#and the authors have no other writing for me to read

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

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part three– summary | Over time and through challenges, you find a way to settle in Jackson with Joel.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, established relationship, takes place over a longer stretch of time (two years), graphic depictions of violence, angst, fluff, there's a lot of tender moments sprinkled throughout, reader's progression into her own self, mentions of sa and coercion, trauma, joel triggering some ptsd for reader, tender smut (slight somnophilia) mentions of reader's scars (though mostly vague), ending is foreshadowing (if you get it, you get it)

author's note | this was very cathartic to write, i've had this entire thing outlined for over a year and like 80% finished so a lot of time i've just spent editing and procrastinating over plot points. i originally intended for this to end very, VERY grim. but, the ending i went with is more fitting. also thank you to anyone who's taking the time to read this or has told me they relate to this story and have found comfort in it, i love you!

word count —10k

PART ONE — PART TWO — SERIES MASTERLIST

The entire situation made you uneasy.

“So, do you have a name?” Ellie asks curiously, shoveling a piece of food into her mouth, “I mean, Joel always calls you the kid or the girl—you know, he did that to me for a while, but I grew on him,”

She smiles around her food, her authenticity wholly her own. 

You knew Ellie through small moments, coming and going, not seeing her much around Joel’s house as she was obviously settled into her own and spent most of her time with Dina or Jesse.

“Ellie,” Joel admonishes, “stop yapping and eat,”

“You are no fun,” Ellie says pointedly at Joel, stabbing a fork into the pile of food on her plate. 

You sat beside Joel, your hands resting on your lap, eyes scanning the table. It felt strange to be here like this, in a place so domestic. Alive. Maria balances Benjamin on her hip in the kitchen as she and Tommy conversed quietly over the few sides still finishing up.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Tommy either—it was just the overwhelming weight of the unspoken, how his eyes couldn’t stop lingering on you and Joel. 

It was the way Joel always seemed to know where you were, what you needed, even before you did. It had always been like that, but tonight, it felt more pronounced than ever.

He’s moving for things before you even make a motion to ask, handing them to you without a word, a hand curling over your thigh in silence when Tommy drops a pot on the floor, startling you and baby Ben in Maria’s arms, knowing instantly how to calm you. You were like a unit, moving as one, and Tommy could clock it from a mile away.

Once everyone had finally settled at the table Tommy clanked his spoon against his bowl, his voice cutting through the quiet. “So, how’ve things been for everyone? Ain’t been much talk from Joel lately. Ellie? Everything good?”

Joel grunted in response, a low, almost reluctant sound as he forked a piece of meat. 

He didn’t meet Tommy’s eyes, but his posture was rigid, almost protective, as if keeping a silent barrier between you and the world around you.

It had been a full six months since you settled into Jackson, spring on the horizon, it would be a welcome reprieve to the bitter cold and piles of thick snow.

Ellie gives a short version, cliff notes, too busy eating to put any real effort into the conversation.

“I dunno why he’s askin’ to do dinner,” Joel had admitted earlier that day, “ain’t like him.”

Most of them saw each other daily, it seemed pointless.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, his hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully but nonchalant.

He noticed how Joel had placed his chair slightly closer to yours than usual, a casual closeness that seemed almost unnatural given Joel’s opposition to people and touch. You weren’t sure if Tommy had caught on, but his eyes lingered on the two of you for a moment longer than comfortable.

This wasn’t the pair he had dismissed the night you were found, something had changed.

The fire in the hearth cracked loudly, filling the room with a dull warmth that did little to ease the tension settling in your chest. The scent of stew hung in the air, thick and comforting, but your stomach churned at the thought of eating. You weren’t used to this—family dinners, warm lighting, the sound of silverware scraping against ceramic.

It was too normal. 

Too exposed.

Tommy hadn’t seen much of Joel these past months outside of patrol and meetings. Not since he’d asked him to keep an eye on you—to help you adjust, to give you someone steady to rely on. He hadn’t expected Joel to isolate with you completely. And now, sitting across from the two of you, something felt off.

Tommy cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you two at my table tonight, s’been a while.”

Joel barely looked up at Tommy, “Figured we should.”

Tommy let out a small chuckle, “What, outta obligation?”

Joel’s jaw twitched, “Somethin’ like that.”

Your eyes flicker between the two, quiet as you eat.

Tommy turned his attention to you, “How’s it been? You settlin’ in alright?”

You didn’t answer audibly, not that he expected you to.

“She’s fine,” Joel said, voice even as he answers for you.

Tommy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That right?”

Joel didn’t acknowledge the shift in Tommy’s tone.

Tommy leaned back, watching the way Joel subtly angled his body toward you—protective, like he was ready to shield you from something that wasn’t even there. Instinctual. 

“Joel says you’ve been doin’ well with patrol,” Tommy turns his attention toward you suddenly, ignoring Joel entirely, “you feelin’ comfortable with all of it?”

Surprisingly, you nod, though your eyes ultimately flicker toward Joel who’s staring down Tommy from across the table, quickly catching onto Tommy’s behavior.

Ellie suddenly stood, pushing her bowl away. “I’m gonna—yeah, I’m done eating,” She grabbed her plate and left the room without another word. Smart kid. She knew when to leave.

Maria leaves eventually too, tending to Benjamin as she ascends the stairs and leaves the three of you in a standoff. The rest of the dinner passed in heavy silence. You barely touched your food. Joel barely let his guard down. And Tommy barely took his eyes off the two of you.

It wasn’t until after the dishes were being cleared that Tommy saw his opening.

“Joel,” he said casually, “help me with somethin’ outside.”

Joel hesitated, glancing toward you. You gave him the smallest nod. He exhaled through his nose and followed Tommy out onto the porch without a word. The moment the door shut behind them, Tommy turned.

“What the hell is goin’ on?”

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on,” Joel stiffens, standing toe to toe with his brother who lowered his volume to a hushed tone. 

You focused on their voices, the house having fallen quiet.

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Joel,” Tommy retorts, “Is she…should we be worried about her?”

Oh, so he thinks you were taking advantage of Joel—either assumption couldn’t be further from the truth, but it does startle you, wondering how deceptive you looked to Tommy despite how welcoming he had been toward you in the beginning.

