rick continued to take out walkers with his axe and the knife in his other arm, not stopping for a moment.

“Rick, let’s go!” Michonne shouted, making him turn to look at her. His face was splattered with blood, as were his hands, and you didn’t dare look at yours because you knew you were just as bad or worse than him. As the three of you ran towards the car, you got rid of the few walkers that posed a threat near the vehicle, both to get in and to the children inside. Upon reaching it, you waited for them to get in first so you could pretend to get in and close the door behind them, clinging to the car’s railing and quickly climbing onto the roof, listening to the muffled screams of your family from inside the car, which was inevitably being surrounded by the dead ones. Taking the gun that you had in the waistband of your pants and had decided not to use because of the noise and the small number of bullets, you began to shoot as much as you could at the walkers that got too close. The air was thick, all your movements seemed to be automatic, you didn't understand how this was your daily life before being in the tranquility of the Commonwealth. In the midst of getting rid of the dead, you couldn't help but remember Carol and Daryl as soon as they had arrived in Alexandria, saying that the walls could make the group weaker. That's how you felt at that moment: weak.

Weak when you pulled the trigger and you had no more bullets, and there was no way to get into the car without getting out and exposing yourself. Weak when you got on your knees, with one hand held on the railing, as you continued to sink the edge of your knife into the skulls of the walkers, and your lungs seemed to burn from the effort you were making, not knowing if what you felt on your face was sweat or blood, or both. Weak when you heard gunshots around you, and you couldn't do anything else but try to cover yourself with your arms, almost lying on the roof of the car, but being able to see out of the corner of your eye that the walkers were falling in numbers. The sound of bullets was deafening, but so was the pounding of your heart in your ears. Eventually, when the blast of lead stopped, you dared to look down, meeting a pair of blue eyes you knew well.

“Carol?”

“Hi, pookie.” She exclaimed with a smile as her expression trembled. Leaving the knife and gun on the roof of the car, you jumped out of it as she simultaneously threw her gun to the ground, her arms wrapping around your body tightly. As you rubbed her back, you could hear a sob from her, as well as the car doors opening, exclamations of excitement and surprise from the Grimes family. You couldn’t believe she was finally here, back.

“Aunt Carol!” The Grimes brothers shouted, approaching to hug their aunt. Slowly moving away, you wiped your cheeks, which you didn’t know if they were wet with sweat or tears. Turning to look at Rick and Michonne, both of them watched the scene with emotion, but without having said it out loud, you were all thinking of the same person, not noticing the figure that was a few meters away from you, lowering his crossbow until it rested on the ground.

It was hard for Daryl to believe the scene before him. His luck had been so twisted over the years that it wouldn't surprise him to be close to death once again and that what he was experiencing was a hallucination. He looked for some mistake in the moment, something that would indicate to him that Laurent hadn't arrived safe and sound, that his nephew and niece weren't hugging his best friend, that his brother and his partner were alive and together. But no, they all existed and were there, at that moment. Even the love of his life.

The love of his life was there, under the brightest sun he had felt on his skin since he had gone away, and suddenly, everything was starting to make sense. The weight of his actions and the regret of even his own thoughts made his head spin, but even as he repeated over and over the mistakes he had made since he left you, he dared to take a step forward, entering his family's field of vision. The first to turn around was Rick, who held his gaze with an emotion that could have knocked him to the ground. Daryl pressed his lips into a thin line, nodding in greeting, the lump in his throat not letting him formulate a word. Rick, being more demonstrative than he could be, advanced with long strides until he reached his best friend, hugging him with the same strength they hugged when Daryl was freed from Negan's captivity, when the imminent threat of war was upon them but they still had time to rejoice in knowing they were alive. He lowered his head, resting his forehead on the shoulder of his brother, of the man who forced himself to think he was dead so he wouldn't have to deal with the pain and keep searching, more than once. Moving away so they could see each other, Rick laughed through his tears when he noticed that his best friend was crying too.

“Feels good to have you back, brother.” He said, patting the archer on the shoulder, to which he nodded.

“Feels good t'be back.” He replied, directing his gaze at Michonne, at Carol, his traveling companion, at the children, and finally at you, who seemed to be frozen in place, not knowing if he was a ghost or if that was really happening. “Not plannin’ on leavin’ anytime soon.”

“You better not leave again, Dixon. I'll kick your ass, I'm not even kidding.” Michonne said, approaching with a smile so she could hug him, to which he happily responded. It was no news that physical contact was not something he completely liked, but he wouldn't avoid it. He wasn't going to avoid it this time. His hands were shaking from the exciting moment he was experiencing, and beyond the hug with Michonne, he could still watch you, unable to decipher your expression easily. Before he could react, as his friend walked away, the three kids rushed towards him, while he tried to hug them back. Carol was hugged on either side by Rick and Michonne, while you stood with your arms crossed watching the whole sequence.

“Knew you’d come back.” Laurent said, giving a smile to Daryl, who smiled back, nodding.

“I promised I would. I was still gonna find ya, whether you like it or not.” Daryl replied, playfully ruffling his hair. Judith, silently and being more perceptive than the other two children, carefully stepped away from her uncle, approaching you to take your hand. Her fingers intertwined with yours, causing you to look down at her. You responded with a smile and a squeeze of her hand before looking forward again, noticing Daryl approaching you. Before he could get much closer, you took a few steps forward, shortening the distance, bringing one of your hands, trembling, to his cheek. With your thumb you traced that scar that seemed to be more alive than ever, but that somehow, highlighted the color of his eyes. His lip busted, a black eye, another scar on his other cheek, multiple scars on his forehead and still, you saw the most beautiful man that ever existed. It was like the sunlight had transformed into a human form, and he was standing right in front of you, tilting his head against your palm. His hand went to your wrist, caressing it as he watched you, causing you to pull away. Daryl felt your touch on his skin like a burning heat, even though you were no longer touching him.

“I’m glad you're back, Daryl.” You said, your voice mentioning his name was music to his ears. He still couldn't figure you out and it was frustrating him, but he would let what had to happen happen. After all, he had used up every chance you had given him, and he knew he was wrong from the moment he got on his motorcycle to leave everything behind.

“I'm happy yer still here.” He dared to say, and it took everything in him to be able to find his voice in the midst of the anguish. With a half smile, you nodded, turning to look at your friends, your family, as you took a breath before speaking.

“So… are we ready to go home?”

The drive to the Commonwealth seemed to be quicker than it usually was. The car, as if by magic, had started up without any problems. The kids were more than happy to have their uncle back, Rick and Michonne were talking to each other, and you looked back through the windshield of the car at Daryl and Carol, who were coming behind you on Daryl's motorcycle that they had magically been able to find. You didn't want to know how that had happened.

Arriving home? That was another major event. Daryl hadn't been forgotten in the Commonwealth, and for every step he took, there was a different person greeting or welcoming him. Aaron, Maggie, and Lydia were happy to hear from him and Carol, asking them to go to Alexandria as soon as they could. As quickly as he could, Laurent went to get Dog, who kept wagging his tail and crying between barks as Daryl petted him. It took a while for the furry one to get away from his owner, but Laurent took him for a walk so Daryl could get on with what he had to do. Everything seemed to be falling back into place, but Daryl felt that the only thing he was missing was having a well-deserved talk with you, who disappeared as soon as they set foot inside the community. When the people stopped pestering him, he allowed himself a visit to the doctor (forced by Rick) who assured him that he was in perfect condition, beyond a few cuts or bruises here and there, which were healed and bandaged for his safety.

“Now you can go rest, you deserve it.” Rick said, hugging him by the shoulders as they walked out of the hospital. Daryl shook his head, looking ahead, not daring to look him in the eyes.

“Nah. I gotta talk to ‘er.” He muttered, squinting as he felt the sun’s rays hit his face, now turning to look at his friend.

Rick nodded a couple of times. “Yeah, I know.” He said in a much quieter voice than before, searching for the right words before speaking again. “You and Y/N are the last people I saw at the bridge, you know? And that image was my best company for a while, as well as Michonne and Jude. I knew she had your back, and you had hers too. I found peace knowing that.”

Daryl, for the first time in a long time, let out a sob that he couldn’t control, quickly wiping away any trace of tears with the back of his hand. The weight of the people he’d lost, the times he’d walked away from everyone, the image of the bridge exploding, the search for Rick, the trip to France, continuing to run from the consequences of his bad decisions, having to let Isabelle go and Laurent face a new world alone. He felt tremendously responsible, but he felt even worse for leaving despite your asking him not to.

“I fail- I failed ‘er. She ain't supposed t’deal with all of this.” He said, trying to control the tremble in his voice, while Rick's hand pressed on his shoulder, letting him know he was there for him.

“None of us is supposed to deal with the bullshit we dealt, man. She stayed because she knew you were worth it,” taking a breath, he searched for his friend's gaze, failing in the attempt, “and I still don't know if I deserved Michonne’s loyalty, but she gave it to me, and now? I'm not gonna let that go, and you shouldn't either.”

With a pat on the chest, and noticing that Daryl wasn't going to respond with more than a nod, he walked him to the door of your apartment, before waving and leaving. With his heart pounding, he knocked on the door a few times, knowing that he could have locked himself in another time because that home belonged to him too. Noticing that there was no answer or noise from the other side, he leaned against the door, almost falling backwards when it suddenly opened. Looking around, he noticed that no one had opened it, but that the handle seemed to be faulty. If you weren't home, why was the door open?

Entering quietly, he closed the door behind him, observing his surroundings. Despite the time that had passed, nothing was too different. Order was always something that characterized you, and this was no exception: everything was where it should be. Approaching the fridge, he noticed some drawings made by Judith and RJ, even one made by Laurent, stealing a smile from him. A little higher up, there was a polaroid that he could recognize well. The group had recently arrived in Alexandria, and you were both on the stairs of the house you all shared the first night. He was sitting on the steps, one of his arrows in his hands while his crossbow was next to him, you sitting behind him, a few steps up, your arms around his shoulders with a huge smile on your lips, while he was focused on whatever he was doing with the arrow. He didn't remember who had taken the photo, but he couldn't believe that you still kept it, and that it was preserved without problems despite all those years that had passed.

“We were young, huh?” Daryl turned quickly, finding you behind him, at a safe distance, a cigarette between your fingers as you watched him with your head slightly tilted.

“Yer still younger than me, but uh... I'm sorry, I ain't—”

“I knew you were coming sooner or later, Daryl, it's okay. The door’s broken anyways.” You assured him, taking another drag of the cigar, letting out the smoke a few seconds later and using your opposite hand to break up that cloud. “You want one?” You asked, raising your hand to refer to the cigarette, him shaking his head without hesitation. He couldn't help but wonder when you had started smoking, given that the smell had made you wrinkle your nose in disgust a while back.

“Nah, thanks. I wanted to talk to ya.” He said, shifting his weight on his legs while staring at you, trying to notice little things that changed in your face while he was away, but he couldn't find any. The only thing that was different was your hair, and you still looked as beautiful as ever to him. “I, uh… I wanted to say sorry, and thank you for taking care of Laurent. He's been through a lot and he's just a kid, so yeah, thanks.”

As he finished speaking, he couldn't help but feel like an idiot at the words he chose. He wanted to run away and bury his head in the ground, so that no one would perceive him as a human being ever again.

“I did it from the heart and out of love, so you don't owe me anything. Not a thank you, not a sorry. I did it because I felt and knew it was the right thing to do, and because I knew you were sending him.” You started to speak, approaching the kitchen table, putting out the cigarette in the ashtray that was on it, right where Daryl stood on the other end. “You know? The day Laurent showed up, I had decided to go after you and Carol, but then he came along and I knew it was the sign that everything was okay. And maybe I held on to that illusion for too long, without any certainty since the day you left, but it was the first time in months that I felt and knew that everything would be okay.”

Daryl nodded, understanding what you meant, and knowing that there would be no way to apologize without you wanting to ignore it. “I wish I could’ve asked ya if ya wanted to take care of ‘im, and I'm sorry for that.”

“Laurent has been a great companion the last few months. He told me great things about you, about Isabelle.” You said as you sat down, gesturing with your hand for him to do the same, but he remained stuck in his place. His body seemed to be made of the heaviest material in the world, because he couldn't manage to move after what he had heard.

“Listen, I—”

“You don't have to expl—”

“I have to! I need to explain.” He interrupted you, exasperated. “When I left, it was never because of ya. Never. I thought I’d had the chance to make things right while I was away, but I didn't, I fucked it up like I always do. I couldn't protect the people I was ‘posed to protect. I promised Isabelle and I promised Laurent a new life here, a life where they could be free.”

Gripping the back of the chair, he leaned slightly, not daring to look you in the eye. “And I failed again, and the worst part is I realized that the only thing that kept me going was this.” Carefully, he reached under his shirt, taking that chain you had given him with your ring, making you gasp in surprise. You thought he might have lost it in all that time, but it turns out he never stopped having it around his neck. “T’was never Laurent or Isabelle or anything, it was you. I was worried outta my mind thinking how you’d be, if you were even alive. And fer every time I thought ‘bout giving up, you were the person I thought. Comin’ back home to ya.”

You didn’t know when, or how, but your cheeks seemed to be soaked in tears, trying to keep quiet as you listened to the man you loved with the strength of a thousand suns. Wiping your cheeks with the palm of your hand, you watched him walk around the table, stopping right in front of you, his hands cupping your face as gently as possible, feeling the leather of his gloves on your skin, while his thumbs caressed your cheekbones.

“I don't… I don't even know what to say.” You murmured, looking up to look at him, soaking in every little detail of his face once again. “I waited for those words for so long. I cursed your name too many times, only to beat myself up to think about you in that way. I'm sorry for not being the partner you needed, Daryl, I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you.”

The archer shook his head, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead. “I told ya. You're more than enough, and I'm sorry for makin' you doubt it, it's me that's gotta say sorry.”

“I guess we're both sorry, but I'm scared, Dar.” You admitted, making him move away so he could see you. With a sound of effort, he squatted down in front of you, his hands on your knees.

“What are you scared about, sunshine?” He asked, taking your hands in his, caressing the back of them. Closing your eyes for a moment, you shook your head, not knowing whether to say the next words or not.

“I'm scared of you leaving again. I can't stand another goodbye, not from you, not again.” Sighing in a ragged manner, you met his blue eyes watching you with understanding, without having to explain much more to understand. “And I also don't wanna be selfish, because it'll be cruel if I make you do something you don't want, but I can't help how I feel.”

“Listen to me, woman.” He ordered as soon as you finished speaking, perhaps seeming too eager to clarify what he felt. “I ain't leavin’, not again, not without you at least. Can we start over?”

“We'll stay, and we'll start over.” You said, nodding your head. Carefully, Daryl brought one of his hands to the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. His forehead met yours, and for the first time in a long time, you smiled genuinely.

It had been a long time since you stopped believing in wishes.

But maybe this time, just this time, you would give them another chance.

[fafodill]

Do you think Sneep is artistic? What form of media do you think he favors?

I'd argue that creating spells and experimenting with potion is totally an art form. He possesses the yearning to create. Similarly to painting for example, it requires discipline, patience, skills and imagination.

And Severus is someone who appreciates his solitude so in the event of him surviving the war and starting a new hobby (which would mean he's not just mopping somewhere) I'm gonna go ahead and again say : taxidermy. Be it bugs, weird magical creatures he'd put in jars and everything.

Because (to me) this is an art form AND there's something academical to it. Also it's quite precise, requires patience, it's a bit eerie... We know he's got so many jars of creepy stuff in his office, so as he experiments with specific potion ingredients, I could see him be like 'uhm, i'd like to keep a specimen of that one'.

Something about him being a collector of creepiness suits him I think.

I'm having a harder time seeing him paint or draw, but if he did, it would be fucking creepy and gory shit. And I'd love that going for him.

Or... write poetry.

[qm-vox]

Man Who Talk To God Have Difficult Life - Playing Clerics In D&D

(St. Nokta Kinslayer, whom you'll meet further down in the article. Art by the esteemed @druid-for-hire who quite frankly cannot be thanked enough!)

Guess who's back motherfuckers. When they ask how I died, tell them, still angry. After the paladin article I asked around about classes to cover "next" and got a lot of requests; rogue, warlock, sorcerer, so of course I have elected to be a good friend by losing my will to live for months on end and then doing none of those. Let's talk Clerics, shall we? I'll not lie to you, this is going to be an angrier article than the paladin one, in no small part because it's inevitably going to go into contentious ideas like alignment, fantasy religion, and others that the player base has been knife fighting about since mammoths still walked the Earth. There are going to be moments when I look y'all in the eyes and say with my metaphorical human mouth that the problem is you Doing It Wrong, and I can only ask that you hear me out. Not to assign you homework about my fuckin' cleric article or anything, but the one I previously did about The Many may be helpful here as well. There's going to be a bit of a focus on D&D 5e here, and I'll be frank about that: most people are playing 5e these days, and as I'll be arguing further down, Pathfinder's take on Clerics and more broadly on faith are a worthless poison that actively worsens the world.

This article's title is drawn from Small Gods by the esteemed Sir Professor Terry Pratchett. As always, credit goes to Afroakuma for teaching me a great deal of the examples I'm going to give, though citing specific sources are going to be difficult as many of the books in question have been out of print for decades and I am neither an academic nor a machine.

Now for the obligatory Content Warnings. We're looking at discussion of fantasy religion & comparisons to real-world religion, violence, discussions of atrocities such as torture, desecration of the dead, and destruction of culture, as well as traumatic deaths/backstories for the sample clerics at the end. As mentioned above, there is also going to be some alignment discourse. You have been warned; do as thou wilt.

Without further ado, let us begin with...

O Mighty Smiter - Clerics Through D&D's History

We begin the obligatory text wall.

Clerics have been here since the beginning. They were around back when "Elf" was a class, and while their history is complex it has, eternally, been colored by the bit where Cleric has an inherent identity problem. In many ways it is, as a class, too broad, so wide-open that getting something coherent out of it is an exercise in frustration or even futility. It'll be easier to talk about what Clerics aren't than what they are, and oh boy, will I. A brief note here: while Druid is going to come up in the context of 1e and 2e, and again a bit later when I start talking about priests (yeah, that's a separate conversation, we're gonna get there), this article is not otherwise dedicated to Druid. I'm gonna need a significant amount of whiskey for both me and my priestess before we god damn go there.

AD&D 1e and 2e: Deus Vult - Do the world a favor if you ever pass near Gary Gygax's grave: piss on it. Ol' Gary G rooted Cleric in his classic blend of obsession with medieval ideas and piss-poor research, invoking many myths about priests of the Crusades and applying them as a one-size-fits-all vision of war-clergy of Every God. He would personally run into problems with this in his own writing before he got out of the game, and rather quickly at that, as he tried to write faiths whose imagery and ideals did not fit the Crusader Priest ideal, but since he was, and I cannot stress this enough, a hack with all the morals and emotional intelligence of mustard gas, he never quite solved those problems for himself. I'll hop off my screed now, I just want this said up front, especially since it's the fundamental evil that chases Cleric to this day.

The O.G. Cleric was described as a melee combatant that took a close second-place to Fighter in that arena, with proficiency in heavy armor and a variety of useful weapons, though they were forbidden from using "edged weapons that spill blood" (there's those Crusader myths). Random fun fact, the very first incarnation of Cleric only had spells up to 7th level, but the level tables for their class went up to level 29 or so, and man, ain't that just wild. As your Cleric gained levels they also became more highly placed in the church of their god, eventually hitting High Priest and just kinda sitting there as they leveled up. Interesting note here: Clerics couldn't be Neutral (that is, not Lawful, Chaotic, Good, or Evil) back in the day, and instead anyone wanting to run a Neutral Cleric had to take a subclass you might have heard of by the name of Druid, which in turn eventually had to face other Druids in SINGLE COMBAT in order to level up past a certain point. Why? I don't know. Summon Gygax's ghost and ask him between rounds of spiritual torture. This original version of Cleric had Turn Undead, a feature that's been attached to almost all Clerics by some name or another in all of their incarnations, and boy, Turn Undead used to be fucking wild. Roll a dice, consult a table based on your result and your level, and end up Turning or Destroying a number of very specific kinds of undead. AD&D 2e would put "undead gods" on this list starting at 13th level or so, and let me tell you: this came up in published material more often than you might think. Last but not least, like most characters back in 1e and 2e, Clerics eventually got to run a building full of people. At first the Cleric attracted about 20-200 "fanatics" who would work for free and help them build a shrine (no word on how TF you feed and water these fanatics) but eventually was given the right to build a proper castle-temple and produce 1 silver per month per resident via "trade, taxes, tariffs". Ladies and gentlemen, D&D.