“She’s harmless,” Joel responds, “What—suddenly you’re worried about her? You stuck her with me, made her my responsibility, and now you’re worried? What? ‘Cause I’m doin’ what you asked?”

Tommy scoffed, rubbing his hands over his face tiredly, “She’s been here six months and she hasn’t branched out at all. Not once.”

Joel’s expression darkened. “She doesn't like people. I don’t blame her.”

“Or maybe she just doesn't have a choice,” Tommy tries it, bucking up to Joel and flipping the switch, throwing the harsh accusation at his brother.

It landed. A flicker of something passed over Joel’s face, but it was gone just as quick.

Tommy took a step forward, lowering his voice. “I put her with you to help her. To give her some stability until she could fair on her own. I didn’t put her with you to keep her locked away.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. “She’s safe with me. And free to leave whenever, s’not my fault if she doesn’t want to—maybe you’ll think twice before takin’ people in because you got a good heart,” by his tone you can tell he’s trying to take a dig, “if you wanna blame anyone, blame yourself.”

Tommy shook his head. 

“That what you tell yourself?”

The blame wasn’t on anyone, really.

You weren’t sure what Tommy’s angle was or if he was just worried for Joel in a weird, roundabout way.

“I think whatever is goin’ on between you two ain’t healthy—to what extent I don’t even wanna fuckin’ know, there’s a point where we gotta hope she can manage on her own,”

Joel’s expression didn’t change. 

But, something in his posture did.

Tommy let out a tired sigh, defeated, “Just... think about what you’re doin’, Joel.”

When Joel finally came back in, his eyes found yours immediately. 

You searched his face, looking for something—anything—to tell you what he was thinking.

He didn’t say a word.

But when he reached for you, you reached for him. 

That’s what you always did.

And maybe that was the problem.

–

You’ve come to cherish the time you spend in Joel’s bed outside of sex.

After almost a year in Jackson, there are moments when things truly feel normal.

As expected, Joel does most of the talking. And to his effort, he tries to get you to speak up, but you often can’t find the courage outside of the intimate moments when he’s holding you close, mouth pressed against your skin as he buries himself inside of you.

“You really ain’t got a name?” Joel asks as he scrolls through a crossword, glasses perched on his nose in a way that felt scarily domestic, remembering Ellie’s earlier question. You scribble on the edge of the crossword, leaving a trace of yourself.

I don’t even know my parents.

You had no real identity, Joel has come to realize.

No sense of self or claim over your body and thoughts, years spent serving as nothing more than a device to be taken apart and used against your will, expected to obey.

Some of them did it purely out of fear and self-preservation, but for you, the opportunity to live a life outside of that place was more important and something you were willing to die trying for.

Still, old habits die hard.

You were trying to find the courage to speak to him in these quieter moments, making small noises when he would ask questions—a hum for yes, a soft and disgruntled noise for no.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and stifling all at once. 

You felt his fingers trace slow, absentminded circles against your ankle, his touch light, cautious. He was always cautious with you in moments like this, when there was nothing to distract from the weight of things left unsaid.

“You ain’t gotta stay quiet with me,” Joel reminds you gently, your eyes connecting for a moment.

It was strange how a man so stoic could be so soft, even if it was only shown in brief flashes.

Every time you tried, the words twisted in your throat, trapped beneath years of silence. 

Being told your voice didn’t matter. That your body wasn’t yours. 

That your thoughts weren’t worth having.

Joel’s hand stilled. He must have felt the way your breathing hitched.

You’d spent so long being nothing. A thing to be used. A body with no name. No choices. No voice. Nothing at all.

But here—wrapped in Joel’s warmth, his scent, the safety of his presence—you felt like something. Or someone.

Eventually, your lips parted. You sucked in a slow, shaking breath.

Joel holds his breath, having tried this over so many nights.

He feels that his conversation with Tommy was partly responsible, forcing you into a space of discomfort, like you had to listen to him.

Then, in the smallest whisper—so quiet you weren’t sure you’d even said it—you forced out, “I don’t have a name.”

Joel went still.

Then, after a long moment, his voice came low and careful.

“What d’you mean?”

You shrug, crossing your legs on the soft duvet, “I,” your mouth feels dry, like you were having an out of body experience as you spoke, like this wasn’t even real, “—didn’t…need one. He never addressed me directly. None of them did.”

Joel notices the way your tongue lingers around he, a heavy memory, a man whose face is impossible to forget.

The silence grows as Joel seems to contemplate his words, seeing how your fingers inch closer, a quiet yearning that you’ve been learning to subdue—not every act of service needed to be thanked, Joel had made that clear.

You try to ignore how your heart hammers in your chest at his silent admiration of your voice, speaking to him despite your disdain and buried fear, unsure if you could commit to more.

“Look…” he starts, his hand falling to curve around the heel of your foot, pulling your leg straight until your foot presses into the headboard of his bed, his hand traveling to rest against your upper thigh, “I ain’t ever been good at talkin’ about this kinda thing. But I gotta say it, ‘cause if I don’t, I know I’ll regret it.”

He looks serious, lips pulled into a thin line, but not unkind.

“What we've been doin’—I know why you do it. I ain't stupid.” Joel begins, your eyes locked on the way his fingers drag gently against your skin, massaging the muscle, “For a while, I let it happen ‘cause… hell, I don’t even know why. I ain’t got a reason, which makes me a bad person, taking advantage of you like that, knowin’ you had gone through hell to get here,”

You chew nervously at your bottom lip, letting the words sink in and marinate, eyes flickering up to look at him briefly, nodding in quiet understanding.

"But I don’t want that from you. Not like that. I ain’t never wanted somethin’ from you that you didn’t choose to give,” Joel admits, uncomfortable with the vulnerability of the conversation but knowing you needed to hear it, “I got my ways about me, I’m an asshole. I know, but this—I ain’t never been in a situation like this,”

You’ve never heard him talk like this, almost as if he’s spilling everything dark and vulnerable about him, laying his heart and mind out on a silver platter for you to devour.

“Sex ain’t just about… sayin’ thank you,” Joel looks at you directly, waiting to catch your eyes, “it’s supposed to mean somethin’. Be somethin’ you do when you trust someone, when you—” he licks his lips, clearing his throat as the words escape,“—care about ‘em. You understand?"

You nod softly, eyes burning with the faint sting of tears.

“You’ve never owed me nothing, kiddo.”

Eventually, Joel grows tired and stuffs the book away on his nightstand, inviting you beside him under the cover in silence, already knowing you had been itching to snake your way in, seeking out his warmth as he leans back to turn off the lamp and is met with your lips when he turns back, feeling your lips tremble with a timidness he’s not familiar with.

Something about it was different, a long and gentle press of your lips as you sigh, breathing through your nose before you pull away, shuffling closer into his chest as his chin rests at the crown of your head, rubbing slow circles over your shoulder until your breathing evened out.

Joel isn’t even sure if he’s doing this right, but he’s not sure he can let you go now.

It would do more harm than good for both of you.

–

A few months later, on another night, you find yourself in silence.

Mind filtering through a million thoughts at once, Joel sleeping quietly beside you—or so you think. His arm is slung over you, breathing slow and steady. 

But you’re awake, staring up at the ceiling. 

Thoughts race.

Thoughts about him, about you—the unspoken bond. And then, in the stillness, you speak.

“Joel?” you say softly, the small but meaningful utterance of his name has him stirring within seconds, blinking through bleary eyes.

He hums in question.

“Love,” such a fickle word, something you’re not sure you’ve ever felt before, the feeling foreign, “have you felt it before?”

Joel’s eyes open wider, shifting beside you as he rises on one elbow, the hand of his opposite arm reaching for you, fingers brushing absentmindedly along your arm. 

It’s a loaded question—and at this hour? Joel can’t help but chuckle.

“Long time ago,” Joel responds vaguely and you’re waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

You’re lying on your back, eyes stuck on the ceiling as he stares at you now.

“What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

Joel can’t help but cherish the moment, the raw emotion in your voice that he only heard on special occasions, not under the guise of pleasure—this was just you.

Joel tenses slightly, though—his mind shifts to Sarah briefly, his life before. It felt light years away, barely able to remember her face at times.

“Kinda…feels like it’ll break,” Joel says hesitantly, “it’s somethin’....real fragile—like when you hold something too tight and it cracks,” you nod slightly in understanding, “but it's also a feeling you’re too scared to let go of, does that make sense?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt that,” you admit, looking over at him briefly before averting your eyes.

“You’re young, kiddo,” he tells you, “give it some time.”

There’s a stretch of silence before you find the courage to ask, heart skipping unnaturally.

“Who was it?”

Joel figures you lucky that he’s less guarded like this, your warmth against his chest and your bottom lip trembling slightly—it always seemed to, a lingering fear that never left you.

“My daughter,” Joel explains simply, no sugarcoating or lies, “she died….long time ago,”

“Before?” 

Joel nods, a solemn expression flashing across his face before he sets it right.

You don't press him. 

But you wonder, deep down, if he’s afraid he might be feeling it again.

-

When you find your voice outside of Joel, it was in a moment of defense.

You’re not sure why—well, that isn’t entirely true.

You know why, but you can’t explain how the feeling overtook you like possession. 

Tommy had suggested you go on patrols with Jimmy, a younger man in his mid-twenties and closer to your age, a reliable man, as Tommy insisted. You’ve never even seen him, let alone was willing to speak with him or venture out beyond the walls.

It could be anyone else. Ellie, Dina—hell, even Tommy himself. You could fair there, but it seemed like Tommy was forcing you out of your comfort zone without any understanding of what that would mean to you.

“You’re smotherin’ her, Joel,” Tommy argues.

“She’s capable of makin’ her own choices,” Joel defends, turning to you, “I ain’t keepin’ you here, am I?”

You shake your head, arms crossed tight over your chest.

“She needs more than just you,” Tommy responds, “or me—or Ellie, I’ve got people askin’ about her, worried she might—”

“Might what?” Joel asks, warning Tommy to tread carefully,

“I’m just sayin’, people are weirded out by her behavior,” Again, talking as if you weren’t there, you find the anger in your chest beginning to swell, “She can try more—that’s all I’m askin’,”

“I don’t want more,” you spit out, both of the men freezing in place.

Joel turns so fast it’s like he doesn’t believe what he just heard. 

Tommy blinks, his mouth parting slightly in shock.

“I don’t want more,” your tone softens, looking down as you scuff your shoe against the wood of the porch, “I don’t need more.”

Joel’s face contorts in a way that makes Tommy frown with the realization, because whatever mess the two of you were tangled into wasn’t one-sided in the slightest and if Tommy was honest with himself, he knew Joel was in much deeper. 

-

The next time you speak, it was completely unprompted, feeling him thrash violently in bed beside you—he’s had his own nightmares before, usually consisting of him waking in a sweat or mumbling in his sleep, but this one was particularly alarming, like he was being attacked in his slumber as his arm swings up and knocks the lamp to the floor, ceramic shattering and still, he remained deep in the state of fight, and you were trying your hardest to shake him out of it, slapping his face gently as you held down his other arm.

“J—Joel,” you croak, voice thick with sleep and lack of use, always sounding like the words croaked from your mouth any time you spoke, “Joel—wake up!”

He flinches harshly but his eyes fly open, wild before they land on you and his blurry vision becomes clear, the sound of your voice grounding him into reality.

“It’s okay,” your voice shakes, watching as his throat bobbed with a harsh swallow.

He couldn’t explain how your voice had become such a comfort to him.

Like it was something he’s been missing.

-

And the first time he hears you laugh he swears he imagined it.

Ellie makes a terrible joke at his expense and the sound comes out too naturally, a triumphant grin crossing Ellie’s face as you both look at Joel who suddenly feels like he’s in a battle of two against one, hands held up in defeat.

“At least someone laughs at my jokes,” Ellie defends, watching as Joel rolls his eyes fondly.

“So, you’ll laugh when she makes a joke but not at mine?” Joel asks.

You shrug, “They’re good,” You chirp quietly.

Ellie throws her hands out in smug triumph.

“Stay bitter, old man.”

“Old man? I’ll tell Tommy to pair you up with Eugene,” Joel threatens.

Tough break, you think.

“Wha—no, what the fuck? That’s a total abuse of power,”

Joel shrugs as to mock you, catching your gaze briefly with a faint smile.

You’ve never felt more at ease in your life and that terrified you.

–

It happens over time, months, years.

The first year you spend in Jackson is hard—from the moment Ellie has found you on the outskirts of their walls, struggling to break old habits that had been instilled in you from birth, and finding comfort in society that only wanted to live, not take.