Aside from the aforementioned alterations to Turn Undead, AD&D 2e introduced a concept known as Spheres to Cleric casting. Now, stop me if you've heard this before: each god gave access to 1 or more Spheres, which were specific lists of spells that their Clerics had access to (fun fact, Paladin casting was "as Cleric of 9 levels lower", but only with access to specific Spheres). So if you worshiped, say, Lathander, you had access to Healing, Sun, Divination, and IIRC a couple of others, and that's it, that's the whole ticket. Now, you may remember Kits from the Paladin article, and Clerics did have some of that action, but more than that they had "specialty priests", a sort of even-more-hardcore version of this whole proto-Domain deal; a Specialty Priest had different class features in comparison to normal Cleric, and access to different or more Spheres, both of which were determined by their god. Each Specialty Priest was, in its way, its own separate subclass of Cleric and if you published a god back in the day you had to get one of these installed. Were they all good? No. Fuck no. God no. Are you kidding me? But they were often very distinctive.

This doesn't get talked about a lot, at least not until we hit Pathfinder, but Clerics have had codes of conduct like Paladins for as long as they've existed, sort of atomized across their various gods. The rules around these have always been vague, and rarely culturally enforced in the player communities, but they did and do exist. A cleric of Kelemvor raising a zombie has done a bit of a blasphemy; raising a ghoul or vampire probably entails divine retribution, a reduction in character level, or even the loss of their powers. Oh, and other gods are probably trying to court you since clearly you're looking for new management and a trained cleric is a resourced that's hard to pass up.

No version of Cleric has ever particularly had a strong identity, but this original version may have been the closest to having one...because it's bad. To the credit of 1e and 2e, the eventual installation of Nonweapon Proficiencies, later to become the Skills system, did let them be competent as actual like, priests? Cleric got access to the stuff needed to actually minister as a spiritual leader with some extra socked away to practice sacred arts related to their god (ex. bookbinding for a cleric of Denier) and maybe even some god damn hobbies too. But outside of the ever-more-niche & esoteric arena of specialty priests, themselves presented as particular fanatics, agents, or chosen ones, every cleric was a Crusader, and every god's clergy were war-priests. And that's weird, right? And so now we must move on to the demon that never dies.

D&D 3.5: The Word Of My God Is 'Begone' - Quick question, have you ever wanted to roleplay someone perceptive but otherwise deeply stupid and utterly incompetent to move unsupervised through human society, who is, nonetheless, OMNIPOTENT? Welcome to the 3.5 Cleric, one of THE casters of all time in the absolute Caster Supremacy Edition. I hope you came ready to hear casual mentions of mechanics that would make a Victorian occultist cry. If you go looking at the class page for Cleric you might notice there's both jack and shit there, and for my readers who got into D&D at 5e the following might be a bit of a shock: Cleric was one of the strongest classes in 3.5.

In terms of the actual mechanics related to Cleric in 3.5, Turn or Rebuke Undead and spontaneous casting were some of the big ones. Well, "big" ones; Turn Undead qua Turn Undead was actually kind of shit and would often just not actually like...turn...the undead, but the charges of Turn Undead a Cleric kept around could be used for many other options that permitted alternate spending, notably here to include Divine Metamagic. These alternate spends were better than using Turn Undead for its actual intended purpose more or less always, and Divine Metamagic (DMM) in particular was an unholy monstrosity that underlied a lot of Cleric's power later in 3.5's run, letting them customize their prepared spells on the fly without having to use up higher-level spell slots. Now, I really cannot stress this enough: Cleric was one of the most powerful classes in core alone, without adding any supplements. DMM and similar options made Cleric even stronger but they were very much gilding the lily, to be frank. "Hey Vox why are you saying this," you would not believe the number of ignorant pricks who made a literal moral crusade out of going to "core only" in 3.5 claiming it made for a better balanced game. The good version of 3.5 has never existed, destroy anyone who claims otherwise.

Where was I - spontaneous casting, yes. Now, Clerics were still prepared casters, they had X spell slots every day at very specific levels and had to pick specific spells to fill them. That is, if you want to cast create water more than once in a given day, you need to memorize create water more than once that day. However, Clerics could convert a spell of any level to either cure wounds or inflict wounds of the same level, depending on the alignment of the Cleric (Good Clerics Turn Undead and cure wounds, Evil Clerics Rebuke Undead and inflict wounds, and Neutral Clerics not otherwise restricted by their god get to pick one for their entire career). This gave 3.5 Cleric a lot of flexibility, very valuable flexibility in a game environment where casting a heal mid-combat was basically always the wrong move, but out-of-combat healing was still an invaluable resource. RIP to Evil Clerics though, inflict sucked ass.

Lastly, we have domains. Now, if you check through the domain list on the SRD you may notice that they are rather less defining than the 5e Domains, granting a single power apiece and a list of spells you get access to. Most gods in 3.5 granted access to 3+ Domains, and their Clerics got to pick 2; together, these are the "kind" of Cleric you are, the aspects of your god that you kinda embody which then shape your power. Clerics got special extra spell slots solely for Domain spells in addition to their usual progression, and could memorize these Domain spells in normal slots as well. 3.5's list of Domains was deep and wide to the point of self-parody, and the power that gave a player to customize their Cleric's aesthetic and mechanics could be immense. Sure, many Domains were much weaker than others (Magic Domain is bonkers and that asshole is in core) but ultimately every Domain is stapled to Cleric, and since Clerics don't learn spells, only memorize them, there's a floor as to how weak you can possibly be.

So, what are your restrictions on Cleric? Not many. Non-War Domain Clerics had a sort of mid list of weapon options, sure, but if you're not casting you're playing wrong already so who gives a shit. Heavy armor and full access to shields meant a lot of build flexibility as far as that goes, so no problems here. The biggest thing is that a Cleric needed to be, and remain, within one alignment "step" of their god, plus or minus any other specific restrictions. That is, a Cleric of Liira, who is Chaotic Good, must be Neutral Good, Chaotic Good, or Chaotic Neutral; becoming Lawful Good, True Neutral, Chaotic Evil, etc would result in losing all Cleric powers and being unable to take Cleric levels until they fixed their shit or found a new god. Strictly speaking, these Clerics could/would still Fall a la paladins if they sufficiently blasphemed against or angered their god, but in practice this sort of thing was just...not common.

This is the section where I would talk about other divine classes in 3.X but honestly they were all so god damn weird and specific that no comparison really could be made. Shugenja, for instance, just isn't cognate to Cleric. The closest thing is the Healer class, no points for guessing what their deal is, but the thing with Healer is they have more in common with paladin, so like. Cleric or bust baby, welcome to fucktown.

Which brings us back to what Cleric was like narratively, the answer to which is: confused. The thing is...Clerics have always, likely will always, want high Wisdom, which makes them perceptive, good at detecting lies, weirdly talented at handling animals, competent to navigate the wilderness, and also I just described a Disney Princess. The trouble is, nearly everything else is strictly secondary. Every caster wants and needs Constitution in 3.X so they can make those Concentration checks and also, you know, not die, so okay, you're perceptive and you can hold your liquor, but after that nothing else matters. On the one hand, this makes for a great deal of versatility in terms of your ability scores, but on the other hand Cleric had 2+Int skill points per level on the most dog shit skill list in the game so being a very smart Cleric rarely bought you anything. Higher Charisma could be cool, but hey, see that skill list? It's still shit, and if you aren't also buying Intelligence you quite literally can't afford to keep up the social skill tax. A true war-priest wants Dexterity so they can act before their enemies and command the battlefield but that's more or less all you buy out of Dexterity on Cleric so congratulations, you're an almighty quickdraw and also illiterate. "What about Strength," what about it.

I really cannot overstate the paralyzing nature of that skill list, because priests - which 3.5 wanted Clerics to be, which it thinks they are - need more of them than most people think. A proper spiritual leader needs to buy up Insight, Knowledge (Religion), Knowledge (Local), Knowledge (Nobility), and Persuasion at a minimum, and they sure do also want Intimidate and Perception. You get two of those. Two. Just two. If you buy up Intelligence after you eat your vegetables like a good player, you maybe get to buy four of those. And that's it, that's all you fucking get. Clerics are not competent to be priests, which is going to be true of them going forward from this edition on. Now, I'm painting with a relatively broad brush here, and there's definitely religions on Earth these days which did, or still do, separate out roles that might reasonably be called a priest & Cleric vs. those roles that are community leaders and interpreters of doctrine and law, but there's a shocking amount of "here's my vision of what priests are and do" that Cleric wants to be, and isn't, because of this whole fucking deal.

But while 3.5 was extremely blind to the bit where Clerics just were not what it thinks priests are any more, it was very much not blind to the terror and power of their spellcasting. A high-level cleric, in the narrative of any given setting, is a terrifying force - an army unto themselves, a one-woman political bloc whose existence is an implicit threat of violence on a civilizational scale. I didn't spill all that ink about the power and mechanics of Cleric up there for nothing; 3.5 was very interested in how those mechanics could manifest within the narrative, how they are inextricably bound to said narrative. Hell, in Expedition to Undermountain alone the backstory of the dungeon includes one non-relevant sect of Clerics who was, in-universe, trying to game the spell slot system, alongside another unrelated sect that the PCs trip over by accident and fight inside their half-constructed fortress of partially undead bone which they control via Rebuke Undead.

Lemme say that again just for emphasis: there's an adventure where an accidental encounter is a long siege through a half-animated evil fortress that can be controlled through pure divinity, which was invented because its builders, in-universe, were trying to optimize their power and create an advantage they could control but their enemies couldn't. And this is just my favorite example, it's hardly the only one. Even the fucking novels got in on this sort of thing. We all joke about how wizards have no rights, because they don't, but watch a Cleric hit level 7 or so and you'll realize quickly that they are becoming something to which mortal laws are more like polite suggestions. Nor is this necessarily solely the sign of greater favor and thus potentially restriction from their god; indeed, a Cleric has to bring things to the table themself, narratively speaking! Divine spellcasting is a real skillset that you get better at with practice and experience, and part of the reason higher level Clerics get so much attention from other gods - aside from the obvious "this person can solo an army and still go home in a mood to have sex with their wife" angle - is that a skilled Cleric is a rare resource worth stealing.

Overall, 3.5's vision of Cleric is perhaps the one that suffers most from Cleric's identity-draining lack of specificity. Its Clerics were powerful, but they were also largely all the same; they could change their spells every day, but that only really meant that your list of spells doesn't really matter beyond personal preference. Domains offered some customization, but they didn't go far enough, and indeed if they were to go far enough the all-consuming might of Cleric would only be even more flagrant. So let's return to the most honest edition of D&D, shall we?

D&D 4e: Healer Calls The Shots - There are a lot of reasons that D&D 4e was born dead, and a big one is that classes with healing abilities were labeled 'leaders'. This seems absurd these days, especially if you're into esports at all; the support player being the team leader has become accepted strategy in a variety of games, in no small part because one simply cannot win without them, and yet at the time the D&D fanbase - still in an awkward transitional period of nerd masculinity that I don't have the time or the PhD to write about - rebelled against this concept with fountaining violence. The "girlfriend classes", leaders? Absurd. Preposterous. Clearly Sir Dipshit the Fighter with no mental stats or applicable skills is the leader.

I'm not fucking bitter, you are.

So what was Cleric's deal, exactly? Cleric qua Cleric was a Leader, as mentioned before, that could primarily be built either as a scrappy melee type or a more hard-support implement caster. "What's an implement caster?" glad you asked; back in 4e you had to hold a casting implement to cast your spells, something like a rod, staff, wand, holy symbol, your mother's haunted skull, whatever, and these had specific mechanical effects that altered your abilities. Some classes, like Cleric, could also or instead use a weapon as their implement, but in practical terms the strict wealth-by-level guidelines meant you got one or the other and would build your stats accordingly. Keep this in your back pocket for later, it's going to come up again. Also for your back pocket for later: these implements were, well, implemented as part of 4e's item progression, and the expectation was that you would spend your available resources (in this case, gold/phantom gold, collectively Wealth By Level) on better implements that would make your abilities work more work-y. Limited wealth meant that while in theory you could have both a magic weapon and a magical implement, in practical terms you get one or the other 'cause there's other shit you gotta buy.

What Clerics did with these implements was sell healing and healing accessories. While 4e introduced the concept of Radiant damage (used there as especially good against fiends, undead, and other forces of evil) and Clerics did indeed have access to some of that as well as buff abilities, their main thing was being the ranged healer par excellence, able to heal or cause healing far in excess of their peers in the role such as Warlord. Here, then, we return to the throughline of the divine healer which stretches all the way back to fucking BECMI, and which modern audiences may recognize more readily as the JRPG archetype of the White Mage - itself rooted in BECMI again! This hobby is an ouroboros, I say, with love.

Joining Cleric here are a selection of other classes with divine powers who take on a similar conceptual space. I talked a bit about Invoker during the Paladin article so I'm not gonna go over them again (this shit is long enough as it is), so we're gonna talk about Warpriest and Runepriest.

Introduced in the Essentials line, Warpriest was - like most Essentials classes - a simplified take on Cleric meant to be more accessible to new players. It shifted just about everything towards Wisdom in terms of writing one's character. Warpriests were these tanky all-around characters who gave up some of Cleric's team support for better attacks, and notably did not select powers on level-up, but rather got a progression based on their Domain. Readers familiar with D&D 5e might see some similarities here.

Runepriest, on the other hand, was a weird freak of a Defender whose thing was projecting offensive or defensive Auras that they could amplify with their support abilities and swap out every time they attacked. Their primary stat was Strength, drawing on a similar idea to the later revised 5e Barbarian or, perhaps more familiar to y'all, Beast incantations in Elden Ring. Very much not simplified, Runepriest offered some initial build diversity but didn't get a lot of support as the gameline continued, ironically ending up as very limited despite seeming intentions of breadth.

Narratively, these classes were somewhere in the range of 'village preacher with a hidden badass streak' to 'war missionary' to 'literal thug for the literal god of literal fascism'. 4e here stands out for being the first edition to acknowledge that a Cleric is not really a priest as such, and is much more like...a chosen one, a conception that very much fit well into 4e's idea that adventurers are inherently freaks who do things no sane person would ever consider. If you're thinking, "gee that sounds odd, why wouldn't there be like Clerics just existing inside cities", I point you at works like Dungeon Meshi who advance this same idea. Fundamentally, the skills one uses to break into ancient tombs full of undead are not skills you develop while working as a spiritual leader or a bureaucrat or even as a military officer. Adventuring is not a career you get into because your life is going well.

Of course, as mentioned, D&D 4e was born dead, so now we need to talk about the demon that ate its corpse and was, for a time, the unquestioned king of the TTRPG space by dint of its treachery and malice.

Pathfinder: Deus Vult Part II: World Holy War - Keep Pathfinder in your back pocket next to casting implements, they're gonna star in the religion section later as I express a fundamental anger that borders on inhuman rage. You have no earthly idea just how much I'm cutting out of this section alone considering that like many, I was there for Pathfinder during the beta and thus got in on the ground floor of a great deal of incompetence, malice, cruelty, outright betrayal, unexamined double-think, and egotistical bullshit.

That said, let's actually talk about Cleric.

In terms of Cleric qua Cleric, you may be noticing that the table there looks a lot like 3.5's Cleric, and indeed in many ways they're pretty similar. The biggest immediate difference is the addition of Channel Energy, which lets a Cleric become a healing bomb (or harm undead bomb, or vice versa) a certain number of times per day linked to their Charisma modifier. This is in addition to spontaneous casting, so it's a strict addition; further, it being a 30-foot burst means a channeled heal might actually be worth your Standard Action at some point in your career. It won't be, but it might. Additionally, Pathfinder Clerics are proficient in the Favored Weapon of their god by default (more on this later), which - by contrast - was often much harder to access in 3.5.

Like D&D 3.5, Pathfinder has a dizzying array of Domains to go with a default setting packed full of gods (more on this in the religion section later), ranging from things as broad as 'all magic ever' to things as embarrassingly specific as 'ambushes as laid by kobolds specifically'. Seriously, look at this list, it's absurd. And while by sheer numbers and specificity it's roughly equivalent with 3.5, I'm not about to claim 3.5 has the high road here, Clerics in Pathfinder get more abilities from their Domains and thus your choice of Domain and/or Subdomain is far more important to your Cleric than it ever was in PF's parent game.

Indeed, option paralysis is going to be the name of the game here. Clerics in Pathfinder, in addition to Domain and Subdomain and their choice of god, also get to pick out variants on the Channeling ability that I talked about and, like all Pathfinder classes, have access to a dizzying array of Archetypes. These Archetypes in turn range in scope and concept from variations on how one has trained as a Cleric (such as Crusader, keep that name in mind for later) to like, race essentialism as class features such as Fiendish Vessel. Sit on that statement for a bit. Really internalize it.

Now, while the rules for Pathfinder give provisions for older versions of Clerics such as Clerics of ideals, Planar Clerics, etc, in practice Pathfinder is very much married to its one-and-only setting, Golarion, and to its particular vision of Clerics as the dedicated priests of a single god. This is a difficult vision to accomplish, as they still aren't competent to be priests, but it's also one that adds another layer of information a player has to juggle, as Golarion makes a much bigger and yet somehow much smaller deal about Clerics falling and losing their powers; each of its gods has a published code of conduct, Obediences you can perform for mechanical benefits, and sometimes even exclusive spells. I said I was gonna cut my beefs with Paizo out of this section but I really cannot resist just one: this is from the creators who made their first bones by arguing that mechanical bloat was the cardinal sin of 3.5 and advertised a return to the purity of Core. It would be funny if it weren't so fucking infuriating. If you can't hack it as a Cleric of your god, you lose your powers until you either start hacking it, or find a new god that agrees better with your current behavior, and those gods are very much in the market to hire.

In addition to Clerics as the hypothetical main priests (both as PCs and NPCs), Pathfinder introduces Inquisitors, Oracles, and Warpriests and we're gonna have to talk about all of them so I hope you weren't doing anything else with your day. Let's start with Inquisitors. Meant to be to Cleric what Ranger is to druid, Inquisitor is a wildly revealing take on how Paizo thinks about religion and ethics. To wit:

"Grim and determined, the inquisitor roots out enemies of the faith, using trickery and guile when righteousness and purity is not enough. Although inquisitors are dedicated to a deity, they are above many of the normal rules and conventions of the church. They answer to their deity and their own sense of justice alone, and are willing to take extreme measures to meet their goals. Role: Inquisitors tend to move from place to place, chasing down enemies and researching emerging threats. As a result, they often travel with others, if for no other reason than to mask their presence. Inquisitors work with members of their faith whenever possible, but even such allies are not above suspicion."

James Jacobs would like to tell you, with a straight face, that this is a normal and expected way to engage with religion, to think about religion, and that Inquisitors as presented here can be of any alignment and serve any god, all of whom will keep them around on purpose. In a related story, James Jacobs is a sniveling wretch. In another related story, the aesthetics and proficiencies of Inquisitor are very much like, the Hugh Jackman Van Helsing. I do not say this as an insult to either Inquisitor or to Mister Van Helsing, his aesthetics slap, but do keep that in mind for what I'm gonna say later.

Mechanically, Inquisitor drops a lot of control and damage, gleefully sacrificing most of the support a Cleric offers in favor of singling out particular targets and persecuting them to death. They also get a surprising amount of out-of-combat utility, adding their Wisdom modifier to Knowledge checks to identify "monsters" ("hey what's a monster" good FUCKING question), gaining bonuses to tracking like a Ranger, and adding a FAT bonus to Sense Motive (this becomes Insight in 5e) & Intimidate checks. Their combat style is a mix of hard control spells and self-buffs to damage so they can sandpaper their enemies to death; very functional, but also very much a particular vision of a holy warrior. And lest we leave this unsaid, Inquisitor spells were very much concerned with rooting out "heresy", heterodoxy, and punishing "sinners" within their own faiths, which is a wild-ass statement when you remember, again, that they can follow any god. You wanna tell me the god of revolutions runs secret police whose job it is to murder heretics? You wanna tell me that, James Jacobs? That's what you're telling me? Fucksake. Adding to this is that while Inquisitors can take Domains, they more commonly take bespoke Inquisitions that, well, make them better at being the secret police. You know how the god of the harvest runs the Grain Gestapo and they're the good guys somehow? Like that.

This, however, is where I drop the other shoe. Look at Inquisitor's skill list. Look at their skills per level. Are you seeing what I'm seeing? They're competent to serve as spiritual leaders, indeed, infinitely more competent to do so than either Cleric or Warpriest are or ever will be. The rest of their abilities make that idea just a little bit absurd, but if you don't mind every local village priest being an apprentice serial killer on their off hours Inquisitor is the only divine class that can do the job. The only one. There are no others. The next-closest candidates are fucking Bard and Rogue.

Which brings us to Warpriest, I think. I will not mince words here: Warpriest fucking sucks. Pitched as one of the many so-called "hybrid classes", Warpriest's parent classes are Fighter and Cleric, and it really got the worst end of both. Cleric is cracked enough that even with 6th level casting Warpriest evens out to doing fine, but my fucking god. Warpriests get some minor buffs to their weapons and armor, allowing them to customize those items and granting a phantom buff to the budget they can assign to them, as well as access to Blessings, their particular spin on Domains. These are good ways to extend their spellcasting but are, essentially, equivalent to a secondary pool of spells and buffs; likewise, their Fervor ability is a pool of healing/harming in theory, but in practice you burn Fervor to self-buff as a Swift action (Bonus Action for you 5e folks) or you're doing it wrong. The problem here is that Warpriest is just...worse Cleric. The phantom buffs to their weapons and armor, as well as their pool of bonus Combat feats, do not make up for the bit where they swing less accurately, less often, than an equal level Fighter, Paladin, Ranger, etc. You're casting or you're failing, and if you're already a hard caster, you're a Cleric - and Clerics, y'know, are already war-priests.

Oracle is the weird one out of this list. A spontaneous and Charisma-based divine caster, Oracle stands out for having a more limited list of spells that they get to use more often, and for having flexibility with their use of Metamagic feats the way a Sorcerer does. "What if I don't want to use Metamagic feats," I'm afraid you'll need to go fuck yourself, this is what you're doing. Oracle was an instant smash-hit with the player base of Pathfinder for its strong aesthetics and customization; where most Clerics are essentially the same with minor differences, every Oracle is, in some way, different. In particular, each Oracle has a Curse which makes them like, literally & textually disabled in some way but also grants them power, ranging from "you're just deaf, that's it that's the curse" to "you've been infested by an alien hive-mind from literal space, good luck fucker", and also pursues a Mystery that gives them themed abilities and further customizes their spell list. Unfortunately this is still a Paizo class; in terms of the actual mechanics, most Curses are essentially meaningless, with a rare few either being so bad that they're unpickable or so good that you kinda have to justify why you didn't take them (Deafened is the latter, incidentally) and most just being nothingburgers that matter not at all.

Now, notable here before I talk about Mysteries is that Oracle, like Cleric, is living that 3/4th base attack bonus life and can natively wear up to medium armor. Unlike Cleric they are not natively proficient with their god's Favored Weapon but otherwise they're fronting as a gish (spellblade for you youngbloods, a character that mixes magic and melee). The thing is, while that 3/4 attack bonus is great for spells that make attack rolls - here Oracle is handily beating contenders like Wizard or Sorcerer in terms of accuracy - they are, you know, ninth-level casters. The correct move for your turn is "I cast a spell". There are not exceptions to this. In an extremely related story, most Mysteries are full of not-spell things to do with the actions you would normally use to cast spells, and while some of them - such as the endless parade of ways to boost your Armor Class - replace certain spells, essentially saving you a slot, many of them are just kinda...weak blasts or control abilities that don't meaningfully compete with, again, "I cast a spell". And like, the flip side of your choice of Mystery often not mattering is that you're free to pick something that seems thematic to you, but riddle me this: if you never use the abilities you pick up, does it matter that you have them?

There's some obvious winners in Mysteries, as there always is. Lore and Time are cracked as hell, and you can get away with something like Metal that has mostly passive abilities, but here we need to talk a bit about the theme and flavor of Oracle. Paizo sold the class on the idea of mysterious connections to the divine, a sort of divine mirror to their Witch class whose associations with the otherworldly are potentially unknown to them and move them without their consent. They then immediately abandoned this faster than my father abandoned me; every published Oracle is the Oracle of one god in particular, Mysteries are associated with gods the way Domains are, and this means that in all ways Oracle is a Cleric who can get laid. I am, perhaps, disproportionately angry about this, both on a professional level (lying to your readers is a bit of a dick move) and on a personal one (I wanted the Oracle they sold and did not receive it). And that's...a bit of a let-down, right? Paladins are already god-locked in Pathfinder too, so at this point Oracle, while having strong imagery, is not meaningfully different from its peers in a way that you can really latch onto. I dunno. It's a waste, y'know?

Overall, Paizo's vision of its divine classes is not able to be separated from its vision of religion as a zero-sum holy war in which everyone is desperate for converts, no one trusts anyone else, and rooting out one's own flock for heretics and heterodoxy is considered normal and morally acceptable behavior. Paizo deadass thinks the Spanish Inquisition are the good guys, if not literally, then in spirit, and that is, not to put too fine a point on it, disgusting. Mechanical innovations are present here, but to be frank the signal-to-noise ratio is awful, and it's very much not worth the effort to pillage their work for the few good ideas that have managed to survive.

Which brings us, at long last, to:

D&D 5e: The Power of God And Anime On My Side - I apologize for nothing and I will do this again.

So, right here up front, before I talk about anything else, anything else at all, Fifth Edition Clerics are, for the first time, both not priests and not trying to be priests. To quote Pages 56-57 of the 2014 Player's Handbook: "Not every acolyte or officiant at a temple or shrine is a cleric. Some priests are called to a simple life of temple service, carrying out their gods' will through prayer and sacrifice, not by magic and strength of arms. In some cities, preisthood amounts to a political office, viewed as a stepping stone to higher positions of authority and involving no communion with a god at all. True clerics are rare in most hierarchies.

When a cleric takes up an adventuring life, it is usually because his or her god demands it. Pursuing the goals of the gods often involves braving dangers beyond the walls of civilization, smiting evil or seeking holy relics in ancient tombs. Many clerics are also expected to protect their deities' worshippers, which can mean fighting rampaging orcs, negotiating peace between warring nations, or sealing a portal that would allow a demon prince to enter the world.

Most adventuring clerics maintain some connection to established temples and orders of their faiths. A temple might ask for a cleric's aid, or a high priest might be in a position to demand it."

Merciful fucking Illmater, we made it y'all. Not that the player base, by and large, has noticed; many people continue to play clerics as priests, to think of all clerics as priests and spiritual leaders, and to expect them to be such. And they are not priests. As I've argued already they've never been priests, but 5e does have a firm vision of Clerics - they're shonen protagonists. The chosen many, as it were, and that vision is clearer and more thematic than Cleric has been since mammoths still walked the Earth. Y'all are doing this wrong. Please stop.

Anyway, mechanics! The more things change, the more they stay the same; Cleric still has a dog shit skill list, they're still a mid-armored all-rounder with anti-undead features, they're still pretty good at resisting mind control. The Optimal Cleric(tm) is rocking high Wis and Dex so they can act first and get off their powerful control spells, which in turn implies light armor in an unusual first for D&D, but I'll be real with you: Cleric has one of the best spell lists in the game, as long as your Wisdom is high you can do whatever you want and never be punished for it. Notable here in comparison to previous editions are the flexibility of the Cleric's spell slots in 5e - you can cast any spell you have prepared out of your slots rather than locking 1 spell to 1 slot - and Ritual Casting, a feature most people associate with Wizards but which is very, very much available to Cleric and gives them similar out-of-combat utility. Turn Undead and Destroy Undead return, both more functional than they've been in decades, and are now linked to rests of any kind and also used to charge Domain features. "What about Divine Intervention -" what the fuck about it.

Which brings us to Domains. And the thing about Domains is there's still a lot of them in the context of 5e; the Player's Handbook alone published seven of them, and just about every player-oriented book after that had 1-2 more, sometimes as many as three. Cleric is feasting, and while most of the food is decidedly mid it still doesn't matter because it is, again, stapled to Cleric. Like I could wax poetic, at some considerable length, about why Domains like War, Trickery, or Grave are bad options, but y'know, the thing is, they're still fucking Clerics, they'd be doing fine with no Domain at all. I'm not gonna go into a massive breakdown of the pros and cons of any given Domain, but in general you'll have the most harmonious time with Domains that don't expect you to be spending your actions doing things that aren't casting spells. War, for instance, is gonna be a let-down because it really wants you to be making weapon attacks and you do not have the tools to make that remotely worth it; conversely, Grave also sucks, but it mostly fills in actions that your spells can't or won't, so you'll have a much smoother time playing Grave. For those wondering, the hands-down winners of the Domain list are Knowledge, Life, Light, and Tempest, though an extremely dishonorable shout-out goes to Order as a control & utility pick that is completely unaware of its own existence as a cosmic fucking horror story. See the sample Clerics below for that shit.

Now, remember when I told you to keep implements in your back pocket? 5e also has them, but they're introduced a bit...unevenly. Magical items do exist that do what magic implements used to do, namely, boost your spell DCs and spell attack modifiers - the caster equivalent of a magical weapon - but not many were ever published, and the ones that were are mainly for arcane casters. Fans of Critical Role may be recognizing items like the Spire of Conflux or the Hand Cone of Clarity as taking this role (and indeed quite a bit of Mercer's world and mechanics draws influence from D&D 4e), while players of Baldur's Gate 3 are pointing at the screen and naming some of their favorite caster-focused shields, gloves, and helmets right now. Any of these are a pretty neat way to engage on this idea as long as you keep things under control (you don't wanna exceed a total of like, +3/+3 here), but you as the DM, or you and your DM if you're a player, can and will be making this shit up yourself for your Cleric.

So, what's 5e's vision of Clerics, narratively? Well...see, the thing is, the text I quoted above is mainly it. D&D 5e is remarkably lore-light on the player-facing end, instead investing a lot of its lore writing in wild reworks of various cultures such as drow or gnolls, which I will not comment on because I do need to end this article at some point and I'm still in the fucking context section. There's a soft sympathy towards the position that 5e's Clerics, as they level, are holier Clerics, rather than more skilled Clerics (again, see above), but even that is a very tepidly held position, one which in novel writing and related media is far from consistent or primary. That said, I couldn't walk out of this section with a straight face if I didn't talk about the WILD fucking Domain assignments 5e makes for its gods, which in some cases is an artifact of many more specific Domains no longer existing, but in other cases appears to be the product of some of the most ignorant Protestant bullshit you can possibly imagine when thinking of the gods in question. Again, see the existence and flavor of the Order Domain as an example here, but like, in what fucking universe is Helm associated with the Light Domain? Since when was Wee Jas a Grave Domain kinda goddess? Not to hype this up twice in two paragraphs, but you will notice when we get there that I have chosen to ignore this whole affair for many of the upcoming sample Clerics and when I do there'll be some discussion about it. I do these things to myself and I really wish I didn't but this is who I am as a person now.

Going to the Land Of Context is like going to the Underworld, it takes you three days no matter how fast you travel. But at long last we have arrived, and we can conduct the actual fucking article. May Oghma pity me, for I myself will not.

Gotta Go, The People In The Important Pajamas Are Mad - Clerics At Your Table

Before I say anything else, that headline is not my original line but I cannot for the LIFE of me remember what early aughts webcomic it's from. I am likely misquoting it but if anyone on this hellsite recognizes it and can point me back to it for a proper credit I will be quite grateful & also get the citation in.

The following section is meant to help you in fleshing out a Cleric concept to play or even to use as an NPC. While some of this advice is edition-agnostic and indeed when we get to the religion section we're gonna return to some Takes Through The Editions and I will be very sad and also angry, a great deal of it will be slanted towards 5e because, let's face it, that's what people are playing. Make of this what you will. Also covered here will be same-paging (again), Clerics & alignment, and common pitfalls of playing Clerics (and suggestions of how to avoid them). So, without further ado:

Same Paging - In Which I Blow The Meta Joke About This Being In Any Class Article I Do Early Like A Damn Fool

Same-paging is the practice of talking to your group in a way that helps set mutual expectations, and it’s something every RPG group should strive to do regardless of the system they’re playing in. You’ve probably done this to an extent before, as part of being pitched a game (”We’re going to do a dungeon crawl through the deadly halls of Undermountain”), during character creation, and the like. If this opener to the section sounds familiar, it's because I copy-pasted it from my last class article and there's nothing you can do to stop me. In the specific case of Cleric, the elephant in the room you need to explicitly talk about and not just assume shit about is the sort of relationship you're looking to develop between your character and their god(s) and, y'know, any themes or ideas about spirituality that you explicitly would like to see included or, conversely, very much need to not see included. We're gonna get into it more in the religion section later but man it truly does fucking blow chunks if you're looking to have, say, a serious exploration of your character's faith and its relationship to society, but the rest of your group is on some Reddit Atheist shit, right? Hell, it's not even pleasant if you unexpectedly end up doing the inverse. In addition to this, if you're looking to explore ethical or doctrinal dilemmas (i.e. if you're really into the idea of playing a Cleric of Eldath as a dedicated pacifist, or dig into the conflicts that might arise between the Orders of Denier who preserve knowledge vs. some kinda magical infohazard), this is the time to say it and chew it over with your group. And again, as long as everyone's having fun and not hurting someone else any way you play it is fine - a kick-in-the-door style campaign is a perfectly fun campaign to have. The point is to set expectations up front, not to like, ensure that the group is playing in the one ordained way to play. Which is bold words considering how many times in this article up to this point I've deadass accused people of playing wrong, but I do mean it. I contain multitudes.

One Day, A Tortoise Will Learn To Fly - Making Your Cleric

The Pratchett quotes will continue until morale improves.

Once you and your group have communicated your expectations to each other, it’s finally time to start sketching out your concept! There are many ways to do this, though the two primary schools are mechanics-first and narrative-first. That is to say, opening up with something like "Using the Knowledge Domain to pick up proficiencies on the fly sounds fun to me," works out great, as does opening up with something like, "My Cleric learned her ex-wife was literally a goddess about three weeks ago and is having a wild one about it." However, this article is about to be long enough already without me trying to write a mechanical guide to 5e Cleric, let alone any other Cleric, so we're gonna focus on the narrative approach. If you need a mechanical guide, I promise you that the player base of whatever edition you're into has made several and that the author of each one has some kind of passionate beef with the authors of all of the others. Consider the following questions for your Cleric:

Why Did You Become A Cleric? To be a Cleric is to be of the chosen many; inherently, you're gonna be a bit weird. That weirdness may be because of the conflict between your perceived social station vs. who you are as a person (to wit, people might expect a Cleric of Oghma in the Forgotten Realms to be a stuffy scholar and be surprised when he shows up to strongman competitions or turns out to be one of the Sword Coast's most prolific authors of erotica), but in all honesty odds are much higher that you're a freak. Incredible divine power doesn't erase the bit where adventuring is not a career one takes up because one's life is going well. That said, just because you're a chosen one doesn't mean you didn't also get to choose. Did your Cleric pursue Clerichood for some reason, and if so, why seek that power? If they didn't seek it out on purpose, how do they feel about this change in their relationship to divinity and the burgeoning power within them? This is where you can get both characterization and plot hooks; a Cleric forged when she swore herself to the Red Knight in a desperate attempt to defend her farm from bandits is a very different beast from one who sought power and station from Bahamut so they could enact reforms in their society. Look for connections to the game world and reasons to care about it.

How Did You Learn? There's some obvious things to answer here - your Cleric learned how to wear up to Medium armor, the proper use of shields, and basic combat techniques - but the more interesting question to dig into is your spells. D&D has actually had many different schools of thought here, some of them co-existing or competing with each other. D&D 5e, as mentioned above, breaks on the idea that a higher-level Cleric is a holier Cleric, and that their casting is an almost intuitive process of seeking intercession or requesting miracles in advance in case they need them. Many people play their Clerics this way, but here I will once again climb atop my mountain of old-ass lore and offer an alternative: divine spellcasting as a skill you actually have to learn and practice. In this school of thought, a higher level Cleric is a more practiced and powerful Cleric, and is intrinsically attractive to "rival" deities not simply because they are a great champion of their own but because they are a potent resource. For those in the audience wondering how this makes any fucking sense, I will point out, gently, that this idea is actually still prevalent in Japanese media and its White Mage archetypes, as well as in popular videogames like Elden Ring. These Clerics learn spells from somewhere, and the "somewhere" has a broad variety of answers; they unlock the secrets of their rites through cryptotheology, they experience divine revelation, their god teaches them personally, they're mentored by more experienced Clerics. Indeed, Ms. Jester Lavorre of Critical Role fame engages on her divine casting in this mode, often expressing that the Traveler has been telling her about new spells or teaching them to her personally, and while this is set up as something suspicious about the Traveler in her story it's actually a quite storied idea of Being A Cleric with deep roots in many D&D settings. Regardless of your choice here, though, consider this next question:

How Do You Relate To Your Power? This is another arena with a lot of unquestioned ideas that do not necessarily like, relate to how Clerics have been historically or even what they could be if we took only 5e as gospel. In most cases, people take a very Protestant slant to their Cleric; their spells and powers are divine gifts which can and should be revoked at the whim of their god, who is in turn a being of higher morality who intrinsically knows better. And like, I'ma get into this in the religion section here in a bit, but this is a wild idea when you actually look at the gods in question, let alone when you remember that to be a Cleric is to build a relationship with one's deity. Pious service as thought of by Christians is a way to relate to your deity, sure, and there's even some hanging around that are into it (Torm, f'rinstance), but like, Waukeen would find such a relationship distasteful, would say to such a cleric, "Girl, you're selling yourself short." So put some real thought into this, and you may come to surprising answers for your Cleric. Do they see their divine power as bringing forth the holiness intrinsic to the world? As an outflowing of their own passions and obsessions? Could your Cleric read as a grim cynic to others because they view their spells as not fundamentally different from arcane magic, and caution sternly that power is power regardless of source? Are they gifts from the world of wonder and horror, which anyone could use if they knew the right way of seeing? Your Cleric's abilities are not like a second layer on top of their personality, they're part and parcel of who they are as a person; give it consideration.

What Are Your Values? Hear me out; this seems like an obvious question, something every character should ask, but here I'm going to introduce an argument that I'll elaborate on later - gods in D&D are, essentially, worldviews. And while the worldview embodied by your Cleric's god(s) is obviously the one most important to them - they did become a wholeass Cleric about it - D&D has some specific-ass gods. A Cleric of like, Azuth (god of spells, patron of wizards) is not getting a party line about a whole lot of basic ethics and kinda has to figure that shit out for himself. So ask yourself not just who your Cleric believes in, but what, and how this might relate to their faith or grow from who they are as a person. A Cleric who is the fourth child of a noble house (kicked out to a life of adventure because they ain't inheriting shit) may well have opinions about noblesse oblige, politics, and power that have absolutely nothing to do with their chosen god; likewise, D&D has a rich tradition of Clerics of fairly evil gods such as Auril, Loviatar, or Umberlee who are out here selling the wonders those dark powers have on offer because they genuinely believe in helping people or, you know, have Standards, the thing professionals are supposed to have. A frontier Cleric may well have opinions, for better or worse (traditionally worse, D&D has a long history of being friendly to empire) about the colonial project they're a part of, or a Cleric up from the Underdark might be spending her free time in academic knife fights defending the beauty and splendor of her home's ecology. Your Cleric is a real person in a real reality, not an extension of her god; that's the kind of thing that gives a person some fucking opinions, no?

What's Your Relationship To Your God(s) Like? And in a related story, this point! Unless something really odd is going on, your Cleric is not a divine being free from mortal needs or the burdens of history; it therefore follows that she is not about to be a perfect incarnation of her god(s) ideals. That's, y'know, the neat bonus you get for having an afterlife. Let's leave alone for a moment that there is a pretty strong possibility that your Cleric is so uneducated and/or fucking stupid that they don't know the textual dogma of their own faith (though please, do not forget this, it's one of the funniest things about Cleric); the ideals of that faith, and of their god in particular, are something they are probably growing into. This really should not be a controversial take, not after Critical Role blew the fuck up with the likes of Caduceus Clay and his spiritual journey in the name of the Wildmother, but you might be surprised. It is, genuinely, okay if your Cleric is kinda bad at following their god(s) in some ways! Maybe even many ways! A dwarf Cleric who's out adventuring instead of at home using their magic to help their clan is already failing at least one major ideal of the dwarven pantheon, for instance. Clerics and even priests of Sune Firehair (goddess of art and beauty, a chaotic and capricious foe of evil whose mantle is the splendor of the living world) have a partly-deserved reputation as shallow hedonists who reify existing beauty standards; the entire faith of Lathander has a serial inquisition problem that they haven't stopped having an ongoing civil war about since the fucking Dawn Cataclysm. So how does your Cleric see the divine ideals to which they are meant to aspire? Is their deity their teacher and guide? A stern master to be obeyed? A distant and dazzling figure almost disconnected from matters of dogma in the Cleric's mind? Their literal actual lover? There can be many answers here, and while I don't want to downplay the delicious angst of a well-done "I'm a bad worshipper of my god and I'm guilty about it" arc...well, the signal-to-noise ratio there is real bad, let's say. More on this in a later section.

Hobbies? Pick some. I really should not have to be saying this and honestly it's a dependent consideration with the whole 'what are your values' thing but if I see one more Cleric whose entire life and job is religious service with no interests outside of it I'm going to drop the moon on Europe and whatever happens will happen. Fucksake, this isn't even a 'many D&D players are culturally Christian' thing, this is just lazy writing and historical illiteracy. Did you think all those monasteries and temples in like, Redwall and such making beer or growing crops was just the authors having a fuckin' laugh? Come on.