Jackson was a community, a family.

You still felt like a stranger, an obedient puppy at Joel’s side, shadowing him wherever he went. Patrols, always. The dining hall, occasionally. He never forces you to attend the fancier events held for the community with overwhelming sights of unfamiliar faces and too many voices. The music, the kids, drunkards getting loud around the tables they liked to play roulette at.

You liked silence and so did Joel. 

Besides, he’s much softer in these moments.

You’re helping him with dinner when you watch Ellie approach him, arms spread out as he pulls her in.

A hug full of feeling, watching his eyes drift close as his cheek presses into the crown of her head, a grin splitting on her face as he squeezes her too tight, playfully shoving him away.

You never asked personal questions, only thrived off the assumptions in your head, but Joel knows you. He can see the way your eyes beg a question but you’re too afraid to ask. 

“I’ll make a deal,” he begins, chopping into the vegetables as you peel potatoes with care, “use your voice and I’ll answer whatever questions is buggin’ you, fair?”

You nod, chewing at your bottom lip habitually before you find the courage to speak, “You…Ellie…” often your words felt disjointed, not that you didn’t understand, but you found yourself being concise, quick, using as little words as possible to get your point across and Joel notices too.

“She’s not mine, biologically,” Joel admits casually, “s’long story, but family ain’t always blood,”

You nod in understanding, the quiet growing again as you place the vegetable and utensil aside, “Her…family?”

“Don’t know much,” Joel shrugs, “kid was dealt a bad hand, but she’s special—a pain in the ass but, she’s good.”

–

Time progresses further, finding comfort through the seasons.

You’ve rotated through different jobs, none of them feeling right without Joel.

And it takes a while, but eventually something clicks.

As a step, you try your attempts at wall patrol—only when Joel wasn’t going out and he was busy planning the patrol schedule out over being gone for days at a time, too worried to leave you, but becoming slightly complacent and selfish in the time he spends inside the walls.

It works for a handful of months, minimal risk, always within shouting distance from Joel.

It was rare for stragglers to come wandering through the woods too, but as someone who had been on the other side, your empathy shines through in a moment of misjudgment one night.

Everyone is on break but you—Tommy and Joel were strict about at least one person always having eyes on the entrance and it wasn’t unsurprising that people jumped on the opportunity to leave you with the responsibility while they snuck away for a break.

You had just opened the gates for Ellie and Dina as they were coming back from the route, pushing the thick doors closed when you spot someone off in the distance, a man stumbling with great difficulty as he limps towards the gate. He’s clutching his side, doubling over in pain, and you feel the jolt of a distant memory pulling at you—a time when you were the one begging silently for help.

By the time you turn over your shoulder, Ellie and Dine are long gone.

Fuck.

“Please!” The shout is faint but enough to stir some instinct deep within you.

The others are too far and he’s approaching quickly, blood leaking from the side of his face as he slumps to his knees by your feet as he reaches you. You dig your heels into dirt and pull the gate open again, just enough for him to slip through with your aid, arm looping into his own.

He collapses onto the ground as soon as he makes it inside, pulling you down as you kneel beside him, “Th—thank you,” he gasps out. His face is flush, not indicative of someone who’s dealt with the elements very long, but he’s bleeding, clearly in pain.

You’re kneeling by his side when Joel’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and angry. 

“What the hell?!” He’s charging toward the gate with his revolver in hand, Tommy trailing behind him with wide eyes, flicking briefly between the two of you.

In any other situation, you wouldn’t have thought twice to leave the man behind, hellbent on survival at whatever cost. You knew better. Your instincts are sharp; they’ve kept you alive long enough, but your newfound heart wins over logical reasoning.

As the crowd of people grows, you find your throat swelling with anxiety.

Desperately, you try to convey your worry through looks.

“Y’all got jobs to do,” Joel snaps, “get back to your station,”

He dismissively moves your hand away as he hauls the man to his feet, the man groaning in deep pain as he shoves him toward Tommy, passing him off before his arm is circling around your bicep and tugging you away, struggling to keep up with his hurried steps until he can find a private spot, cornering you with a face you haven’t seen in almost two years.

“You got a death wish or something?” Joel growls, “Why’d you let him in?”

The intensity of his gaze pins you, and you swallow hard against the pressure building in your chest. Bottom lip trembling with fear, “I—I couldn’t leave him,” you stammer out weakly, emotions tying words into knots, it hurts to speak—to defend yourself.

You weren’t sure what you did was right, but it felt that way in the moment.

 “He was hurt.” Joel’s jaw clenches at your words, a muscle twitching near his temple, veins protruding. He shoves a hand through his greying hair and drops his voice low, not any less terrifying than when he had yelled at you a moment ago—it has been so long since you’ve seen this side of him, unrestrained rage.

“He could be fuckin’ bit,” Joel argues, “hell—maybe he’s fakin’, but you never—never make that decision on your own,” his hand is flying around in anger, pointing from you and to the gate, “you don’t know if he was staging an ambush or if he would’ve had a knife. You can’t be this fucking naive, I’m not gonna be around to save you all the time and—”

“Stop,” you plead, blinking away the tears that formed quickly, “please, stop—just—”

Joel pauses, a steely expression on his face.

“D-don’t be mad at me. I-I know I messed up.” You wipe at your cheeks, but the tears keep coming, and you can’t stop them, can’t stop yourself from shaking. The air between you feels thick and charged, like he had finally found the opportunity to rid himself of you.

Joel’s eyes soften for a fraction of a second before hardening again. He takes a deep breath, and you flinch as he reaches out, not sure if he’s going to hold you or hit you, familiarizing his emotion with violence after years of being on the receiving end of angry, vile men.

He does neither.

Instead, his hand falls to his side in defeat, “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Suddenly, you’ve never felt so small.

–

Joel doesn’t return home until late that night, heavy boot stomps carrying words he couldn’t find the energy to say, finding his bed earlier empty as he approaches his room.

There wasn’t a single trace of you, not here, or anywhere he would usually find you, his mind suddenly going into a panic as he searched frantically through the house—his bathroom, the kitchen, the backyard and into Ellie’s guest house, but nothing.

As he approaches the living room, he notices the lack of blankets and pillows before his head whips toward the basement, door closed and lights off, slowly, he approaches.