Playing With The Big Boys Now - Cleric Aesthetics

You may be remembering this section as where the Paladin article talked a bit about refluffing. This is...sort of like that. As one of D&D's full casters, Cleric is deep in its particular idiosyncrasies, and using the Cleric kit to make a non-Cleric thing, while possible, is still going to have a...a particular shape, let's call it. If, for instance, your setting doesn't have any separation of arcane and divine magic & "clerics" are just a different school of magical study, you're probably fine. If you're trying to do a fully technological setting where "spells" are high-tech gadgets, you're gonna run into a bigger set of problems much faster. All of that said, though, there's still quite a bit to talk about in terms of bringing out unique flavor for your Cleric, some of which are habits that the 5e player base has already rushed ahead to hold up as good practice and others which are rarely thought explicitly about. I do hope you came ready to learn about obscure TTRPG audience drama that has never wholly died out. Let's start with the easy one first, shall we?

Spell Aesthetics - I'll not lie to you, I should probably be angrier about this topic but the convoluted history of the player base's relationship to "what do your spells look like?" is too fascinating for me to really build up the fury it deserves. There has been, indeed, in some senses still is a shockingly vitriolic argument within D&D circles about whether or not all spells of the same name look the same, and while I am vastly simplifying the two perspectives generally break down into "they need to look the same so that they are identifiable for balance reasons" vs. "having your own personal brand is sick as hell". The latter has traditionally won by default in terms of the overall body of D&D's work, especially in the spaces defined by the novel-writing, though the influence of CRPGs like Neverwinter Nights who break on the side of spells looking the same for everyone (for obvious reasons) shouldn't be downplayed. D&D 3.5 had a Feat for this that makes your spells a little harder for people to recognize via the Spellcraft skill but mostly just gives you absolute reign to customize the look of your casting; Pathfinder, by contrast, doesn't want you customizing jack shit (and indeed late in its run also edited Silent Spell and Still Spell so that your casting of spells is still detectable to the naked eye, cowards that they are). That said, and to the surprise of absolutely fucking nobody, I break very strongly on the side of "having your own personal brand is sick as hell", as do many of the major works of modern 5e, here to very much include Critical Role but also many other actual plays such as Dice Shame or Planet Arcana.

So, what goes into deciding what your spells are like? First things first, the mechanics; an aesthetic that doesn't do what the spell does, or have the components the spell uses, is right out. It's one thing if your group handwaves certain ideas for ease of play or because they don't interest y'all (see here the common practice of replacing expensive material components with just subtracting the gold from your sheet when you cast), but like, your guiding bolt fires Something that requires an attack roll, it deals Radiant damage, and it causes some kind of light that clings to an opponent. Verbal components, mechanically, must be spoken in a clear voice. Somatic components...exist. To be perfectly honest no one has had a clear idea of what Somatic components are ever aside from a vague idea that they require your hands (this is mechanically explicit in 4e & 5e) and even then there's exceptions, dishonorable shout-out to the scene in War of the Spider Queen where a wizard casts with his fucking feet. Notable here is that casters in 3.5 through 5e can replace non-expensive material components with a focus/implement/character feat, such as a staff, orb, wand, crystal, or in the case of Clerics, their holy symbol; these implements are touched, invoked, involved in the somatic components, or otherwise pretty obvious. The next bit of this is gonna be all about selecting your own aesthetics but I do want to reiterate first something I have said before and will continue saying over and over and over and over and over and over and over again: in any conflict between the narrative and the mechanics, the mechanics win by default. This is because they are the tools with which you actually engage with the game world. When your Cleric of Umberlee casts flame strike, there is some manner of dealing Fire damage involved. Maybe it's boiling sea water, maybe you hit a motherfucker with an underwater volcano, maybe you just go "the classic burning column of fire is fine", but you can't bitch slap people with that spell and then say it's actually the cold ocean depths. Alright? Alright.

So when you're looking at "what do my spells look like" there's three places I like to interrogate. The first and most obvious is, what's the deal with my god? This can be a pretty broad thing to look at; gods are worldviews, and those can be interpreted very differently. Not to return to a super famous example here or anything, but when your friend and mine Caduceus Clay (Critical Role) has spiritual guardians that look like swarms of beetles and manifests his damage spells as aspects of decay, another Cleric of the Wildmother may well lean into vines and trees, or their guiding bolt might appear as hurling a whole-ass rhino at your face that then explodes into light. Here, then, we roll into the second question: what domain is your Cleric? This is the aspect of your god or your faith that you're the closest to, which is dearest to your heart, and will therefore manifest in the act of spellcasting - which in turn is derived from your relationship with the divine. A War Domain Cleric of say, Eilistraee, may well emphasize the martial prowess of that goddess in their spells, manifesting spiritual armor, blades of moonlight, mighty shields, numinous warriors, while a Twilight Domain Cleric of the same goddess is gonna be all in on the moon and stars, the sky at night, crescents, and the like.

Lastly there's the physical action of spellcasting to consider, and here I would like to hasten to point something out. While it is common practice to simply use one's holy symbol as a divine focus, it is not required. Many faiths on Earth have holy symbols or something cognate to them, but there are also many that do not, and for those looking to explore a faith in a D&D god which doesn't practice that sorta thing Clerics are, like all casters, perfectly empowered to use a Component Pouch and cast spells in a more formal, ritualistic fashion than the typical image of calling out to one's god and seemingly producing a miracle without actually casting a spell (but more on this in a bit). Is your Cleric a student of divine magic, going through carefully-practiced forms? Are they intuiting their way through spellcasting, a razor's width away from being something like a Sorcerer? An almost saintly figure, whose spells appear for all the world as miracles (and if they are how do you square that with the dumb plans the average adventuring party engages with)? Do they speak their spells in a booming voice, announcing the presence of the divine? Are the rites they chant almost business-like, a concession to the needs of the casting but perhaps not seen as properly holy or reverent? What language are you casting in? Give it some thought.

Turn Undead & Other Features - Surprise bitches, there's old-ass lore about this too. While all Clerics can Turn Undead no matter how little sense it makes (look my in my lich eyes: what the fuck does Azuth care about undead?) and this is for Doylist reasons of legacy design, how they've gone about doing so and why have multiple interpretations. Way back in AD&D 2e this was something you were encouraged to think about and design for your cleric (see: The Complete Cleric's Handbook & The Complete Paladin's Handbook), both in terms of the physical action and what the power looks like. The classic wave-of-radiating-force look, displayed in Baldur's Gate 3 and used extensively in Critical Role, is indeed an old one with a lot of pedigree, associated with Clerics of sun deities such as Pelor or Lathander, but also with militant deities like the Red Knight, Bahamut, or even Wee Jas (it might seem weird that the goddess of necromancy is out here sponsoring Turn Undead but for the Ruby Lady specifically it's less 'begone, unnatural horrors' and more 'behold, my eviction notice'). Going with this has traditionally been some kind of plainly-spoken invocation or prayer; 'disperse and dispel', 'back to dust', 'return to sleep', that sorta thing.

However, this is far from the only possible look or interpretation. Indeed, popular these days is simply lifting one's holy symbol and calling upon one's god, which I have some objections to - it's not appropriate for every god, and it's also just kinda unoriginal - but is perfectly serviceable. Turn Undead as a sort of spell, with obscure incantations or formal rites for gods like Azuth (here making one's Turn Undead similar to dispel magic rather than any intrinsic divine abhorrence) could fit your Cleric, as could Turn Undead as a power move where you assert your god's greater authority over the undying (excellent for many non-nature Evil-aligned gods, and hilarious for gods like Loviatar). Likewise, Turning or destroying the undead can and should be flavored by your god and Domain; a Cleric of Chauntea that Turns Undead may well terrify them with the reminder of the grave, the bounty of the earth that will grow from their stolen bones, while a Cleric of Mystra simply unbinds the magic that holds them together (and, again, the eternally hilarious Clerics of Loviatar manifest the power of their goddess to beat the shit out of the undead). One move might even be to say your Cleric of a god who doesn't give a shit about the undead is actually drawing on another god from their pantheon who does; the aforementioned Cleric of Azuth is actually invoking his vassal, Velsharoon, who has authority over necromancy.

When it comes to one's Domain powers, you kinda live and die by your brand here. Every Tempest Cleric in 5e is gonna have the exact same fucking power list, so if you're not making your Tempest Cleric of Umberlee different from a Tempest Cleric of Gruumsh what the fuck are you even doing. While the way your god interprets these themes is obviously important - your character chose to follow them for a reason, after all - perhaps more important is the way your Cleric relates to them. A Chaotic Neutral Cleric of Umberlee who has a love of the terrible beauty of the sea conjures storms of sublime awe, like something out of a Gothic novel, while a more traditional Chaotic Evil one may well lean on storms as instruments of vengeance and punishment, sharing in her goddess's petty malice. When your War Domain Cleric takes that attack as a bonus action, is he seizing a moment, or drawing on berserk rage? What kind of Light or Life do you have? The opportunities are here y'all, seize 'em.

Radiant and Necrotic Damage - These are relatively young as far as D&D goes, and while they have bones in with earlier kinds of damage they're actually a bit thematically confused. Just to give you an idea here, Radiant damage is dealt by guiding bolt, the Light Domain power, ACTUAL FUCKING LASER RIFLES, and also flame strike. It has replaced instances of "this damage derives from pure divine power and cannot be resisted", Positive Energy damage, and also just fire damage for some fuckass reason. So when your Cleric is dealing Radiant damage, something all Clerics do, what is it? Nearly any of the above is a potential option, though I'll admit that I'm a sucker for the Positive Energy damage where you give living beings super-cancer that devours them in moments and/or unbind and dispel undead. Complicating this is that in the 5e paradigm, Radiant and Necrotic damage are both associated heavily with divine classes, and have nearly equal claim to holy power.

Which brings us to Necrotic damage, which is dealt by inflict wounds, as well as spells like blight, and also associated with Evil Clerics via spiritual guardians and similar spells. This one is derived from Negative Energy damage historically - that is, pure entropic power, not just death but "stop", "cease", "still", "silence" - but this is not always the case, and it very definitely has been used in 5e to represent things like blood drain, soul drain, pure unholy power, and also flaying someone alive. Similar considerations to Radiant damage apply, but they apply especially when you're out here casting Necrotic blasts when you, say, worship a nature or life god. What exactly are you doing? Why is it you're doing it that way? How is this, too, a miracle?

I May Have Started Worshiping Umberlee Because The Priestesses Are Hot - Clerics & Alignment

So here's the thing. As I mentioned above in the 69 page long context section, Clerics have had Falling mechanics for awhile, even if they have been consistently downplayed or ignored in comparison to Paladin. There's also been a very long time in which Clerics were required to be close to their god(s) in alignment, and there's something to be said there; how can one build up a deep and intimate relationship with a divinity that you have nothing in common with? But there are many groups that don't want to fuck with alignment (I'm gonna do that alignment article one of these days and on that day I will die), settings where alignment and worship are less connected (see: Eberron), and of course in 5e these ideas are no longer formally connected in that fashion, with alignment requirements being removed. Hell, books like Xanathar's Guide to Everything and Tasha's Cauldron of Everything introduce some wild-ass ideas on the random fucking tables like "your Cleric has an ongoing relationship with an imp she doesn't fuckin' like". That seems pretty functional, so, why am I talking about it? Glad you asked: I'm an ancient-ass lich and a bit of an alignment apologist, and also this is my article and I'll infodump about alignment bullshit if I want to.

Now to make a proper run at this I'd really need to actually do that alignment article, so I'm gonna ask you instead to journey with me to an imaginary land where everyone is engaging on alignment in good faith and understands two foundational principles that the modern zeitgeist has kinda left behind; the first being that alignments are broad categories that describe beliefs which have things in common, and the second being that any given one of the nine alignments has room for many, many variations on those beliefs. Not to put like too fine a point on it but just as one f'rinstance there are no less than three different Outer Planes you can point to and say "this is Lawful Good" and each and every one of those three separate dimensions of Lawful Goodness contains its own internal array of differing beliefs and expressions of what it means to be Lawful Good. And in that sense, your Cleric's god is going to be a worldview that is included in their alignment, but is not necessarily, often, or even ever a generative force for that alignment. Evenhanded Tyr is not a fount of Lawful Goodness from which mortal beings drink to become more holy; he has a worldview, beliefs, and dogmas which one can describe as being Lawful Good, and he/his church seeks to teach them. Likewise Umberlee, the famous Bitch Queen, is not Chaotic Evil in the sense of 'overthrow all governments' but in the sense that the sea recognizes no master, is sovereign in itself, and will not be denied; that she is friendlier to Chaotic worshipers comes down to a sort of mutual comfort and expectation. A Chaotic person might not like that her goddess is a divinely infamous bitch, but she like, gets it, y'know?

So when it comes to your Cleric and alignment, there's an easy ask: what is it about their faith that attracted them to it, and in what ways are they aligned with that faith & in what ways are they lacking, opposed, or still have things to learn? The gods of D&D are stranger and wilder things than people give them credit for, to be sure, but the thing is that being a perfect embodiment of your god(s)'s worldview is one of those neat bonuses you get for being a dead person, not something people generally pull off while yet living. And, not to leave this bit on the table, not all or even most of those conflicts are necessarily what one might call a dealbreaker. It can be something as simple and doesn't-need-to-be-solved as like, a follower of Azuth spending time running for political office (a Lawful/Lawful disconnect; Azuth doesn't really give much of a shit about mortal law), something profoundly wrong but understandable (a follower of Oghma who passionately hates certain kinds of literature or poetry; Oghma is the god of all language and written art), or even really major which can form the core of an arc where either the character or god has to give (Shadowheart in Baldur's Gate 3 goes through this, but for the one person on Earth who hasn't played yet a different example might be a worshiper of Bahamut who ended up joining the colonial invasion of Chult, directly angering his god because he has failed to understand some fundamental fucking lessons here).

All of this is a lot of words to re-argue a previous point; your Cleric is not a sovereign being, capable of acting without reference to the real reality or by pure ideal alone. They have baggage, they have community, they have or had a family, they have beliefs shaped by being a real thing in a real reality. Look at the ways these aligned beliefs both touch and conflict with their church, their god, or both, and you will find a bounty of characterization and plot hooks. Keep in mind as well that the gods of D&D are fallible beings; they are students of their own ideals as much as they are teachers of such, and there are, indeed, perfectly usable hooks to be found there as well. Your Cleric is not a saint or a savior, usually; they are a student and teacher of divinity who seeks to understand it, and going on that journey together with one's god is something that has been lost in the current paradigm of the D&D audience being friendly to fucking Reddit atheism.

Call It A Girlfriend Class One More Time Motherfucker - Common Cleric Pitfalls

I'm not bitter, you're bitter.

D&D is a snake devouring itself, and like many such ongoing communities and fandoms it therefore has a lot of cultural baggage which is, how do you say, completely disconnected from objective fucking reality. This section covers some common pitfalls people walk into when making and playing Clerics. If some of these end up sounding like personal callouts...dunno what to tell you. Examine your shit.

Healbot.exe - Yeah we're starting off with the big one. Look me in my eyes. Look me directly in my fucking lich eyes. Clerics are not healers. No one in D&D is a primary healer. There have been exactly two effective primary healers in all of D&D history; the first is the Vitalist, a Psionic class published by Dreamscarred Press as part of a third-party supplement for Pathfinder 1e, and the second is Life Domain Cleric in 5e. That's it. End of list in all of history. "But what about -" no. I promise you, whatever you're thinking of is not a primary healer in the fashion you think it is. This is an ancient misconception, rooting all the way back to when only divine-type classes could heal (Cleric, Druid, Paladin, Ranger), but even back in that day healing was valued more highly than its actual effectiveness; the archetype of a videogame healer, someone like Mercy in Overwatch who can turn the tide by keeping vital people alive long enough to make big plays, that has never been part of D&D - at least not before players have access to the spell heal, which radically flips the math by itself. Much like the question of alignment, I do not have the page space or the fucking game theory degree to give this topic the attention it truly deserves, but the very short version is that PC hit points are very low, damage is quite high, and healing doesn't solve either of those problems. When you burn your action, Bahamut fucking forbid your one spell per round, on a heal what you have done is a few things: failed to advance the combat towards a conclusion, failed to meaningfully mitigate damage, burned a spell slot that could have done one of those first two, and quite possibly put yourself out of tactical position. There are cases where a heal is the right call - the spell heal as mentioned already, or in 5e getting someone to stop making Death Saves - but in general if your options are healing or doing literally anything else, pick literally anything else. Am I coming at this very strongly? Yes, but the thing is that the perception of Clerics as being "healbots", expected to memorize primarily healing spells and cast the same, has been an equally ancient and infamous perceived drawback to playing Clerics; indeed, there was a time when tables would offer incentives to someone for playing the Cleric because "someone has to be the healer" and nobody wanted to be. Does that sound like a fun experience to you? Is that the future you want to keep having? No? Good, STOP FUCKING HEALING.

Now, I said I don't have the game theory degree to unpack this, and I don't, but that was aggro as hell so I do owe a bit of an explanation. Healing being bad in D&D comes down to a few incentives, some of which I just mentioned above, but there's another big one - the only hit point that matters is your last one. Your PC, and indeed NPCs/monsters, are just as effective at 1 hit point as they are at 100 as they are at one thousand as they are at one million. Meanwhile, especially in 5e towards which this article has a significant bias, average NPC/monster damage is more than double that of an on-level heal until, again, heal; therefore, a cure wounds or healing word for someone who isn't unconscious has, at best, bought them half a turn of being alive, and given that the real swing is much larger than actual average damage the odds that you get that half a turn - pathetic in and of itself - are not in your favor. Your party does not need to be healthy, only alive; this, then, is why you only start healing once they stop being alive. Area-of-effect heals like mass cure wounds change this math a bit especially in response to area-of-effect damage which is typically lower than single-target damage, but here I will finally hold to my repeated statements that I lack the education to unpack this; if a mathematician wants to compare a devil's fireball to mass cure wounds in the notes here, please, be my guest, genuinely.

Zealotry - Welcome to the Cleric version of "stop making your paladin a cop", which readers may remember from the Paladin article. Here I need to cut a fine line; the average D&D player likely has a pretty strong idea of a particular kind of person when I say "zealot", and that kind of person is the scum of the Earth. And, indeed, while masterful roleplaying and acting might make running a fanatical missionary interesting for your play group, this is a common failure mode and I do not fucking encourage it unless you're really sure that you are, in fact, the god-king of Big Dick Mountain. However, this mode of like, the Baptist preacher is a very narrow and specific kind of zealotry and passionate belief, and I am here to make the argument that a good Cleric is, indeed, a zealot on some level, at least in part because odds are good that you, person reading this article, are yourself a zealot on some topic or other! The esteemed Kendrick Lamar, for instance, is a zealot of hip-hop. I am a zealot of old D&D lore. Ed Greenwood, praise fucking be, is a zealot of anthropological worldbuilding. To be a Cleric, one of the chosen many, is to have a deep and passionate connection to the ideals of your god; it is to care about those ideals, and to learn them further, to be a student and teacher of them, to be a disciple and practitioner of them, and that indeed is a kind of zealotry that has nothing to do with trying to convert people or oppress them (usually). Kill the part of you/your Cleric that cringes; if you're running a Cleric of like, Sune Firehair, right, pour in your passionate opinions about art and beauty and love. Go on rants about proper trade and taxes when you're running a Cleric of Waukeen. Get fuckin' homoerotic about the ocean with your Cleric of Umberlee. When your Cleric is moved to share their wisdom with others, look for ways in which these lessons are relevant to their lives, and commit to the fuckin' bit. These are the things which are, definitionally, most important to your Cleric, closest to their heart. By all means, act like it, yeah?

Slapfights And Other Bad Ideas - Way back in 1e, D&D described Cleric as a secondary weapon-user, competent to fight in melee but lesser than Warrior-group classes. This is a lie. This has always been a lie. 5e furthers this lie with the Divine Strike class feature, but the thing is that while you are not technically doing nothing by making a weapon attack you really are not doing much and should be looking into doing literally anything else; if you're not casting, you're doing it wrong. There are going to be levels in which Divine Strike edges out a Cantrip, but ultimately you are not a weapon user and should not be acting like one. Going further here, the sanctioned action for Cleric is to bump your Wisdom as fast and hard as you can, because it controls all the Cleric things you do. Here I again return to my statement that in any fight between mechanics and narrative, the mechanics win by default because they are how you engage with the game world. Once you eat your vegetables, then you can go off doing wild shit like taking strange Feats. If you need to see this in action, look no further than the oft-cited Ms. Jester Lavorre of Critical Role fame (Campaign 2, The Mighty Nein).

St. Dipshit the Illiterate - Man I hope you're ready for a third version of this joke when the inevitable Druid article happens. Like with the Paladin article, this isn't so much a pitfall as it is a for-your-consideration; Intelligence has long been a real easy dump for Clerics, and that's gonna shape how they move through the world. While D&D 5.5 (the 2024 releases) went some distance here by giving Clerics the ability to add Wisdom to their information-style checks, for every other Cleric you have someone who is very attuned and attentive to the living world (high Perception, Insight, and Survival), but very bad at formal learning, academic study, and the like. Does your Cleric compensate for this by seeking aid when they need that kind of intellectual rigor? Taking more time (that is, making more rolls) so they can correct for their own shortcomings? Do they embrace the intuitive knowledge they can gain via their Wisdom-based skills rather than attempting to record or examine? Of course, I should not leave this on the table either; as of 5e, Charisma is also an extremely easy an attractive dump stat, and since CLERICS ARE NOT PRIESTS exploring a low-Charisma Cleric who can only really show her troth through works rather than words could be quite interesting, should you be inclined.

The People In The Important Pajamas - "Cleric" NPCs

Again, if anyone can track that webcomic down my life is yours.

You may remember this section from the paladin article and be wondering what the scare quotes are about. Following through with my argument that Clerics aren't priests, some of the potential NPC roles I'm about to outline aren't Clerics, strictly speaking, but would have been Clerics back in 2e (when they could be priests) or 3.PF (when everyone was in fucking denial). Our first entry is going to cover a concept that you could pillage for worldbuilding purposes, and then the rest are potential Cleric roles. Ready set GO!

Adepts (Revenge Of The Old Lore) - Introduced by this name back in D&D 3.0 and rarely used by Dungeon Masters or, if we're being honest, the game writers, Adepts were an NPC-only class back when PCs and NPCs were built using similar rules. Sorta like a Cleric, and sorta like a Druid, and sorta like a Wizard, but absolutely dog shit at all three of them, an Adept is the spellcaster who is worse than other spellcasters at everything; that is, they're meant to suck shit, but can be competent to, say, buy a remove curse from, to manufacture magical potions, to help enchant divine-type magical items, and the like. Notably, being an Adept means you're not part of the chosen many - this was the class associated with people who put in the work to learn divine magic the hard way, or who for one reason or another could not commune with their god in a manner that might be more associated with a Cleric. As little use as it saw, this is a concept that could use some bringing forward - many, many D&D settings, here to include Greyhawk, the Forgotten Realms, and Eberron, blithely assume that these services are on offer, and indeed that in a big enough city you might even be able to buy raise dead or stronger magic. You know who sells that but isn't qualified to be the kind of freak an adventurer is? Adepts!

Retiree - Of course, sometimes Clerics do survive being adventurers, often "intact" for a given value of that (having regeneration in-house saves you a fortune on prosthetic limbs). This kind of Cleric-as-NPC are going to be famous figures, perhaps thrust into positions of spiritual or communal responsibility they might not be equal to; after all, Clerics aren't priests. Make an NPC a lot like a Cleric, turn them middle-aged or old, call it a day. Someone like this may have taught a PC Cleric, especially if they caught said PC early on and intervened to try and ensure this youngblood doesn't die screaming between learning the difference between "my god is with me" and "I'm invulnerable."

Rival - As a PC Cleric gets more powerful and starts, you know, slaying fucking dragons and shit, the strength of their legend may well give their word weight on dogma, doctrine, and ethics. Someone more happy with the status quo of their faith, or someone with a differing vision, these can be great Cleric NPCs, rife with potential for social conflict and always able to be tapped for an epic caster-on-caster showdown. Your goal here is to make someone who could be a player character, they just aren't; bring in passionate ideals, think through their reasons for supporting the vision of faith they do, and, oh yeah, don't forget the weird pile of magic items endemic to all adventurers.

Cackling Villain - Did you know Clerics have been either the best or second-best necromancers in D&D for nearly every edition? They're third-place in 5e, behind Necromancer Wizards and Oathbreaker Paladins, a first-time event for them, but quite literally every Cleric of 5th level or higher can wake up in the morning, decide to raise an army of the dead, and then do that. They can just do that! Even outside of strict necromancy Clerics have that combination of zeal, competence, perceptiveness, and, let us not forget, terrifying magic that can make them excellent setpiece villains or even non-villainous antagonists. Your party thinks a wizard is behind this bullshit? They're gonna wish it was a wizard.

Religion In D&D Part 1 - Context Part II: Revenge Of The Context

Do I need to break this up into two headlines? Strictly, no. However, this thing is already a fucking doorstopper, I might as well give a place where people can pause.

So remember, eighty years ago, way back at the top of the article, when I said this was going to be an angrier article than the last one? Despite writing that warning myself I have, during the course of this, been shocked at how salty and aggressive I've gotten about things thus far, and this is coming from someone who knows he has anger issues in the first place. I genuinely did not realize the depths of passionate opinions I have on offer about Cleric. However, that warning was for these next two sections, as I'm very, acutely aware of my beef here, my deep well of bitterness, and my years of confused rage that have become a kind of formless hate for the way the discussion on fantasy religion across the genre, but especially in D&D, has been discussed. Y'all got a lifelong atheist out here about to tell you that you're being harsh and reductive about religion as like, a concept, and to make matters worse the behavior of the D&D audience in general has been such that I am now in a position where I need to do apologetics for known genocide enthusiast Gary fucking Gygax. Do you have the slightest idea how little that pleases me?

So let's start this off right. A lot of folks operate on incomplete, incorrect, or just plain nonexistent ideas of what faith has, historically, looked like in various D&D settings, so I'ma play the hits here and then we're gonna get into the next section where I make some suggestions. Alright? Alright.

Greyhawk: Weirdly Coherent - Commonly and incorrectly hailed as the first D&D setting (rest in peace Blackmoor & Dave Arneson), Greyhawk (known in-universe as Oerth) was written primarily by Gary Gygax, though shaped heavily by his home games and the players thereof. Now, I'm not gonna veer into a hit piece on Gygax (and even if I wanted to better ones already exist), but notable in the context of his writing on fantasy religion is that Gary Gygax was a fanboy for the Crusades, but also a massive (and half-educated, poorly researched) fanboy for ancient Celtic legend. Some of the oddities for this strange mix have already been mentioned, such as how the original Cleric is based on Crusader priests and the modern Cleric is still feeling that influence, but this - alongside growing up very culturally Christian in, you know, the United States of America - was also very much influential on how Gygax would come to write his fantasy faiths and also run up on his own limits with the same.

Faith in Greyhawk is polytheism as brought to you by someone who almost sort of understands the idea of polytheism. Genuinely, Gygax made a good run at this and kinda tripped over his own shoelaces at the end...well, his own shoelaces and his unrelenting race essentialism, thanks for the racial pantheons buddy. Greyhawk is home to many faiths, which worship and/or fear and/or oppose multiple gods (for example, Erythnul is associated with the so-called New Faith of the Flaeness but is more of a demonic figure of evil than a god you are, socially, expected to 'worship'). For your average person, the buck stops here. While an individual god may have greater prominence in a given region for political, social, or mythological reasons (for example, the relative prominence of Boccob the Uncaring in the Free City of Greyhawk in no small part due to the influence of the legendary Cleric known as Riggby) and therefore have a grand temple or dedicated cults in their name, this isn't the norm everywhere. When the Church of St. Cuthbert of the Cudgel installs a building in your frontier village they're here on a mission, it's weird, and you should be worried. On a normal day, your average lay member performs acts of worship as part of their day-to-day life, calling upon the god(s) who are relevant to their endeavors to give thanks, to ask for blessings, to honor them, or to plead mercy. Clerics, in turn, while socially conflated with the more specific cults are often pantheistic Clerics, drawing upon many gods as representatives of the overall faith. Dogmas are typically a little light on details when it comes to the afterlife, in part because the idea of an unearthly reward for one's faith is often seen as a little distasteful, and in part because going to the afterlife of a particular god is actually pretty rare on Greyhawk. Your average person is drawn to the Outer Plane that most aligns with their worldview, and goes on their spiritual journey in the hereafter without reference to a particular god.

Which is where we get to the weird shoelace tripping, because you only get an afterlife related to your faith if you've developed an intimate and intense relationship with one god in particular. When this relationship has become a defining, perhaps the defining part of your life (whether or not you're a divine caster), then you go to that god's afterlife when you die. The typical case here is someone with a deep passion for work that falls under the purview of a god, such as a master thief ending up with Olidammara, or a mountain man passing into the dominion of Elhonna. Clerics, though rarer, are prime candidates for this sort of afterlife, but also like...the fuck were you on, Gygax? Admittedly not all faiths in the real world particularly concern themselves with the hereafter or claim to have answers about what it might be like or what it entails, and in that sense Gygax's Planar afterlives as soft mysteries and a sort of default state aren't entirely out there - it's the strange dash of monotheism at the end that gets me. And, not to leave this unsaid, Gygax is not a particularly good fantasy anthropologist, so sometimes he just. Wrote shit. That he perhaps should not have written if he wanted to retain the chunk of his dignity that he lost by publishing it. I'd say to do a shot every time he writes something weird about women as gods or women in faith but you'd get through one book and be dead already.

Forgotten Realms: The Original Sin - Ed Greenwood you are this hobby's cool grandpa and also mine and I'm so sorry that I need to put you on fucking blast here. I can only hope that you've heard all this already; it's been being bitched about for twenty years, after all.

Statistically the first D&D setting that you personally have encountered, the Forgotten Realms (the continent of Faerun on the planet Toril, in-universe) was originally written by Ed Greenwood and has been contributed to by a list of other authors entirely too long for me to cite without dying of starvation at this keyboard. Most commonly known for its gonzo locations, intricate worldbuilding, and being absolutely riddled with famous high-level NPCs engaged in high-level bullshit with one another and the world at large (a status encouraged by the staggering array of novels and videogames set in it), the Forgotten Realms is also infamous in the audience for requiring that people worship a god that is their closest and most favored god and to be true to that god or face punishment in the afterlife. Those who are False to their faith face an eternity of civil service in the City of the Dead, while the Faithless end up mortared into the Wall of the Faithless to suffer until eventually becoming one with the Fugue Plane. It's very easy to point the finger at Ed Greenwood's Catholic faith when it comes to these worldbuilding elements, and while I'm certain that has something to do with the state of affairs I need you to take a walk with me.

The Forgotten Realms is a land of miracles and wonders. It is lousy with gods; indeed, if you ever go look up a full list (do NOT fucking use the FR Wiki) you may well spit your drink at the screen. Faerun is home to gods native to the world, interlopers from other Primes, gods from human cultures that ended up here when their faithful were kidnapped across the Planes (here to include gods from Ireland, Egypt, and Finland, raise your hand if this sentence is how you learned that there are gods native to Finland), alien horrors from beyond the stars, Planar luminaries, ascended mortals, and more. These gods gather into pantheons, though to be frank that relationship is often quite uh, feudal, or familial. Trying to claim the gods of someone else's pantheon don't exist or are lesser than your own god on Faerun is a real fast ticket to getting your ass beat by said gods while your own gently asks what you've learned from this experience. Among other things, though, this means that "converting" within your own faith basically isn't conversion; if you grew up in a family of Chauntea worshipers and you get real into Mielikki this event, socially, is fucking nothing, it's a non-event. It might be a different story if you turned around and started worshiping Mystra, but even then that question is very much mediated by one's culture and geography; converting even far outside one's current or native faith is a non-event in, say, Waterdeep, but it might be a little more surprising in Neverwinter.

Here's the thing: the Forgotten Realms does not experience a separation of "religious life" from "normal life". This is gonna be a hard idea for my American readers in particular to grasp, but while Jane Average Realmswoman has a single patron deity and she is trying to emulate that god's example as much as possible, it is perfectly normal for her to pray to other gods, ask for their favor, and interact with their worshipers, and this is in no small part because they are inescapably bound with Jane's everyday life. The local cults of Azuth and/or Mystra bankroll the parchment makers who print the novels Jane reads (because parchment is required for scrolls, and both churches are also in heavy on magical industries), the fishermen who catch the food she buys offer fearful worship to Umberlee who is both their provider and their destroyer, the faithful of Sylvanus, Chauntea, or Eldath maintain the city parks and fight tooth and nail to keep them wild. When she feels lost in her life and needs guidance, the temples of Selune are open at all hours of the day and night and are the closest thing the Realm has seen to A. therapists and B. benevolent therapists. The weird BDSM club she goes to every now and again opens every party with a hymn to Loviatar. The Temple of Illmater doesn't run a fucking bake sale once a month vaguely for poor people in general, they go forth amongst the downtrodden and help them every god damn day, offering food and potable water, healing, healing again, healing a third time it's a bit of a theme, a listening ear, and campaigning for their interests in the political arena. Jane herself is a worshiper of, oh, let's say Deneir, she runs a bookstore and dedicates herself to the Goddess of Libraries; she goes to the temple of Deneir for copies of their holy texts to give away to those who ask, to verify rare tomes or donate them for the public good, and for those rites which are held in the temple, but when she went and got married a few years back she and her wife were joined in the temple of Sune Firehair, goddess of love. These gods and the organizations they run have been part of Jane's community since that community was founded, and each advances something in the living world that they see as holy and worth having; they are entwined, active, earnest. You've gotta be chill about people worshiping another god or being part of another faith entirely or your social life is going to just fucking explode.

This, then, is the full and glorious flower of Ed Greenwood's zealous dedication to anthropological worldbuilding, and unfortunately it has been sorta softly hidden and scraped under by years of corporate writing. Back in AD&D 2e, the books Faiths & Avatars and Powers & Pantheons went in deep on this subject, digging on all levels into how these religions practice and their role in everyday life, but from 3.0 onward this theme has seen less importance alongside a plethora of other writers who did not understand the vision, not that I'm looking at any RA SALVATORE YOU FUCKING HACK in particular. The end result is that the average player for 20+ years has been introduced to the part of faith in the Forgotten Realms that is deeply weird monolatry, and has reacted to that vision, but been denied the full view of a strange but very functional polytheism whose bones are still in the setting. That vision of strange monolatry is also one that other settings have been copying for a dog's age, here to include our next subject, Pathfinder. Strap in, I am going to say a lot of things and none of them are kind.

Golarion: World Holy War - Originally written by James Jacobs and contributed to by a plethora of freelancers and internal staff members at Paizo, Golarion is a shallow theme park of a setting characterized by incuriosity, disinterest in the human condition, incompetent homages to other, better settings, and thoughtless, distinctly American sympathy for empire. Like with many things James Jacobs claims to love but refuses to understand, Golarion's model of divinity is very much based on what people think the Forgotten Realms model is, and even in the context of that already-corrupt shadow, Golarion's is much worse. Much of the worldbuilding around divinity and cosmology is utilitarian; for instance, Mr. Jacobs is on record stating that gods on Golarion empower Clerics and other champions because direct miraculous intervention would set off a chain of mutually assured destruction that would leave no mortal life behind. Other bits are clearly more personal; as a key for-instance here, gods on Golarion are generative forces for alignment. That is, a god defines what it is to be, say, Lawful Good or Chaotic Neutral, and to defy a god is to have your alignment changed (see: Wrath of the Righteous). It is for this reason that the churches of Golarion concern themselves to an extreme extent with orthodoxy ("right thought", contrast orthopraxy, "right action"). Sharp-eyed readers may be recalling that I talked about paladins in Golarion being expected to root out heresy; this situation is also why every god on Golarion supposedly maintains Inquisitors, as seen prior in this article. Further, these literal thought police deploy spells like castigate which punish and humiliate victims, primarily those of one's own faith, into confessing their "sins", which, while we're right here, how did the literal god damn Catholic remember that not every faith has sins or engages with the idea of sin and James Jacobs fucking couldn't pull that shit off?

Churches on Golarion do not have broad faiths that include multiple gods. Any given god may have divine friends, allies, or slaves, but ultimately the churches they run all have missionary work & attempted conversion in common. There was a good chunk of time in which Sarenrae, goddess of redemption, was running a fucking slave empire into swordpoint conversions, and only as of Pathfinder 2e has that been being fixed at all, in no small part because, again, James Jacobs does not understand the things he claims to love and dug his heels in when readers told him to his fucking face that this was a bad look. Likewise, these churches are separated from "normal" life quite a bit, being a place where one walks to in order to get one's worship on before returning to the rest of one's life, a particularly Protestant model of worship reproduced so thoughtlessly that I'm shocked Mr. Jacobs didn't achieve a state of no-mind and escape Samsara. Sometimes they sponsor religious organizations such as knightly orders or wizard colleges but these are exceptions, not the rule, and even then "oh hey the Hellknights are coming to town" isn't exactly a day to day kind of fuckin' event, is it? Mechanics like Obediences attempt to walk this back, but the thing about requiring you to spend resources to get mechanical benefits from worshiping your god is that you've turned around and made this a strange thing. Praying and honoring, say, Shelyn every day is no longer something you just do, it's something weird freaks do and they get divine power from doing it. There is no escaping the blade of the ludonarrative; mechanics win all conflicts because they influence the actual game world.

Now, while I sincerely hope my complete contempt for James Jacobs has come across here, I do have an obligation to be evenhanded. Pathfinder 2e has walked some of this back, but the root problems remain. The second edition of Golarion has, for example, removed Alignment entirely, which certainly solves one problem, but it also replaced castigate with crisis of faith, a Cleric spell designed to kill other Clerics by making them doubt their gods. Likewise, Pathfinder 2e has been mum on certain cosmological revelations from late in Pathfinder 1e, one of which being the idea that only one god will survive the end of the universe and they get to be the supreme god of the next one, which is given as the motivation for them being so far up on the nuts of getting converts. This idea is, to me, completely repulsive, but it's also just such a revealing take on what Paizo thinks gods are and what they think of faith. And unfortunately, the broad zeitgeist of the current D&D audience is very sympathetic to that idea, which brings us to:

Religion In D&D Part 2 - I Cannot Believe I Of All Fucking People Have To Tell You To Stop Being Such A Cynic

Man the little icon on the scroll bar is gettin' real fuckin' small at this point. This will be the last major set of arguments for the article; following this section will be one sample Cleric for every Domain published in 5.0 (5.5, released in 2024, is a bit young for me to bother just yet), so just stay with me here y'all. It's been a long, angry, bitter journey, and yet there is this final hill to die on.

So, what's this broad zeitgeist I was just talking about? To be frank, it's a combination of thoughtless American Protestantism and some r/atheism bullshit. As the audience for D&D has gotten more left-leaning and queer, in no small part due to the wild successes of shows like Critical Role and Dimension 20 (and WotC's weak, half-done, and yet unambiguously open support for including queer players, players of color, and others traditionally gated out of D&D), there has been a...conflation, shall we call it, of the fictional religions in various D&D settings with, not to put too fine a point on it, real-world Evangelicals and others who perpetuate harm in the name of faith. And, y'know, I get it. I'm a whole-ass bi dude from the edge of the Bible Belt, I used to get fuckin' jumped every other day or so, I lived in Kansas for six mother fucking years, I get it. But uh, remember when I said I'm a bit of a zealot for the old lore? Remember my consistent theme in articles of not liking it when things with great potential are left on the table because there is an Approved Way to view them? Yeah. So. Let's talk. We're gonna lay out some arguments and some suggestions.

Everything Old Is New Again - "But Vox," the strawman who teleported into this sentence is saying, "you yourself have said that the stuff you're into is old! Surely there needs to be an accounting for the changes in play culture, let alone real-world culture?" And like yeah, sure, but here's the thing: edgy-ass immature atheism (I say, as an edgy atheist) is also old as hell in D&D. Like, old-old. Late-game AD&D 1e old. Older-than-me old. Now, D&D's first serious and nuanced internal conversation about the nature of divinity and its role in mortal lives was part of Planescape, whose bones remain in all modern settings to this day (even Exandria, primarily written by Matthew "I Am In Every Videogame, Yes, Even That One" Mercer), but like a lot of settings it was very...inconsistently brought forward during 3.X, leading to the loss of a lot of its strangeness, its philosophy, and even its earnest willingness to simply be cringe but free. Though this was by no means confined to Planescape, as many writers of D&D novels were extremely willing to question the utility, motives, or even divinity of the gods - here to include Paul Kidd (author of the novelizations for White Plume Mountain, Descent Into The Depths Of The Earth, and Queen of the Demonweb Pits), who I usually claim as my gold standard for D&D novelizations but whose attitude here is, quite frankly, embarrassing in its confident thoughtlessness and cynicism. The ideas that gods are super-predators, that they are a class of abusers, that they are false idols, that they cannot claim divinity because they are limited/can be killed, these ideas are, statistically, likely to be older than you are. Better writers than you have been fumbling this since before you learned how to read.