What he finds makes the pit in his stomach sink—you, curled up on the old, fragile frame of the bed that held a mattress stained and tattered, sleeping soundly but unknowing of how long.

His anger, his words, had driven you down here, away from the warmth of the house. 

You didn’t feel like you belonged there now.

He feels a pang of guilt. Basements were not meant for living; they were for storage and solitude and silence.

He’s reduced you to this; a thing to be stored away.

Joel approaches with a quieter step, kneeling down at your bedside.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, almost gentle. “Hey.”

You stir, blinking bleary eyes up at him. 

For a moment, confusion clouds your face before it shifts to apprehension, and Joel feels something twist in his chest. You jump back, scared. Eyes wide and fearful.

He fucking hated it.

“Hey,” he tries again, his hands hovering close, curling around the edge of the blanket like he wanted to swoop you into his arms, “You gotta come upstairs.”

You shake your head, pulling the thin blanket tighter around yourself, moving away from him.

“You can’t sleep down here,” he insists, firmer this time but without the sharpness to his tone like earlier, “C’mon, kiddo.”

You shake your head again, face softening as you frowned and pushed him away with a gentleness that tugs at Joel’s heart.

Joel sighs long, deep, hands spreading out over his knees before he admits defeat.

He retreats back upstairs with heavy steps, but this time they speak of regret rather than anger.

-

Out of precaution, they kept that man separated from the community, locked up in a spare cell.

It’s been a few days—but, the real problem comes as they strip him of his bloodied clothes to supply him with new ones, the bag of trashed clothes coming home with Joel later that week as he prepared to burn them out back—not before he pulls himself a small glass of bourbon, simmering in his own thoughts. 

Like a mouse, you sneak up on him. 

It was a strange flash of the past that tore Joel up inside, watching you pour yourself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge before you eye the pile of clothes on the counter. It wasn’t the egregious amount of blood that shocked you, but the threading—gold flecks underneath dark patterns that had you inching forward carefully, reaching out with timid fingers to shift the fabric out of the way to reveal the gold symbol that instantly made your body seize up, the glass in your hand crashing to the floor and over your feet, ignorant to the shards of glass pricking your skin and the water soaking your shirt.

 “Shit,” Joel mutters in shock, shooting up to his feet and reaching for you before he stops himself. His hands hover like a curse again, unsure of what to do with them or you. 

He decides on a worn dish towel, thrusts it in your direction, “What’s wrong?” 

You’re stuck where you stand, no sense of time or movement. Eyes fixed wide on the clothes. 

“Hey,” his voice is soft, low, and tender, “you can talk to me, s’alright—”

You come back to life with a jolt at his touch, pulling away from him and dropping the towel onto the floor. “I need to get out,” you tell him cryptically, “I need to leave.”

It was the first time he had heard you speak in days and the words are heart wrenching. 

He follows your eye line and grabs at the material, crumpling it in his hand as he brings it toward you.

“This mean anything to you?”

You nod meekly, subtle. 

Your eyes are burning with tears that don’t quite fall, refusing to shed as you push his hand away and take a few steps back, feeling dizzy and intensely nauseous.

“Oh, wo-woah,” Joel follows you in a way that seems territorial, but is purely out of concern, quickly guiding you toward the sink as the bile in your stomach comes to the surface, gagging into the sink as Joel turns the faucet on, his warm hand at your back, “shit—baby, you’re alright,”

Your head snaps to the side, cautious to his words.

It slips out and even Joel can’t look at you for too long, cheeks heating in shame.

You search his face for cracks in his facade, wondering if this was a trick—that he wasn’t going to blow up at you like a flipped switch, all too accustomed to retaliatory behavior. 

“Bad men?” Joel asks after a while, coming to the conclusion based on your initial reaction and your tightened jaw as you stared at him.

You nod, stronger this time. 

“Did you know him?”

The truth? You had no clue who he was.

He was unfamiliar, but he belonged to them.

“No, but he’s with them.”

This changed things.

And he needed to talk with Tommy—soon.

—

Joel knows what he’s required to do, though that part of him had long since been dormant. Firing off a gun was much different than something like this, close and personal, the possibility of watching someone’s life fade under the force of your hands.

He expected you to stay behind given how shook up you were about the entire thing—to him, it still made no sense.

The man was hurt, a sizable gash to his leg and a superficial head wound. But, nothing life threatening; no gaping wounds, no bites. And he seemed uneasy, just another suspicion confirmed that what he had sensed the moment the man had passed beyond the gates wasn’t here seeking help.

He was sent for something.

Joel has an idea, but they would have to kill him first.

You stand quietly in the corner as Joel paces the room, knowing Tommy was stationed just outside the door.

Methods like this weren’t widely accepted in Jackson, people too sheltered to have experienced real threat or harm. But, you understand.

You’ve been on both sides—the helpless victim tied up and waiting for your imminent death, but in the same vein, you’ve watched a man lose his life under the pressure of your blade.

You still don’t recognize him, though that isn’t a surprise. Fresh recruits were filtering in every week, new unsuspecting faces ready to be trained into soldiers, killing machines. Men with an insatiable thirst for violence.

He seems to notice you, though.

Eyes wander, survey—the subservient position you took in the corner wasn’t on purpose, rather habit.

Joel didn’t want you to speak, didn’t want you to put yourself in a position to be attacked. He wanted the man to strike first and give Joel a reason to punish him.

Eventually, it happens.

“Damien’s got pictures of you, carries it everywhere,” the man says around Joel, his voice surprisingly calm, “they take one of each of the girls, but you…”

You flinch at the name. Joel notices.

Joel’s blade flicks open and the man chuckles, eyeing him with challenge.

“Go on, kill me,” he taunts, “I’m not telling you anything.”

Joel grunts and flares his nostrils before he approaches the man and grabs his hand, quickly slicing through the skin, muscle, and bone of one finger before reaching into the small fire pit placed at the center of the room, cauterizing the wound without missing a beat.

You don’t even react, watching Joel work like muscle memory—normally, you would feel fear. 

But, with Joel, it was a strange unrecognizable feeling. 

The young man curses out in pain, thrashing against his binds in the chair as Joel clasps his hand over his mouth, cloth acting as a barrier so he wouldn’t get bit.