Jesus Christ Is An Outlier And Should Not Be Counted - So here's the thing. The idea that a god needs to be a transcendent being, with attributes that render them sovereign from the living world, removed from time and supreme in all senses? That's just Christianity. If you go talk to like, a rabbi, an imam, if you can have a frank conversation with a Hellenic pagan or a Zoroastrian or a follower of Voudoun, they'll offer quite different perspectives, often a number of different ones from within their own faiths. There are more conceptions of what it is to be divine, to be a god and to worship gods, than there are cultures that have believed in gods, and to be frank the best advice I have for you here is to go outside and touch grass. Then, take some of the grass with you and have some fascinating & frank conversations with anyone who is not Christian. Even Gary Gygax, fanboy of the literal fucking Crusades, tried to handle his shit here and got more than nowhere in terms of success. When you insist that the gods of D&D need to be like the god of Christianity, you are both limiting yourself creatively and engaging on a great deal of art in bad faith, bringing with you your own baggage which you are failing to question. These conversations are gonna be difficult! You're going to feel ignorant; you may try the patience of the people you're seeking to learn from. But to learn is an unalloyed good, and here I am speaking of far more than the hypothetical benefit it's going to bring to your Cleric in your happy elfgame time.

The Lord Is God Of Both Good And Evil - Surprise bitches it's a second alignment section. First tings first, I want to repeat again that gods in D&D are not generative forces of virtue; rather, they are worldviews. This changes if you're playing Pathfinder, but if you are playing Pathfinder, stop immediately. And this argument can seem like I'm splitting hairs, but it changes the game quite a bit; a lot of players and readers wonder why, say, Liira isn't out here trying to solve all of the world's problems, but that is not Liira's fucking job, y'know? Her job is to be the goddess of joy, the pure light and laughter of seeing the world of wonder, to be god of delights and surprises, and it's not exactly fair to ask her to be something else. If your character is a Liiran and you have some concerns about, I dunno, the homelessness problem in Waterdeep, that's on you to work towards.

Broadly, though, there is a problem in the fanbase that was laid out excellently in The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, written by the esteemed Ursula K. Le Guin; people find it very easy to assume that if something is described as good, as benevolent, as truly kind and compassionate and full of wonder, there has to be some kind of catch. There is a hidden evil, there is a dark cost, there is an ulterior motive. And like, look, the gods of D&D are fallible beings, they make mistakes, but the thing is that when D&D tells you a god is Good, it like...means it. Does the writing always bear this up? No. The writing is often friendly to things that are in fact bad. But even figures like Bahamut or Tyr, infamous for their associations with fantasy cops, they're trying to be the gods of like, Sam Vimes, not the gods of police brutality. Likewise gods are not the primary drivers of the battle between good and evil - they are prosecuting their worldviews, and those worldviews relate to a Prime Material Plane that is of both wonder and horror, that is full of the creations of many gods and even many mortals. It is the law of the living world that wasps lay their eggs in living things, but so too is it the law that the land is bountiful, that a shocking number of alien beings would love you to pet them, that the sunrise after a storm is uncommonly beautiful and glorious.

As far as evil gods go, let me link my article there again so I can expand on it. Broadly, evil gods in D&D can be thought of as part of two camps; Greenwoodian evil, and Dickensonian evil (shout-out to my close friend and priestess - don't question it - the Celt for this framework). Greenwoodian evils are parts of nature, unrelentingly bound to the living world, who are gods over things that are terrible but necessary. Talona (goddess of plagues), Umberlee (goddess of the sea), Auril (goddess of winter), Loviatar (goddess of suffering), these are Greenwoodian evils, and if you're noticing that most of these are women, well, Ed Greenwood seems constitutionally incapable of writing a woman who is not, at worst, both glorious and terrible, and this is a compliment. Now, Greenwood has gods that don't fit this conception - look no further than Bane, god of tyranny - but the great joke at the expense of these gods is that they are not, contrary to their own belief, sovereign from the living world, they are not above it, removed from it. They are, instead, bent, defeated, broken, and beaten down until they service the natural order, and each time they attempt to shatter the cage the world of wonder has woven around them they lose some part of themselves in the process.

Now, Dickensonian evil is named for the works of Seth Dickenson, which concerns itself with the Sword Logic, the logic of empire. The argument it makes is that reliance on others makes you vulnerable, and only through becoming a sovereign being can you be safe and complete; the ideal being, in the conception of Dickensonian evil, interacts with others not at all, or, if it must, interacts with them only to consume them for resources. Bane is a Dickensonian evil, as are Bhaal, Myrkul, Gruumsh, Hextor, and the like, and the thing about the Sword Logic is that it is persuasive, powerful, and wrong. However, while it is ultimately self-defeating, the harm done to real people in the meantime is an incalculable tragedy, and thus it needs to be opposed at all times. As edgy bastards say constantly: you can't let God do all the work. This style of evil appeals to people who are, themselves, cruel, ruthless, and inclined towards consumption, but it also appeals to people who are hurt, who have been betrayed, whom the world has let down, and in that sense there is quite a lot to explore here. The ordinary person does not give in to the logic of empire without cause.

For gods of both good and of evil, the question at the root of it all is this: why do people willingly worship them? What worldview is on offer, and why are you sympathetic to that worldview? What would it mean to change, adopt, or oppose that worldview? If you take nothing else from this section, take that and ponder it.

Death Is For The Dead - Going with the above, holy fucking hell y'all the cosmology is not as important as you think it is. There is a vast emphasis placed by the player base upon the afterlife, one which sometimes bleed into the writing (in Starfinder, published by Paizo, "choosing your own afterlife" is seen as the ultimate expression of religious freedom) but you know what most people know about the afterlife? Nothing useful! Jane Average Realmswoman knows that she will in some way be with her goddess when she's dead and that it'll probably be pretty cool and that's about it, and as far as these things go Jane is correct. People tend to react with shock and horror when they learn for the first time that the usual spiritual journey someone goes on in the afterlife will end with them becoming one with the Plane and/or god they're associated with, and to an extent I have some sympathy for this. Lifelong atheist, remember, the idea of "losing myself" to become part of something greater sounds terrifying...but is that what's fucking happening? If one is to experience an afterlife, that is, a form of life, one must be able to change. There is no escape from eventually changing so much that you would be unrecognizable as the living person you once were, and for those who want to try we have undeath on offer (except we don't, undead also experience those sorts of changes and as a result there is truly no escape from being a real thing in the real reality). And in this cynicism for the afterlife people miss the forest for the trees. When you end up, say, in the divine realm of Oghma and are filing books in his infinite library, Oghma isn't using your soul for slave labor here. You're a newly dead person who needs time to acclimate to not having the needs of the living, and moreover you're a newly dead person whose greatest, most ardent passion was language, poetry, prose, nonfiction, the glory of writing in all its flower, and now you have unlimited access to such, an endless opportunity to truly understand and grow closer to this thing that was so important to you. I'm not saying not to involve cosmological themes or to not take adventures to divine realms, don't mistake me, but...maybe try to open your mind to the idea that this thing which is supposed to be good and natural is, in fact, good and natural.

Gods & You - This is more or less re-stating some arguments from above, but put some thought into the churches and faiths your character has a relationship with. Are they part of a broader faith? Is such a faith big where they live, and what does that mean for them? What sorts of interactions and opinions, right or wrong, do they have with the local religions and why? It doesn't have to be anything huge, but the faithful are, again, inescapable. People's lives in these settings are religious, and that faith infuses their day-to-day; so too does it infuse your character's. And while I'm right here, having beef with those faiths and/or the gods behind them? Legit. Not just legit, but on the table to be consummated; there is a long and strong tradition in D&D of killing gods with your own two hands, and while gods can be hard to keep dead (look at Bane), killing them always means something. Maybe you can take their place and try your hand at being a better god than they were. Maybe you're just trying to stop their evil schemes. Maybe they slept with your mom and you take some exception to this. Whatever it is, these sorts of conflicts both have bones in with real-world religion and a storied history in D&D itself, and they shouldn't be considered outside the scope of your ambition if you really wanna go for it.

Y'all, it's been a journey. If you've made it this far thank you for reading, and as always I remain open to feedback and criticism. Please don't let the incredible length of this piece or my unrelenting, undying fucking rage intimidate you; I wouldn't be making articles like this if I wasn't trying to have a legitimate dialogue with my audience, y'know? Now, I have one last bit for you. In an effort to be helpful, to fucking flex with my writing, and as a little treat, the following section will present some example Clerics. All but one (Matthias Winters) are from the Forgotten Realms. If you make the egregious mistake of looking up the Forgotten Realms wiki, it will tell you that Matthias's god is an aspect of Velsharoon; this is incorrect, and the first person to try to tell me otherwise will be turned into a bowl of spaghetti and served up at a high school dance. This is the one thing I will be entertaining no arguments about. That said, please feel free to take these characters as inspiration, mine them for ideas, or even just to play them yourself if you're inclined to indulge my staggering arrogance in such a fashion.

One last note; you will notice that I have often disregarded the Domains associated with various gods in the books. This is in no small part because WotC did those assignments with incredible, mind-blowing fucking incompetence, and also because a great deal of their former Domains or Spheres no longer have adequate representation. I have chosen to ignore them on purpose and with malice aforethought.

Now, without further ado, may I present:

The Chosen Many - Sample Clerics

Our sample Clerics will be formatted as follows:

[NAME]

Species Domain Cleric [Background]

General pitch of their concept & plot hooks

Personality Traits: [HERE] / Ideals: [HERE] / Bonds: [HERE] / Flaws: [HERE]

Matthias Winters

Human Death Cleric [Guild Artisan]

Mattie was only an apprentice when the monsters came to his village, ravening things set loose by an unwise summoner. People he knew died, until the Shrouded Lady came and destroyed the beasts with a dark and divine grace he had never before encountered. This Lady did not ask for money, and she did not ask for favors, but of the proud and simple people of the village she did ask two things: to let others know that they had a friend in the lich-god Mellifleur, Friend of Heroes, and for Matthias's services as her apprentice. Both were granted, with many tearful goodbyes and promises to write, which have been, it must be said, kept. It's a strange life, working as a Cleric to the Lord of the Last Shroud. Matthias isn't terribly educated, no, but he's no fool: he knows his god is evil, far more vile and underhanded than Matthias himself would ever want to be. And yet, "Friend of Heroes" seems to be no empty title. Matthias is sent on odd errands all across the land, all of them ominous and to some nebulous good. Go here, says the Shrouded Lady, and warn the town that a drow raid is coming; go there, and deliver these potions to the Moonstone Four, who will have need of them. Matthias has guarded caravans, healed the sick, slain the wicked, and placed far more magical items into chests within crumbling ruins than he ever thought plausible. During less pressing times, his work as a smith still sees use, crafting items of unusual make and odd, threatening beauty for more powerful spellcasters to enchant. One day, the Shrouded Lady has promised, his training will be advanced enough to create his own.

Mellifleur is evil. Matthias knows this. But does it matter so much, if Matthias is still helping? Does the promise of lichdom for himself really matter, if he can do more right by the world with all that time? He thinks about this, between hammer strokes, and he has no answer yet.

Personality Traits: "I tend to work when I need to think." & "I ask people what they think of death." & "I eat big and hearty; quality is a distant consideration." / Ideals: "If you've helped others, the method shouldn't matter [Neutral]." & "Professionals have standards [Lawful]." / Bonds: "I might uh, be in love with the Shrouded Lady." & "I seek a lost artifact of Mellifleur that can divine the plots of other evil gods." / Flaws: "When I don't know what to do, I take the first order I'm given that sounds right." & "There is no kill like overkill."

Elrissa Morrowmoon

Drow War Cleric [Soldier]

Born on the surface as the first generation of her family to be so born, Elrissa was raised in a community devoted to Eilistraee, actively involved in shepherding escapees from Lolth's dominions. She grew up idolizing the warrior-priests of her goddess, their grace and confidence, their surety, but never felt that for herself; big for a drow, hell, big even in comparison to a human, she despaired at ever achieving her dreams of becoming one of Eilistraee's paladins, even as she trained every day with gritted teeth and tearful eyes. When her community was found and raided in an attempt to capture the escapees as sacrifices to Lolth, Elrissa lost her father, and the very next night she stormed into the sacred grove and screamed her demand for vengeance up to her goddess.

She was answered.

In a sick way, Elrissa feels sometimes it might have been better if she wasn't. Now she's a holy warrior, now she knows she has the favor of her goddess and none can deny it, but she's still the plodding, clonking, clanging thing she was before, hunting the faithful of Lolth in her plate armor like an army of pots and pans. She lacks subtlety; she lacks grace. But while Elrissa is still in some ways the little girl who was never good enough in her own eyes, watch her change when the innocent are threatened, or when the priests of the Spider Queen are within striking distance. She does not leave survivors. She will not heed surrenders. She is coming, in a tide of moonlight and hateful sorrow, until no brick stands atop another.

Personality Traits: "I am very earnest and forthright." & "I get easily distracted by nature." & "I maintain my own equipment; no one else gets to." / Ideals: "People get better when they're offered love and support [Good]." & "For drow to have a future, Lolth must die [Neutral]." / Bonds: "I will find the ones who killed my father and repay them in kind." & "Sacred groves, even those of other gods, are worthy of my protection." / Flaws: "My hatred of Lolth can blind me to practical realities." & "Alcohol isn't a problem, it's a solution."

Gemma Rivergard

Half-Elf Forge Cleric [Noble]

Gemma acquired her vocation the way she gets most things: she bought it. As the fourth child of the noble Rivergards, who make their money in trade, her life was always a bit of a loose end. On a dare, she walked into a temple of Waukeen, laid out a spread of gems and gold and art pieces from the family vault, and announced her intention to purchase the exalted station of Cleric. She was as surprised as everyone else when the Goddess of Coins agreed.

Gemma is still a bit of a loose end. Waukeen blessed her with the power to make the goods her family merely trades, and much more besides, but lacking a specific holy mission she's taken to traveling, and it's broadened her horizons. One walk down a poorly maintained road might lead to a quest to cull the monsters threatening it, or politics with a greedy lord who has forgotten the value of commerce. She's set predatory contracts to rights, fought to the death against slaver rings, and purchased a truly concerning amount of amateur art from various goblins. And yet while she's happy with her growth as a person, Gemma still feels like she's lacking a purpose. Surely she can't purchase that.

…Surely not?

Personality Traits: "Is this some kind of peasant joke I'm too rich to understand?" & "You not understanding if I'm joking kinda is the joke." & "That really updated my journal." / Ideals: "To broaden one's horizons is to improve oneself [Good]." & "Every man has his price. That's not always a bad thing [Neutral]." / Bonds: "I haven't left my family! I'm still looking out for them." & "I still keep up with the goblin artists I've bought paintings from. I'm kinda their patron." / Flaws: "You bet I can't? Hold my beer." & "I forget sometimes that my experiences aren't universal."

Neela Wagonborn

Halfling Trickery Cleric [Haunted One]

So, here's the thing. This isn't Neela. Neela is not here at the moment, and you can't leave a message. Neela, you see, was captured by a Thayan looking to build a better Mirror of Opposition, and the wizard's experiment spit out Aleen, the Lawful Evil reflection of the original Neela, who had spent her life to date as a Cleric of Liira, Goddess of Joy. The mirror's enchantment, normally used to compel the summoned copy to kill the original, did not do this to Aleen, who was swiftly captured herself, brutally experimented upon, and then turned loose with the promise that her "creator" would be watching.

She's been hiding for all her life is worth, posing as Neela and playing a nerve-shredding game of balancing distance from Neela's loved ones with staying close enough to not arouse suspicion. Who knows if she'd survive getting killed in this Faerun, which is so unlike the one she knows? Praise be to the gods both above and below, though, Aleen here has an excuse: she's been receiving revelations from Liira, which are guiding her on a quest whose objective is unclear to her, but which has enabled her to become more powerful as a Cleric. If she's tricked the Lady of Illusions…well, that speaks well of her odds, right?

Liira has not been tricked. This journey of self-discovery into the world of beauty and wonder is about to be the funniest prank the Lady of Mists has pulled in fucking centuries.

Personality Traits: "The road calls! Immediately!" & "I remember those who wrong me." & "I have a weakness for musicians." / Ideals: "A deal is a deal [Lawful]." & "Everyone else is looking out for themselves first. Why should I be better? [Evil]." / Bonds: "That Thayan needs to die. Screaming." & "No one can find out who I am. No one." / Flaws: "I'm a good liar, but not as good as I think I am." & "My cruel streak can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory."

Fila Firetouched

High Elf Tempest Cleric [Entertainer]

Descended from a long line of Waterdhavian elves, Fila broke with family tradition by converting to the worship of Sune Firehair, goddess of beauty and patron of the arts. During their more youthful years they lived down to the stereotypes of the many lay members, producing a frankly embarrassing catalogue of love poetry, ex-lovers, and amateur paintings, but after the loss of their sibling to a sea storm their art took a rather more gloomy and Gothic direction. Storms and landscapes featured heavily, and with their newfound focus Fila was praised as an artist to watch, with a keen eye for the sublime. Their parents and community did their best to support Fila, but they were determined to process their grief in their own way, seeking to capture the "true heart of the storm", which they feared, hated, and also loved.

It was atop a hill in the Dessarin Valley, during a savage spring storm, that Fila was struck by lightning while trying to paint. They died in an instant of eternal agony, but it was not to be their end. Rather than claim Fila's soul, Sune Firehair offered them the chance to return, to continue their art and seek out others whose beauty was hidden by the cruelties of the world. Fila accepted, and returned to a body branded by the storm and crackling with divine power.

The plate armor is still taking some getting used to, as are the odd glances and awkward greetings from the church, but the storm, oh, the storm…

It feels like an old friend now, beautiful and terrible. It's all too happy to help with Fila's work.

Personality Traits: "Hold a moment, I need to sketch this for later." & "There is a party person in me that comes out sometimes." & "The amateur poetry will continue until morale improves." / Ideals: "The world is good, the world is beautiful, the world is worth fighting for [Good]." & "If you don't challenge norms and expectations, people will never examine them [Chaotic]." / Bonds: "I don't always get on with my family, but I'd still do anything for them." & "I haven't forgotten any of my ex-lovers; they can ask a lot more of me than I care to admit." / Flaws: "My resurrection was a miracle, but sometimes when people say my scars are a curse it still feels like they're right." & "I may be a little too excited about my newfound powers of violence."

Nattie Kells

Human Order Cleric [Hermit]

Nattie's family likes to say she was born morose; a depressed and somber child, she never quite got on with the people of her river town, and made few friends, not even during her wild years of late adolescence when she carved her way through every interested lass available only to seemingly lose her passion. Oh, yes, people tried to help, but the things they found meaning in just didn't quite resonate with Nattie, and she dabbled with this church and that career and suchlike before, inevitably, dropping them in favor of her only seemingly eternal passion: reading. Eventually she scraped some money together to go traveling, looking for anything that could speak to her, and she found a long-abandoned shrine to Jergal, the Last Scribe, assistant to Kelemvor and Lord of the End of Everything. It wasn't meaning, not exactly, but the idea that all would be ash one day, that meaning was not required, it had a comfort to it.

She was 23 when Jergal came to her in her dreams and requested her services, which would necessitate a return to lands where other people dwelled. Nattie awoke to find a pile of equipment near her, along with a holy symbol, and she set off, learning the ways of divine magic in her dreams as she made the long and pointless trek back to "civilization". Now, as the Quill of the Last Scribe, Nattie enacts what she thinks of as fate. A charm spell here, a nudge there, and things happen; a man meets his future husband by taking a road he would have walked past, a goblin scout is devoured by an owlbear he would have avoided, a horse spooks and kills its rider. Nattie has hurt people. She has saved people. She tells herself it doesn't matter, but beneath the layers of lassitude and nameless sorrow there is an uncertainty. What is she becoming?

This, too, is Jergal's design. Nattie is determined to live in misery, but the Last Scribe can wait for her to realize better. He can always wait.

Personality Traits: "Ugh. People." & "Primary sources motherfuckers! Write some! Keep them safe!" & "Nobody talk about the kind of person I am around furry animals. I mean it." / Ideals: "It means something, that you were here, and that you were alive [Good]." & "People return to dust eventually. It doesn't matter if they return to dust faster [Evil]." / Bonds: "My lonely home in the shrine is sacred to me." & "The bookstore I used to go to as a child was nearly going out of business, but as long as I keep spending adventuring money there it will never die." / Flaws: "I don't really have any bad feelings about people dying. People die all the time. They're very good at it." & "I wish I felt more blessed by the attention of my god, but he's such an aggravating little bitch. Why's he gotta be so annoying?"

Dagill Tapper

Shield Dwarf Knowledge Cleric [Background]

The son of miners, Dagill quickly proved to have a keen interest in learning, if little talent for academia. For much of his youth he found employment running books for the clan's mines, until - on the advice of the local priests of Moradin - he was sent to Neverwinter to be educated in magic, as the gift was in him and his home had little resources to explore it. Wizardry did not work out for Dagill, despite his passion for the Art, but that passion saw him into the worship of Azuth, God of Spells, and eventually he was chosen as a Cleric.

Dagill's interests lie in the recording and advancement of magical knowledge, and his new faith keeps him busy. Between expeditions to recover lost knowledge and study traditions of spellcraft, he assists in scribing scrolls and seeks out potential mages in under-served populations. Though his clan doesn't approve of his conversion, he's still a dwarf's dwarf, with a deep love for the gods of his people, who returns home often and pays his dues in gold, labor, and knowledge for the good of his people. They'll come around eventually. They must.