“Are there more of you coming?” Joel asks in a calculated tone, “Did they send you here to survey?”

“They’re not after her,” the man chokes out with a sick grin, “but when they find her here, well…”

Joel wraps his fingers around short strands of hair and yanks the man’s head to the side, the point of his knife positioned at the man’s jugular.

“Oh—woahwoah, wait!”

It’s embarrassing how easy it is to make a weak man break.

“They’ve…been watching this place for a while,” he admits breathlessly, eyes glancing nervously at Joel’s knife, “I just did what I was told—they roughed,” a strangled swallow and a quick breath from the man, your arms tighten over your chest as you stare him down, “roughed me up and—and I was supposed to create an opening in a couple days, they—“

“How far are they?” Joel asks suddenly.

“I dunno man!” He shouts.

“Why?” You speak up without warning, both of the men’s attention drawing toward you, “Why now?”

He swallows, eyes flicking up toward Joel out of fear.

“We’re running low—on supplies, housing, everything. This place is the closest that looked—looked worth taking.”

“Where are they now?” You know he knows, pressing the matter. 

“I don’t fucking—“

You step forward quickly, ripping the knife out of Joel’s hand and positioning it at the center of the man’s chest, right above his heart.

“Okayokay—the lodge—the fucking lodge!” He sputters, “We’ve been watching your patrol schedules for months and they found a blind spot, they’re held up at the lodge. Please, I told you, just don’t fucking—“

The blood rises in his throat quickly, your face scrunching up in disdain as you press the blade through his skin until it reaches his heart and his body slumps, staring at Joel the entire time. 

For a moment, there’s bewilderment. 

The last time you and Joel stood around a dead body there had been nothing but raw desire and emotion, but now there was an understanding. Connection.

“That was stupid,” he remarks, with no real threat in his voice, “really fuckin’ stupid.”

“You would have ended up killing him too.”

You weren’t wrong and Joel knew it. 

—

It’s hastily planned, but done with an urgency that carries a heavy burden.

It was Tommy, Joel, and a handful of men, stirring around the gate at midnight when Joel catches you sneaking up on him, bag packed and ready to leave.

He’d left you there for reasons unknown—possibly out of guilt, or fear, but it didn’t matter because you were here and you were going, whether he liked the idea or not.

He doesn’t even combat it, really.

“You sure?” he asks with no malice or apprehensiveness.

Your nod is all he needs.

The world outside the walls is always nothing but silence—eerie and gaunt.

Each footfall of a hoof echoes with a dread that is almost tangible and the wind is loud, roaring in your eyes as it sings a mournful tune.

Joel’s eyes meet yours briefly and in them, an unspoken agreement. 

This was necessary, even if it is dangerous.

The hours that pass feel like years, the sun on the rise as you near the lodge.

It was quiet, too quiet—no movement, no sign of life.

Tommy was the first one to break off, telling Joel he was going to scope out the place on his own and you can see the way Joel’s jaw tenses at the idea, the muscle refusing to relax until his brother returns.

And when he does, there’s a slight breathlessness to his tone, “They’re sleepin’,” he tells Joel, “fuck waiting—we can get in there and deal with this before it turns into a blood bath,”

Joel’s already signaling the others, horses hitched to nearby trees and before you realize it, you’re moving again, faster now.

A plan is made with nothing more than hand signals. Half of you will circle around back, cover escape routes; the rest, straight through the front, guns drawn and ready. They wouldn’t have anywhere to go.

It’s as you approach, stuck to Joel’s side, that he can see the way your eyes dart around.

And then you spot him. 

You hadn’t mentioned him to Joel, the history or the trauma that came with—but it was their leader, an older man who towered like an ox, intimidating without even trying. 

There’s fear there, in your face, but it’s not the kind Joel expects and he knows you well enough to recognize it for what it is—you were starting to dissociate, his finger circling around your wrist to ground you as his hand tightened around the revolver in his grip. He almost says something, almost lets it slip, but there’s no time and it doesn’t matter now.

It’s not until you’re in the main room, a collection of cots and sleeping bodies in front of you, as they are able to subdue a few men with the end of their knives, that a floorboard betrays your presence. 

The creak is deafening and you feel Joel tense beside you, his finger poised on the trigger.

Then suddenly, it's chaos. 

You weren’t a fighter in this sense, so Joel’s main objective is to keep you close but away—it was a bloodbath in an instant, the flurry of grunts from men at the end of their life and Joel hastily shoves an attacker away before he shoots him point blank in the chest.

To your left, Tommy and another guy are pinning two men against the wall, barking orders to drop weapons and stand down and another man lunges toward you as Joel takes him down with a grim efficiency that speaks volumes of his past. 

He doesn’t miss a beat.

But, somewhere amongst the fight, your grip slips from Joel, the blade of your knife slicing through the neck of a stranger, a man, an attacker, as you scramble toward the corner of the room.

There’s only a few moments of calm as you catch your breath, before a gun is being pressed against your neck and your arms are twisted behind your back and tugged, pressing you close to the solid press of a body.

Joel’s eyes had left you for a second—a second.

“I’ll put a bullet through her pretty little head,” Damien, their esteemed leader, shouts behind you, gasping at the grip he has on your hands, twisting them awkwardly behind your back, “think you got your fuckin’ fill, killing my men—”

Joel cocks his gun without hesitation and in retaliation, the leader does the same.

You close your eyes, an unsettling calm washing over you.

“You either leave without her or you don’t leave this place alive.”

—

"She’s not yours to claim,” Joel responds,” she’s not anyone’s."

Damien sneers, a sick grin crossing his features, "You think giving her freedom is a favor? She doesn't know what to do with it. She never did. She’s always been mine."

It was your choice to be here—not Joel’s.

Yours and yours alone.

Despite his domineering position behind you, gun still tight against your throat—he sounded pathetic, not a single man to pedestal him up.

They all laid dead, strewn about the lodge and outside.

He didn’t stand a chance and yet—

“You don’t walk away from this. You don’t get to keep her."

He��s stalling—you can see it.

No one was coming, he had no tricks up his sleeve.

He’d relied on the element of surprise, hoping to blindside and ambush the town with ease.

“No one is going to keep me, not anymore,” you force through gritted teeth, “ and definitely not you.”