Undiscussed with most is Dagill's dearest ambition: to find one of the lost scrolls penned by the very gods, and cast it with his own hands. What else could bring him closer to his new god?

Personality Traits: "Have you heard the good word about how great wizards are today?" & "Despite it all, I'm still a dwarf's dwarf in a lot of ways." & "I make a big deal out of Azuth. All the time! People should appreciate him more!" / Ideals: "The advancement of the Art is meant to help people [Good]." & "We have obligations to truth, and to history [Lawful]." / Bonds: "I still send money to my clan, and I should visit again soon. I might have an arranged marriage coming up." & "The wizard who tried to teach me is a good woman; I need to repay her kindness." / Flaws: "I have a bit of an inferiority complex about wizards." & "I am easily distracted by puzzles and riddles."

St. Nokta Kinslayer

Goblin Life Cleric [Outlander]

Honesty can change a life, you know. Nokta's warband came up against a pack of tall-folk adventurers, as goblin warbands sometimes do. She was a soldier, then, seemingly destined to be smeared beneath a mercenary boot, but when she was captured the adventurers said: talk, and we will let you live. She talked, of course she talked, Maglubiyet teaches survival at all costs, but her fellows found out, and intended to kill her along with the adventurers during an ambush.

The tall-folk fought like demons to save Nokta, because they had said she would live, and they meant it. Despite their best efforts she died, to an arrow in the throat, only to wake with the battle still raging, brought back to life by diamond and spell and the tall-folk shaman in his metal armor. Three times did Nokta die, and three times was she brought back, only to watch the tall-folk shaman take a blade to the heart. Gripped by something she couldn't name, Nokta raced over, and took his diamonds, and tried to speak his spell, fervently calling out for his strange tall-folk god to spare him.

Nokta was answered in the name of Illmater, the Lord on the Rack, god of mercy and of self-sacrifice, and has served him since. For dying and returning, her new church calls her Saint, but her people call her Kinslayer, and the Traitor Shaman, and more besides. There will be no peace, and though Nokta knows her suffering reduces that of the world, this cannot continue. If the Fire-Eyed God wants her head, there can only be one recourse: break his priests until the cost of war sickens Maglubiyet , and he accepts peace. Saint Nokta is unafraid, and she is unmerciful.

Personality Traits: "What, tall-folk - uh, I mean, yes, my child?" & "I don't hate vegetables, I love meat." & "The Tall God says His blessings are for all. For some reason." / Ideals: "Peace for peace, wrath for wrath [Neutral]." & "I don't understand the compassion I was shown, but I do treasure it [Good]." / Bonds: "The adventurers who fought for me have my service for the asking." & "I'll drop everything to fight the servants of the Fire-Eyed God." / Flaws: "I don't know what this 'love' is, and 'trust' is also still pretty difficult for me." & "My fears drive me to violence far more often than the Tall God likes."

Jelka Threebones

Orc Grave Cleric [Acolyte]

Jelka came to live amongst the Sky Pony tribe of the Uthgardt as a young adult, one of several political hostages exchanged between her own tribe and the Sky Pony as part of a peace agreement; with both in the shadow of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows, wise leaders on both sides sought to cool traditional conflicts between them in favor of looking to the greater threat to their mutual north, and Jelka was selected for her cool head, proud bearing, and great foresight for such a young orc. The story might have ended there, if the Cult of the Dragon hadn't moved into the area looking to pillage the spirit mounds and burial grounds of both tribes' warriors to secure a supply of corpses for their necromancies. Outraged at this desecration and disrespect, Jelka called upon Gruumsh and Tempus in the name of both her peoples for the power to revenge herself upon the defilers, and her prayers were answered.

Today, Jelka continues her campaign of revenge in the name of Gruumsh, hunting down those who raise the dead, defile graves, and bend the minds of warriors. Her list of enemies is long and only growing longer, and she is keenly aware that she is not yet mighty enough to face down the likes of dracoliches or, say, the entire sovereign nation of Thay. But she will be. She must be. Wrongs have been done, and she wades into battle chanting the litany of them in an endless roll of accusation and reprisal, screaming hateful hymns alongside her chosen allies. Her new mission has made for strange bedfellows, but for all her outward fury Jelka remains the curious and level-headed young orc she was when she was selected all those years ago. Perhaps there are other enemies she might make peace with, to gain the satisfaction of her almighty vengeance.

Personality Traits: "Raise a cup with me! We should celebrate!" & "I'm very curious about new cultures, sometimes to the point of being annoying." & "I love a good story." / Ideals: "The world will hit you hard. If you don't take revenge, all you'll get is hit again [Evil]." & "If you don't have the guts, you don't deserve the glory [Chaotic]." / Bonds: "My word of alliance, once given, is absolute." & "I have siblings in my first tribe who should be adults soon. If they need my help, they have it." / Flaws: "I never forget a sleight." & "I pick fights I can't win sometimes."

Kellard Frosthalt

Rock Gnome Nature Cleric [Folk Hero]

Kell should have been a druid. He knows it, his clan knows it, druids know it, there's even odds that mushrooms in Menzobarrenzen know it, but he's always had a deep phobia of shape-shifting, so for a long while he was content to study nature…academically. Sure, his papers were trite, but the man published and that's not nothing. When he was hired to catalog finds for an expedition into Netherese ruins, the team found an ancient shrine to the goddess now known as Chauntea, and beset by undead guardians. Unwilling to let the sacred place be defiled, Kell took up arms for the first time, and found himself blessed with power.

Now Kell spends his time in lost places, seeking revelation and tending to the needs of rural communities. His new position is intimidating. More than many other followers of the Lady of Waving Grain, he understands that his goddess is an ancient and persistent foe of evil. Only…can something better truly be grown from her foes? Is Kell ready?

Personality Traits: "I love nature! Let me tell you about this parasitic wasp!" & "I know it doesn't fit my station, but I just, I need to be dressed sharp, okay?" & "I tell jokes with a completely straight face." / Ideals: "There are no pointless things; all things of the world have a treasured place in it [Good]." & "Generosity is the highest virtue [Good]." / Bonds: "Fuck Netheril, fuck the Netherese, burn their ruins and salt the ashes." & "After that first fight in the ruins, a peasant family took me in. I owe them my life." / Flaws: "I have a deep and abiding phobia of having my body changed against my will." & "I never, ever, ever, shut the fuck up."

Dolly Bookchild

Half-Drow Peace Cleric [Investigator]

Most half elves lose their human parent first, but as the child of two adventurers Dolly wasn't exactly surprised when her drow mother bit the big one doing battle with a demon accidentally released from an ancient binding. Seeking to understand her loss, Dolly started spending time in the sacred libraries of Deneir, and eventually converted after falling in love with learning. Academia isn't exactly her strong suit, but Dolly has a lot of practical knowledge that isn't often written down in an accessible fashion. Her new church was proud to fund the publishing of Dolly's Practical Survival Guide.

Still, a new love of learning isn't closure, and Dolly yearned to be an adventurer like her parents. After her second book went off to the printers, she stayed up in vigil to ask Deneir for a cleric's power, vowing to use it to find and advance knowledge, and to protect the ignorant. Her wish was granted, and now she bears the peace of the library wherever she goes. Every day is a lovely day for learning.

Hopefully one of these lovely days Dolly will figure out that the demon isn't done with just her mother.

Personality Traits: "It's a beautiful day to learn something new, isn't it?" & "Ah, the great outdoors!" & "I skip when I'm happy. No really. No, really." / Ideals: "Knowledge belongs to everyone [Lawful]." & "Extend grace to the ignorant; they truly do not know better [Good]." / Bonds: "Dad's getting on in years. I need to make sure he isn't worrying about me when he passes." & "I still return to my temple pretty often; it feels more like home than home does." / Flaws: "Sometimes I forget that my fun adventures can have deadly consequences." & "I'm from the big city where my heritage isn't a big deal, so it's surprising every fucking time that it's a big deal elsewhere."

Jonas Cobbler

Aasimar Light Cleric [Urchin]

So here's the thing. Jonas had a bit of an odd childhood. Raised by a then-single mother who is a devout follower of Lathander, Jonas was maybe six, seven years old when he mentioned in his prayers that he's a boy and asked for some help being a boy because he knew Mommy worked very hard and didn't have a lot of money. His first direct experience with divinity was his god's gentle voice in his mind saying: yes, my child, your new dawn is upon you. He had some explaining to do the next morning, and his mother was happy for him and seemingly cross with Lathander, for some reason?

It wasn't until Jonas was about seventeen that he got answers to that particular mystery; he came home to find his mother, her partner, and a golden-haired stranger waiting up for him. His mother introduced the stranger as Jonas's father...

...Lathander.

Maybe running away from home in a bit of a panic was the wrong move, but uh. Jonas has at least one parent looking out for him now, right? It'll be fine. It'll be fine. It's all gonna be fine.

Personality Traits: "I am extremely food-motivated." & "Let me teach you my secret handshake!" & "Uh, I've got, a spell for this, uh - fuck - uh, in the name of the new dawn uh -" / Ideals: "You don't need a reason to help people [Good]." & "The best time to be a better person was yesterday. The second-best time is now [Good]." / Bonds: "My old friends mostly went off to real careers, but we still stay in touch." & "There's a hidden place in the old neighborhood that I take care of." / Flaws: "I cannot walk into church any more without thinking, holy shit this guy slept with my mom." & "I am embarassingly weak to a pretty face."

Freddie Wright

Human Twilight Cleric [Criminal]

Hailing from a family of Selunite wererats in Yartar, Freddie used to have a fairly exciting life spying on Zhentarim operations, right up until she blundered into a cell of Sharrans in the sewers. They pushed her into a portal to see what would happen, but not before somehow stripping her of her lycantheropy to ensure she would suffer and die. Freddie arrived in Undermountain with nothing but her faith, and in her time of need the Moonmaiden answered. Against all odds, Freddie survived, scrounging up equipment, learning the traps, and eventually staggering out of the Well into the Yawning Portal Inn. She still has nightmares, but Freddie is grateful every day that she's alive to have them.

Now the former wererat stalks the Sharrans up and down the Sword Coast, seeking the return of what was taken. She hates her heavy armor and despises being caged in one body, but despite her snappish ways she takes her duty as a guide very seriously. That's part of the problem, actually. The dead of the Underhalls haunt Freddie and beg her intercession so that they might move on, and with every ghost laid to rest her prey gets further away. But what's a girl to do, ignore them? No. Freddie has faith. This righteous path must, will, make her whole again.

Personality Traits: "Time is money, hurry it up." & "Sometimes I overcomplicate things because I'm biased against direct solutions." & "Hey that reminds me of something that happened in my family -" / Ideals: "If you give people what they need to grow, they become their best selves [Good]." & "No one else can walk your path for you [Chaotic]." / Bonds: "Yartar is still my favorite city, and I stop by to do good by it when I can." & "The dead of the Underhalls that follow me have none other to speak for them." / Flaws: "Do you have any idea how much this stupid monkey body pisses me off?" & "I've got a vengeful streak that is not uh, approved Selunite behavior."

[boss-the-goofball]

I'm going to repost the thread I made on BlueSky here under a read more, and people can send me asks about it (I will temporarily turn Anon back on, but if I get that same spammer again then I will turn Anon off again)

TFA Arranged Marriage AU - Sold for Temporary Peace

--

For a background, the Decepticons were able to gets their hands on the access codes for the Omega Sentinels during the war. Not from Ratchet or Arcee, but a different bot. They reversed engineered the codes and made their own Sentinels. So the war is now at a stalemate instead of an end.

For millions of years the battles continued and more Autobots got pulled into Boot Camp and the Elite Guard - Draft Dodgers were being rounded up and made to serve in some fashion. Prowl may have avoided being pulled into the war temporarily, but soon he would be pulled from Yoketron's school, but Prowl's story is for another day.

Instead we focus our attention on the Academy where a trio of bots snuck away to an Organic Planet, but only two returned. Sentinel thought they could get some valuable intel or even weaknesses on the Decepticons from that ship. Elita-1 also thought the same thing, while Optimus thought this was a bad idea. So when Optimus and Sentinel were the only ones to return, Optimus took the blame on his shoulders. But things go in a different direction as the war, which has been at a stalemate, suddenly takes a turn.

Suddenly the Decepticons have started to push forward and taken more territory from the Autobots, and Ultra Magnus realizes that at any moment Megatron could march onto Cybertron and take it for himself. What they need is a way to delay Megatron. They need to buy themselves time.

And then Ultra Magnus gets an idea. Instead of having Optimus expelled from the Academy, at least on record, he instead has Optimus given the rank of Prime and forged some paperwork to make it seem like he has led countless victorious battles against the Decepticons. Just enough to hopefully catch Megatron's attention, all so Ultra Magnus can make a proposal that will hopefully buy them some time. As he knows Megatron can and will take whatever he believes to be a valuable asset, or destroy it to stop it from being used by Autobots.

Once that is done and the details are leaked to the Decepticons, Ultra Magnus gives Megatron an offer. Temporarily cease his conquest in exchange for this extremely valuable Prime to take to use for whatever he desires. Even have him as a consort if he so desires.

Of course Megatron is suspicious at first, until he sees the real academic records from this Prime that's being offered to him. Even if the dates were fudged to make it seem like Optimus graduated a long time ago, he still recognizes talent where he sees it and agrees to the temporary ceasefire.

Ultra tells Optimus that he is to do everything he can to get close enough to Megatron to then put an end to him. Without Megatron at the head, the Decepticons should scatter and be easier to take down. He also says this is the only way Optimus can make up for what he did on Archa-7, and it is also the only way for Optimus to truly earn the title of "Prime" - and yet, Megatron is laughing internally during the negotiations because he sees it as Ultra Magnus throwing away a potentially valuable asset. So he might as well do what he can to convince Optimus of the truth.

That to Ultra Magnus and the Autobots, he is disposable. Someone who is sent to fulfill only one purpose and then be discarded the moment he is no longer useful. He hopes that with the help of this new asset, he can properly take Cybertron for himself and his Decepticons.

From there it is only a matter of time until the Decepticons return to their offensive and finally take Cybertron, and that is with the help of their lord's consort.

[charlottes-diary-entries]

HELLLOOO :) could I request a wolfstar x reader where there’s an upcoming exam that r is super stressed about and how the boys would help or comfort them? (This is indeed self indulgent bcuz I’m stressin for finals 😭)

oh my god darling, i'm aware this is two MILLION years late, but i fear i was ALSO stressin for finals :( i hope all of your exams went completely swimmingly and if they didn't then here is a little comfort for the start of your summer <3

"academic avalanche" poly!wolfstar x reader, very fluffy, mostly comfort

This was it. You'd considered it might come to this, but today seemed to make it official. You were now living, to eventually die, and then rot forever, beneath a wall of books in the library that completely obscured you from view. It was ridiculous. One gentle breeze and you'd be a victim of an academic avalanche.

As you once again desperately tried to cram information about the giant wars of the 19th century into your brain, tears began to slip down your cheeks. Hopelessly, you thumped your head against the horrid tome before you and let the tears fall. Hiccups and sobs also began to escape before you could stop them, and soon enough, you were trying as hard as you could to break down quietly as to not disturb the peace of the library.

They would write your name and death date on your gravestone, paired with the phrase, "Killed by History of Magic."

"Dovey?"

At the sound of a familiar, endlessly comforting voice, you wished you could pull yourself together and only fell apart more. A miserable moan left you from your place faceplanted in the evil textbook.

"Is that you tucked away there, darling?"

One of the shorter stacks was shoved aside before the voice cooed and you were suddenly shoved by an overly-aggressive hug. The voice chided your attacker with a quiet, "Sirius..." but was ultimately ignored as you were squeezed within an inch of your life.

"What have they done to you?" Sirius pulled you upright and gasped at the tears that still flowed down your face. "Scratch that, how did we let you hole up here like this?! Oh, dovey..."

You hiccupped through another sob as Sirius shushed you, pressing kiss after kiss all over your face in attempt to cheer you up.

"I think-" You began, "I think this exam is going to kill me. Actually kill me, I can't do this."

Remus perked up from where he had begun to deconstruct your cavern of books. "Alright dove, it's okay. Why don't we take a break, hm?"

This only served to upset you more as you moaned, flopping completely into Sirius's arms. Frustration only continued to bubble up and out of you as Sirius cradled you.

"I've got to pass this exam. I think I'm going to fail otherwise and I can't fail. I hate this stupid professor, I hate History of Magic, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"

Sirius cooed and pressed a kiss to your temple, holding you tighter. "I think passionate declarations of hate are a pretty decent sign you're due for a break. Just a little one love, and then we'll help you study after, yeah?."

"I second this plan, besides," Remus said, now a little sheepish, "we've missed you dove."

"Missed them! Missed them, he says!" Sirius scoffed, "You've been holed up in here for nearly a week and your absence has actually taken a toll on our health! I swear, I've never felt so sick as when you're stuck studying!"

At this, you sniffed and smiled a little up at Sirius, who only grinned down at you, allowing himself to kiss your forehead.

"Starting to feel better now, though."

You giggled and Remus rolled his eyes fondly, having now successfully returned most of your books to their respective shelves. Sirius then easily pulled you up and you didn't have the energy to resist. Now with you on your feet, he began to speak before you were tugged away from him and into Remus's bone-crushing hug.

Whatever dramatic protest at you being stolen from him died on Sirius's lips as he watched you deflate even more in your boyfriend's arms. A few more tears rolled down your face as he joined the hug.

"C'mon dovey," Remus said as he eventually pulled away, leaving his hand tightly entwined with yours, "let's all go cuddle for a bit, yeah?"

You nodded and let him pull you along, Sirius attaching himself to your unoccupied arm. You continued to hang off them as they walked you back to their dorm feeling endlessly grateful for their ability to carry the weight of the conversation on their own.

There was something indescribable about the comfort that came from Remus holding you on his bed with Sirius on your other side telling you both about some muggle band he loved. You felt loved. Completely surrounded by love, actually.

And exam be damned, there was no where you'd rather be.

this isn't very long, but i hope you enjoyed love! <3

[vinzul]

I come with a different kind of work that I do (analysis and art direction) about one of my favorite pieces of art to ever be created.

What does Arcane tell us with its visual storytelling and art direction that ENHANCES the story? A LOT actually. And as many works of art, it takes inspiration from real life. So, Art Nouveau and Art Déco as seen through Piltover and Zaun.

First of all, it's important to note that both of these art movements originated in France, Art Nouveu during the Belle Époque and Art Déco during and after WWI. A few decades apart and IT'S IMPORTANT. Fortiche is a french animation studio so OF COURSE it fits like a glove.

Art Nouveau came first during latter 1800s kind of like a protest or reaction against fine arts and Academic art which seemed elitist to some (sound familiar?). It wanted to infuse art with more freedom, creativity and vitality. Hence the name: "new art".

Also to mix artisanal work and more mundane expressions with art. That's why you can see every day things in this style. AN had its origins in the Arts & Crafts movement, but was also influenced by Asian styles, hence the long and decorative lines.

Why's this important for Arcane? Well, because (disclaimer) old lore said that the Undercity (with a strong art nouveau style) used to be older until an earthquake created the Fissures and made the separation between Piltover more prominent. They used to be one city.

I'm no expert on old League lore and we don't know many details about current one but it still fits thematically with what happened irl. Art Nouveau was always a rebellious movement and believed in bringing the arts to every day people. Just like Zaun is artistic everywhere.

So what makes Art Nouveau (and hence Zaun) easy to recognize? Organic and fluid lines, ASYMMETRY, mix of different and modern materials like iron, glass, ceramic. But the most important imo is that it's the mix of different cultures. Remember P&Z are a hotpot of cultures too.

Now then, Art Déco came later but as every movement, it's a response. During WWI (1914-1918) art became meaningless (in Europe) cuz when you're at war, what use is it? AD became a style that could bring purpose and worth to art again.

In 1925, the International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts in Paris presented a new "modern style" that would show PROGRESS and technology advancements to demonstrate that despite the war, there was smth to look forward to. "The future is BRIGHT!"

It took off. And even though it was named Art Déco way later, we can see how art can influence public perception. AD was most popular in the USA (no surprises) and where we can see it shining brighter is in architecture.

Art Déco and Piltover can be distinguished by geometric lines, SYMMETRY, sharp and clean designs, and an elegant showcase of artistic choices. That's why everything in Piltover is gilded and carefully curated. It represents exactly that: PROGRESS after war.

So then we have these 2 art styles and 2 cities that seem completely opposite. But they actually complement each other. What one has, the other doesn't and viceversa. This is shown EVERYWHERE in Arcane. Character designs, environment, props, and even the tech they use.

I'm not sure if this was intentional, but even Arcane's style kind of looks like it took inspiration from painters from that time period. Obviously Alphonse Mucha (art nouveau) is easy to recognize but maybe Tamara De Lempicka (art deco) not so much.