“You little bitch,” He snaps, slamming the but of the gun against your head as you fall to the floor, groaning in pain, “I’ll fucking gut y—”

Joel doesn’t let him finish.

The blood splatters against your face as you fall to your ass, a bullet ripping through his skull.

There is stillness then, almost immediate, a quiet that seeps through the lodge and pulses beneath your skin. A thunderous sort of silence. You feel it in the air, violent, rushing—yet nothing moves. 

Joel shoves his gun into his jeans and approaches you with a careful hand, leaning down and using the fabric of his flannel button down to wipe away the thick blood from your face, staring up at him silently in the process of his movement, malleable to his hands as cleans you up.

And just like that, you owe everything to him. Again.

But, you knew there was no need for thanks—it was implied in the stretch of his gaze and a gentle nod.

—

“He raised me,” you explain to Joel a few moments later, staring down at the lifeless body of the man who had held you captive for years, reduced to nothing, “like—a father? But, then he—”

You watch as a few of the men begin to wrap up the body and prepare to drag it out the backdoor of the lodge.

“You ain’t gotta get into it, sweetheart,” Joel comforts, standing near but not touching.

You kneel down and reach into his pocket, stiffness under the fabric that leads you to a stack of items. A small knife, a hastily drawn map, and a few polaroids—just as the younger man had said.

They're unflattering to look at, bringing back an intense wave of emotion as you stare at yourself in the photos, laid in a compromising position and bare of any clothes. Joel can see the tremble in your fingers, unsure, so he pulls the polaroid away and promptly rips it in half, then again, letting the pieces drift to the floor.

Like it never existed.

“He started touching me after the surgery,” you continued despite his words, “then it was hours—days, sometimes. I had to be there for him, whenever he wanted. It hurt. The sex. But, they’re nicer when you take care of them. If I resisted, he'd cut me, hit me, burn me.”

Joel finds himself speechless for the first time in his life.

“They should go for them,” you tell Joel decisively.

The girls—the others, the ones too fearful to make the choice you did.

 You knew they were still there.

“They deserve a chance, too—like the one you gave me. I can lead you there.”

Joel stares at you with a new look, face twitching with minimal emotion but his eyes spoke louder.

The difference between the girl he’d taken in so long ago and the one standing in front of him now was night and day.

-

After the men had decidedly made the move to raid the compound, there were about twenty girls—wounded, injured, but fortunately alive, that they were prepared to take in.

With that, Joel sees you come into your own.

A lot of your time for the next handful of months was spent caring for them, rehabilitating them, and being a source of hope and comfort in a time where they weren’t sure how to feel.

Joel’s astounded by the change.

And you’ve always known to admire—often for the sake of men’s pleasure and their own sick enjoyment. But, like this, sat in Joel's lap as he gave himself over, comfortable in the silence as his fingers slid up and down your thighs—this was for you.

His scars are plenty—scattered over his chest; some from knives from what you can tell, others from scrapes and gashes that didn’t heal well, a few lingering marks under his chin and one that rested unspoken against his temple.

Your thumb grazes over the raised skin and Joel is quick to guide your hand away, but gentle. 

Joel mirrors the sentiment, admiring every inch of your body with a silent look, eyes focused on the trail of his fingers, the way you shiver from his touch.

His curiosity is like his touch—persistent, soothing. It’s easy to let yourself melt into him, let the heat and intimacy roll over both of you. You can see the exhaustion on his face, too.

It was a long day for both of you, too much violence and strife for any one person.

You’ve never slept so soundly next to him, but his touch returns in the morning.

His hands trail over you with such careful urgency, a man intent on giving, taking only the contentment that washes across your face, watching you rouse from sleep.

You shift beside him, pressing closer to the growing need that stirs between you both. His hand is incredibly wonderous between your legs as he guides your knee up, spreading yourself open for him as you shift more to your stomach. Joel pulls you in and his mouth grazes over your shoulder, each kiss a promise of something deeper, something more. 

His breathing catches when you move against his fingers, an unexpected vulnerability in the way he traces circles on your bare back with his lips and tongue.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and driving right through you like a knife. 

And he means it.

Heat pools inside you, spreading like a wildfire. Joel’s fingers dig into your hips as you push your shorts down, underwear pooling at your ankles before you kick them away and settle yourself against his cock as he hastily shoves them down, pulling a gasp from both of you. 

He groans softly and the sound sends a shiver down your spine.

You’re not eager, either—not as ravenous as usual. This was entirely for Joel and you were okay with that, in fact, you wanted it more than you cared to admit.

Joel presses his forehead into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your skin as he exhales,his fingers slide from your hips to cup your ass, pulling you further in. Your fingers twist into the sheets as you moan into your pillow, a weak sound that Joel wouldn’t have heard had he not been so close.

He’s warm and hard against you, letting yourself melt into it, into him. 

He moves slowly, each roll of his hips deliberate and electrifying. 

You moan again, unable to keep it in as he shifts his grip slightly to find the angle that makes you whimper and bite down into the sheets.

The sound of his breathing fills the air between you, ragged and raw.

The room is filled with the desperate sound of skin on skin and his soft noises.

“Fuck,” he whispers, more of a breath than anything

Your hand finds purchase in his hair behind you, clutching tightly as he thrusts deeper.

He’s pressed against every inch of your body, sinking into the sheets as his hand comes around your head, hovering over you lazily as he fucks you without urgency, hot skin against your own and you’ve never wanted something—someone, so bad.

The whole world narrows down to this—the two of you.

And you couldn’t be more satisfied.

-

Life had a sick way of give and take.

As you find your place, your comfort with Joel again, Ellie slips through his fingers.

The conversation about Ellie’s immunity was never something you were supposed to hear, but it came about during a hushed conversation late at night, sneaking out of Joel’s bed to the faint rumbling of voices.

“You don’t think it’s strange I’ve never met anyone else like me?” Ellie asked, coat and shoes on like she was prepared to leave—patrols never left this late.

There is nothing but silence on Joel’s end, glancing at her sideways from the kitchen table, his reading glasses perched on his nose and a book open in front of him, knowing Joel was riddled with an insomnia you’ve become familiar with.

“Ellie, enough,” you can hear the way his teeth grind, “we’re not talkin’ about this right now,”

You see his chin turn slightly behind him, sensing your presence. 

But, Ellie doesn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed.

“I can’t be turned,” she says suddenly, at you, “I’m immune.”