So we have these two sister cities inspired by real life styles because all art is political. Zaun is older and community focused, while Piltover's newer and innovation focused. Piltover's SYMMETRY vs Zaun's ASYMMETRY and how you can read EVERYTHING through these lenses.

From character arcs, to alliances and betrayals, to how the narrative evolves and changes and show when and WHY events happen. You could even predict what would happen from reading the place where it was going to happen. It parallels everything.

But despite the differences, there is a bridge between the two cities and the story starts right there. Just like both Art Nouveau and Art Déco originated from the same place, France, where you can see both styles around the city coexisting. Bonus pic Piltover Montepellier

And that's it for today, folks! There are OCEANS more of stuff going on visually in Arcane so lmk if you want me to dive in anything else, like char designs (you can see where they will end up in their design) and color in the show, which is so meaningful.

Disclaimer, I'm no art historian at ALL and I used an oversimplification of each art style and movement in this post so it was easier to understand. But if you liked this, I suggest reading more about it, it's super interesting! I love Arcane with my whole heart <3

Disclaimer #2, I didn't work at Fortiche ( :C ) or Riot either, this is only an analysis. If anything here was unintentional from the artists and creators, that just speaks more to the incredible work they did.

Arcane's one of the most important masterpieces of this era imo

[the-far-bright-center]

Came across this rather, uh, amusing take in the tags....

The SW Prequels:

Now, I'm not entirely sure what definition of 'female gaze' this post is using (apparently 'close-up shots of hands' is what constitutes female gaze???), but all I could think was... what films were they watching exactly???? But if they are defining it loosely as 'visuals and/or cinematography that appeals to female viewers' or even 'characters and themes that appeal to female viewers'.....then well....

**Note: I fully acknowledge that, purely as an academic term, the entire concept of 'female gaze' is up for debate. There's still a question as to whether or not it is a 'real' phenomenon. That said, I'm addressing its colloquial fandom use in this case.

Let's go through each film, shall we....

The Phantom Menace

Maybe people on tumblr are too young to remember what a splash Queen Amidala made when TPM was first released. Not only was she and her homeworld of Naboo our first real glimpse of the now-iconic 'Space Baroque' vibe of the SW Prequels, but she was also a first for Star Wars in other ways. A teenage girl who was also a mysterious queen of her world, a fearless leader who was backed up and protected by her very own band of loyal handmaidens. And while she was hinted to eventually become the mother of Luke and Leia, at this point in the story, her charcter arc did not revolve around a romance or a male character, but rather was mainly about being the best leader she could be, and helping to free her world and her people. A very fitting story arc for such a young female heroine. All of this was so incredibly formative and appealing to me, as an also fourteen year old girl, when I first watched this movie.

On top of that, Queen Amidala's makeup and fashion styles were extremely trendy and I even went to school wearing her iconic face make up and lipstick at one point. Women and girls wanted to cosplay her, and still do, to this day. There were Queen Amidala dolls with gorgeous dresses that you could collect, whereas before SW merch had been dominated mainly by action figures geared towards boys and adult male collectors. The character in TPM was pretty much tailor-made made to appeal to young female viewers.

And then we get to the male eye-candy in this film....

There was Ewan as young Obi-Wan, of course, who appealed to many, but as for myself, I was head over heels for Liam Neeson as Qui-Gon Jinn.

That long flowing hair and ruggedly handsome face! He was just so calm, strong, and comforting to watch, and he had great chemistry with the actress who played Shmi. So swoony!

2) Attack of the Clones

Moving on to the second film of the Prequels, we come now to the forbidden love story, Padme Amidala's stunning wardrobe, and of course, heartthrob Hayden Christensen as padawan Anakin Skywalker.

Once again, I can only speak for myself as someone who was a young female fan when this film came out in 2002. But I had the AotC teaser poster hanging above my bed and would stare at it dreamily for hours.

And, amusingly enough, one of my first introductions to Hayden Christensen was in an article featuring an interview with Natalie Portman who described him as a 'very sexy guy', lol. So I was introduced to the very idea of him first via the 'PoV' of the actress herself...

The above image is by Annie Liebovitz from a promotional photoshoot for a magazine article about AotC. Note that Padme is wearing a sensual nightrobe but is largely covered up here. It's Anakin who is wearing the low-cut, loose fititng top that shows off his lean torso. His body is the sort that appeals to younger women, not the steroid-induced, muscle-bound hypermasculine nonsense that largely appeals to the stereotypical male gaze.

Before we even go deeper into the romance between Anakin and Padme, there's an establishing shot in the Outlander club scene where Anakin is shown to the be highly-desireable object of many of the patrons' gazes....

Later on in the film, there's some even more obvious eye candy and fanservice to audiences of the time, with the semi-shirtless Anakin writhing suggestively on the bed scene...

And, if it's you're thing, there's also wet Obi-Wan Kenobi....

Certain scenes likewise makes it clear that when it comes to Anakin and Padme in this film... Padme is, uh, 'the one on top', here...

Overall, despite AotC's detractors decrying the 'bad dialogue', in a purely VISUAL sense, this film had a huge focus on romance, romantic scenes and imagery, and romantic moments -- probably the most focus in a SW film since the Han x Leia scenes in ESB. And all with Natalie Portman dressed in a fantastic, scene-stealing wardrobe designed by Trish Biggar that would give even the most lavish period dramas or Old Hollywood productions a run for their money.

3) Revenge of the Sith

Ok, where do I even begin.... we have Obi-Wan and Anakin in all their glory

Then we have gorgeous bittersweet Anakin and Padme reunion moments (note the focus on *Anakin's* face and *Anakin's* sensuous lips here)....

Then the iconic nightmare scene and the romantic moments in Padme's apartment, once again ft. Hayden's bare torso and chest....

And the unbearable heartbreaking moment when Anakin makes his fatal decision, when he and Padme sense each other in the Force and look out towards one each other across the romantic space-fairytale Coruscant cityscape as the sun sets upon the Republic..

Many female fans also seem to fan themselves at the sigh of 'dark side' Anakin/Vader on Mustafar in all his fallen angel fury...

Ultimately, to each their own in terms of what appeals. 'Appealing to female gaze' is very subjective topic, after all. BUT, to say there wasn't 'a single minute of female gaze' in the Star Wars Prequels seems to point to an extremely limited and, well, completely inaccurate 'reading' of those films.

Padme's entire gorgeous wardrobe (which may show skin atimes, but which is NOT always heavily sexualised, but rather focuses on gorgeous embroidery and rich textures and fabrics, etc) and the highly fanservice-y Shirtless Anakin scenes alone demonstrate such a claim is pretty baseless:

[jeniffercheckwannabeme]

🎀 and 🪞! (Kiss and tell game)

Kiss and tell an ask game for girlbloggers

 💌 🎀 build your ideal lover from the soul outward (personality, looks, style, love language...) then tell us your dream date.

hmmm ok so people have called me high maintenance and high standards but I really can't be blamed I just have ideals ok🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ !!!!

IRL, i've only really talked to (not dated!!! im not going to date someone i don't adore completely) 2 guys and they both were smart, fit (if you know what i mean (gif of freaky sonic) )and also lived suppper far away... like the first one was going away to college, and the second was was from my cousin's school in australia. My dating life is literally completely minimal because i'm focusing on myself till i get away from here (so i can bag some international huzzz (freaky sonic gif again))

Butttt ideall

personality I love love love nerdy guys!!! like pleaseee talk to me about your interests and random facts about physics!!! I dont mean the videogame anime nerds btw. like actual academic nerds

aLSO if he's smiley and happy its like a plus plus plus!! I love funny guys. i love guys that don't take anything, except their future, too seriously.

I also loveeee guys who are more reserved and sweet. I'm a person who doesn't enjoy too many people and I would love if we could just stay at home most of the time.

I lov love love lov guys who care. about anything. animals, friends, their family. whatever it is. guys who actually gaf about peoples feelings aka emotionally intelligent guys. LOVE!!!

I love protective guys. like yes walk on the car-y side of the street!! yes call me to see if i got home safe!! yes yell at the guys who catcall me!!! I loveee it

looks hmm I LOVE big boys. like i don't mean fat. like muscular big. huge. like a bicep the size of my head. like 9 feet tall. (exaggerating) but Christian bale in batman. hmmm i could just eat him uppp.... Idk i love guys wayy bigger than me.

face??? serving. like i don't have specifics. But handsome. boyish when he laughs and manly otherwise.

i also loveee dark hair. brown eyes. Blue eyes just isn't it. im sorry gang

style suits. suits. suits. Or like business causals. NO SHORTS omg i can't!!!! guys who dress like toddlers are sooo not my type. like genuinly. I love button up shirts. kind of like bruce wayne too.

love language gift giving. totally not for personal gain. Yess buy my dresses and diamonds!!!!!!!!!

Physical touch..... need i explain.

dream date A nice dress, nice shoes. he picks me up!!! with flowers!!! nice restaurant, just us. then we go home and binge watch star wars!!!

💌🪞 describe your vanity (it can be your dream vanity).

Hmmm my current vanity has lot's of drawers and those 3 mirror sets attached. it's completely made of wood but It doesn't really suit my room.

ideally, I would have a french vanity. like those baby blue ones with fancy mirrors. Maybe when I go to college (fingers crossed)!!!

[girlwithherheadinthestars]

academic rivals to lovers prompt pt. 3 bc irl that boy is going to drive me insane and i hate him sm

*teacher asking a question*

*a and b raise their hands at the same time and then glare at each other*

teacher (desperately): anyone else? come on guys this is easy.

person b: ask a they're probably wrong so the class can learn from their mistake

person a: no yeah ask me i'd hate for b to be openly ridiculed again

person b: yeah it's difficult for us people who aren't ridiculed constantly.

person a: you're the only person ridiculing me, everyone else quite likes me, so i think it's a you problem

person b: well i'll have you know --

person c: *interrupts and answers the teacher's question*

teacher (who was low-key invested in the roast battle): oh -- oh, that's correct.

*a and b glare at c. this is war*

*b sitting behind a and kicking their chair all class long*

person a: what, are you flirting with me or trying to annoy me

person b: why can't it be both

*writing essays about people in their lives they're grateful for*

person c: a, who did you mention?

person a: uh well some of our teachers and you know that idiot sitting behind me

person b: ITS ME I'M THE IDIOT

person a: shut up. and im not saying this to make you feel bad and write about me so don't even

person b: don't be dumb

person b: i already wrote about you

part. 2

part. 1

[inchidentally]

okay this is fucking weird and... fully factually wrong asfgasjlfgal

I'm obv removing the source and blog name etc so pls do not go try to find who it is and I dnw to be a part of any in-fighting etc

but also I rarely see anti shit since I'm fine w ppl being competitive over drivers and teams since ~sports~ and I stick to my dash so it's wild to me when someone puts it where they know I'll see it and I realize how insane the hate can get like it's fully leaving reality and creating a new one lahfljsafhafhl and ofc I love making a good stupid parasocial essay

also if someone else is actually interested in learning more about Oscar other than the caricature villain the anti tags have cultivated about him/seeing info from a balanced Lando and Oscar fan then why not

I know I’m a rare fully equal Lando and Oscar enjoyer till I d!e and I don’t mind hateuration when it’s not super serious and it’s part of sport culture etc etc. I follow blogs for half the grid and my dash is fully civil war every race weekend. it doesn’t bother me! even when ppl go super biased and delu like this bc of their hatred I don't mind either if it's just done in a non-deep way or if it's done where I don't have to see it. and I would NEVER rb someone's own post and get shitty with them in the tags.

so it’s not that someone has chosen to hate a driver that’s an issue it’s when someone takes it way too far and too personal and wrong - but even then I wouldn’t take notice if it weren’t yknow left for me to see on my own post.

- basic simple legacy tumblr rule: do NOT directly rb someone else’s content with anti additions on the post or in tags. make your own post so they don’t have to see it and do NOT tag it in ways that would show up for fans of that person or thing. if you wouldn't want to have to see that shit on your own posts then don't do it to someone else ok. esp since you'll probably spread it to even more anti people who will just add more onto it.

- to think Oscar of all people is laughing AT Lando cruelly and meanly is... insane. objectively insane. for one thing their relationship has grown naturally and without the veneer of PR bromance so we actually did see back when Lando wasn’t sure about Oscar and was more reserved with him, so he will NOT hide if he’s ever unhappy with him. in fact Lando can't hide his feelings on his face pretty much ever, but esp when he's upset or angry. in 2021 we got a full on-camera media pen moment where Lando looked daggers at Carlosof all people and stalked away from him. obv everything between them after this was immediately fine the next day but it's a perfect example of Lando not hiding his displeasure or annoyance even with his closest friends on the grid! and with Daniel, Lando rly did mean it when he said Daniel's win overshadowed his podium and despite being very good friends from the very starts - but they very much had tensions when they were teammates alongside being extremely good friends and having so many laughs at the same time. and ofc Max is practically family to Lando and they've said they spend the most downtime together out of their other grid friends and P sees Lando as an uncle, yet once again if Lando's not happy with him then it shows! so no, he’s not going to hide his feelings if he’s mad or upset ahsvshdbjd he certainly won't be belly laughing and pink and staring at Oscar happily if he's in fact hurt and upset by him ??? in fact I can’t actually imagine a Lando who’s capable of hiding his feelings that well bc the poor guy often wishes he could !!

- LANDO BEING SILLY ABOUT HIS NON ACADEMIC BRAIN HAS BEEN GOING ON AS A BIT STARTED BY HIM SINCE FOREVER. like I'm sorry but if you're blogging at all about Lando did you miss every single stream where his closest friends laugh and joke with him about his spelling or not knowing certain facts. I can’t grasp knowing who Lando Norris is and thinking he doesn’t fully embrace and laugh about this like it’s probably top 3 thing in funny Lando moments compilations on social media ??? in this exact clip I screenshotted from Lando makes MULTIPLE jokes about not going to school while cackling and says "see I wouldn't ask me that" when Oscar checks with him that the Pacific is indeed bigger than the Atlantic LIKE I'm so confused at anyone seeing that as Oscar being evil and mean and callous ??????

- actually Oscar is one of the ONLY people who doesn’t always and immediately laugh AT Lando for his academic blocks AND as in this very video he gives Lando full opportunity to try AND “why not explain instead of laughing!” oh yea because he frequently does ??? there’s literally a whole Thing between them that even normal fans have picked up on where Lando’s brain struggles and Oscar has learned to gently help ! he spells words for him, provides race locations, stands off to the side unseen and helps !! again. utterly insane to think Oscar of all ppl as being “superior” and mean when he’s one of the few people who doesn’t just openly laugh every time Lando gets something wrong and notices when Lando is actually insecure and helps him out !! EVERYONE ELSE just laughs at Lando including his closest friends but ironically it’s Oscar who pauses, studies Lando’s reaction and sometimes chooses to not laugh and help him out !! Oscar watching and learning Lando literally over the years - even before knowing him personally - is a whole thing!

- considering Lando’s biggest personal cause is mental health and anti bullying, people like this need to drop the whole “Piastri is evil because he doesn’t express emotions the correct way” therefore he “likes being superior” ???and “Piastri is an evil manipulator because he’s racing Lando and wants to win just like Lando says about his teammates” totally ignoring the fact that the Carlos and Daniel bromances had the benefit of not having a competitive car AND with Carlos there was a huuuuge difference in ability and speed that Lando actually said would make him depressed because he wanted to “beat him for once” (that’s why he said he wanted Carlos there for his win, because he “wanted to look down on him”) oops turns out Lando’s competitive too and he’s not evil! Oscar is very obviously loved and Lando clearly likes him and ironically the fact that they hangs out outside of work but choose not to post photos or video and only mention it means that they want to keep their time together private, which is sweet and not “fake” as ppl randomly decide to call it. the fact that they chose not to do a bromance and hate doing PR work is actually sweet as well bc Lando’s said sometimes he likes doing that kind of work but sometimes he also likes to be quiet and not looked at. it's also very worth knowing that Lando specifically said Oscar is the complete opposite to Daniel (but that they're both lovely guys and he likes them both) but that he sees Oscar as being very similar to himself. so it kind of pulls the rug out from thinking Oscar is cold, evil, etc etc etc because he isn't gregarious or doesn't express himself the way everyone's come to expect from other drivers.

- and everyone REALLY needs to go away w interpreting someone self-admittedly low energy/quiet/private and who has literally said he dislikes that people think he’s cold and calculating and who even recently said to look at his onboards and that he expresses his excitement plenty just not through words AND his longtime gf and all four women in his family adore him AND Abbi Pulling said he seems “too nice to be a racing driver” AND he inspires the same long term loyalty Lando does in people INCLUDING LANDO'S BEST FRIEND. Max literally stands up for Oscar against fans and says his relationship with him is great and was literally there for both Oscar's birthdays the past two years and tweeting at him, eating his cake aslfgsaljfgsa. so just because Oscar isn’t great at PR like so many drivers doesn’t mean he’s evil and cruel or cold. Lando often admits he’s frequently not great at PR and lands himself in hot water sjsvshdbdj

- Oscar’s had to “overcome fewer obstacles” ????? than Lando ???? listen I fully am so here for Lando’s insane work ethic so this is in no way trying to reverse the insult onto him bc I will never do the whole putting these guys against each other. it’s to educate that: Oscar literally couldn’t afford to get beyond F2 which is why Mark Webber stepped in to get him sponsorships. and in order for Oscar to progress in karting at all he had to leave his family behind in Australia and live in the UK. he’s far from working class ofc but despite winning feeder series each year he would’ve had to stop before F1 purely down to money if it weren’t for Mark. whereas Lando’s dad is an actual billionaire. and again FULL kudos to Lando bc he specifically said he didn’t want to rely on his dad's money to buy a seat and he didn’t!! but he’s said himself he’s been extremely lucky that his dad could devote himself completely to Lando’s career and that they’ve never wanted for money at all. AND THE REASON OSCAR FINISHED SCHOOL WAS BC HE NEEDED A BACKUP CAREER. he's never actually said he himself is particularly brainy just that he didn’t know if he could afford to progress so engineering would keep him in the sport. so there's not only no comparing the two of them, it's also hysterical to say Oscar had more opportunities than Lando like Lando would literally laugh at that

like I’m sorry this comes off as intense it’s mostly me just ????? bc these tags are the direct OPPOSITE of reality where Oscar was a very huge fan of Lando’s for years before being his teammate, he then closely watched and learned Lando when they became teammates and he’s now such a trusted and kind friend (yes, ppl are weird enough that we've had to point out it's official lsfgajlfgla) that Lando literally looks over at Oscar for help when his brain is struggling !! like this is not a fandom interpretation or anything it physically actually happens and random F1 fans even notice and comment on it !!

anyway it’s fine to be a hater and it's expected in sports spaced etc but do not do it under someone else’s content or where non hater fans can see ok ???

[cherry-pop-elf]

Hey, I'm the anon of the Bill hcs ask. If you want more requests: Can we have some platonic hcs on being the twins best friend?

Hi again, anon! : D Oh hell yeah! We STAN platonic love in this bitch! Platonic love is valid af boi!

Some Best Friends With The Twins Headcanons

You will be a victim of a lot of pranks. That’s just how they show affection! But, they’ll be far more sweeter and sillier. Like swapping your tea bags with hot chocolate, and stuff that’s not really a problem. More so a surprise

Expect to be napped on. They don’t do well with an academic setting, and studying can be rather draining. It’s not a true study session if you don’t have, at least one, twin falling asleep on you

You are going to be bothered so much. You’ll have one twin with his head on yours, while another twin is stealing your book to see what you are reading. Just being little menaces

Don’t tell Ron, but you actually get a discount in the shop. Shhhhhh

You also 100% have a product inspired/made in your honor. The twins so make products inspired by their friends and family, like Lupins Wolfsbane Infused Chocolate Bars, so take that with stride. Even if it’s just a flavor

You, of course, get a sweater

No one is gonna fuck with you, because they know they’ll have to face the Twins Wrath. Even Draco doesn’t bother you much, or at least actively goes out of his way to bother you

As stated above, about the discount, that also means you were a genie pig for said products. They did, however, try and make sure they were the more harmless works in progress. They wouldn’t dream of trying to hurt you after all. You are family

Depending on the time frame, you’ll either get called teasing nicknames about being younger or older. Even if it’s as small as a few days. Teases a plenty

They’ll get sad if you don’t come to the quidditch games. Doesn’t matter what house you are in. They need their bestie to cheer!

You’ll be one of the few people that can help them sleep from nightmares. The twins normally confide in each other, but sometimes they have them at the same time. Especially after the Umbridge incident, and the war but Fred lives because I said so, so they come to you. Sometimes they just need the comfort of knowing someone is alive. Don’t even need to share a bed, just knowing you are there helps a lot

You are never going to get the scent of gun powder out of your clothes. I’m sorry, but that’s just the stink of twins baby

Expect to have the biggest birthday bashes EVER. They spare nothing, especially when the shop is up and running. You are gonna have the coolest birthdays EVER!