It was like a child rambling off her darkest secret, much to the dismay of Joel as his chair skirts back and he stands, a warning.

“She barely talks,” Ellie says offhandedly, and it stings, “who’s she gonna tell?”

There’s a brief flash of apology that shows on her face, but she focuses on Joel, simmering with a similar anger you’ve seen within him. It was damn near identical.

Later, after Ellie leaves for the night, you find yourself curled up against Joel, his fingers rubbing idly against your shoulder as he tries to sleep, but fails.

“What did you do?” you ask suddenly, turning your head up to look at him, his face emotionless.

“They wanted to test on her,” Joel tells you, like he’s reciting a script, “weren’t even sure it would work, it was just experimental. They wanted to dissect on her brain, all on a fuckin’ maybe—I saved her.”

“Is it what she wanted?” 

Joel pauses, eyes flicking down briefly and away from you, guilt washing over his features. 

“She deserves a life—that cure, it was a goddamn pipe dream, that’s it.”

You stay quiet, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you try to put yourself in his shoes, understanding the choices he made.

“I killed…” Joel starts hesitantly, not that his violent side was unfamiliar to you, “a lot of people, innocent ones to protect Ellie. 

“Does she know?” you ask curiously, not an ounce of judgement in your tone, something that Joel seems to notice, his shoulders relaxing.

He shakes his head in silence.

You nod with a somber understanding and curl into him, fingers tugging at the center of his shirt until he angles his body against your own. It takes time, but eventually sleep takes him, the warmth of you wrapped around him.

—

You had decidedly packed Joel’s bag for patrol a few weeks later, his first patrol without you by his side in almost two years, listening to the faint voice of Joel and Ellie on the front porch as you traverse the Miller home.

The tension between Ellie and Joel had risen to a point unfathomable—after she had discovered Joel’s wrongdoings, it had become a heavy point of contention.

And the party from a couple nights ago was the catalyst.

It was supposed to be a celebration for the town, nothing but joy to go around.

You’ve never seen Joel so helpless, attempting to defend Ellie in a moment of vulnerability, not realizing just how well Ellie has come to hold her own. She’d given Joel the full wrath of her resentment toward him and stormed off without a word, nothing but sadness on Joel’s face.

This conversation was a long time coming, months of build up and frustration culminating, hushed voices and broken whispers as Joel looked down somberly into his empty mug from the blinds you peeked through, hastily brushing away a tear.

He joins you in his room a while later, his belongings packed up in the chair at his desk, the lamp at his bedside table illuminating the room in a dull, orange glow.

“It was time to let go,” you assure him, knowing Joel had done everything he could to protect Ellie, “She’ll figure it out—and if she needs to, I’m sure she’ll come to you.”

Joel brings your knuckles to his lips, looking at you as he pressed a kiss to the skin before tugging you playfully forward, quickly swinging your leg over his thigh so you could straddle him properly.

“You’ll wake up tired in the morning,” you warn him, eager fingers digging into supple flesh, his thumb pushing the fabric of your shorts down, “Joel—seriously,”

“I’m dead serious,” he responds, using you as a distraction, eyes focused on the sliver of skin peeking from under your top, his thumb rubbing over the faded scar, your hand pressing to hold him there, “—sure you can handle a couple days without me?”

You nod assuredly, pressing a gentle and teasing kiss to his lips that he chases eagerly.

“You’re gonna make me wait, aren’t ya?” Joel asks, a slight chuckle in the back of his throat as you push him away playfully.

"Gotta make sure you come home to me," you tell him.

It was a big step, relinquishing the claim you and Joel had on one another, fearful that something horrible would happen if you two were to part—but you knew that Joel was careful, safe.

Even with hoard creeping closer and winter releasing it’s wrath this time of year, Joel had never been reckless. He was indestructible, really.

He’d survive—he’d come home to you.

Joel smiles lazily, breathing in your scent as he buries his face into your neck and rolls you into the bed, cuddling himself around your back.

It was a welcome change to not be treated so fragile, like you would break from a single touch—without Joel, you weren’t sure you would have ever reached this point.

To him, you were forever indebted.

Joel had fixed the things about you he’d never broken, rebuilt you piece by piece and reinforced the strength with his words, his actions—because without him, you weren’t sure you would have ever survived this long.

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.1. - Dark Entries

viktorxfemale!reader nothing filthy yet but will be :v, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 5,7K

author's note: Story time, it's boring, you can skip it. So: one day my cat dies. I start to write. Then, another day a person asks, can you write a Bridgerton AU? And I'm like yeh, sure, why not. It swells in my hands until I can't control it. From it blooms a crushing amount of beautiful artworks from you guys. Then, a person says, I like Victorian Era the most. The rest is history. I'm convinced that's how covid has started. If I ever end up doing a McDonald's AU hire a hitman and kill me painfully, make me fucking suffer. So, here you go, a gothic AU :') Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Surrounded by the scent of dust and the faint aroma of melting wax, you lurk in the academy’s library. What was once a sanctuary of solace now fails to provide the comfort you so desperately seek. In your hands, an envelope rests—its paper crisp and unmoved, despite the wear of its long journey. The wax seal bears the mark of a sharp V, devoid of ornamentation, one corner slightly crumpled, though you are certain you are the only one to notice.

Hidden among the towering rows of books, you grasp a letter knife, its blade gleaming faintly in the light of the candelabras. You regard it as though it were a life you were about to claim— as if it were not merely paper that would yield to your blade, but something far darker, its insides spilling only words, no organs to be bled.

Wincing, expecting red to spill from its violently torn mouth, nevertheless, you open the letter, still unbelieving that the V might mean what your mind has conjured. The paper inside is equally crisp, as though it had arrived directly from the pocket it was kept in, folded neatly, and its bloody insides glare at you in sharp, elegant strokes of a fountain pen.

13th of October 1851

Greetings,

I trust this letter finds you in good health, though it is with some urgency that I extend my proposal to you. I have been made aware of your commendable accomplishments in the field of linguistics, and I am of the belief that your expertise would prove invaluable for a certain task that I currently undertake.

Should you be amenable, I wish to offer you a temporary contract under the following terms:

A fair monetary payment, the sum of which can be discussed upon your acceptance.

Provision of food and shelter for the duration of your engagement.

The understanding that your services will be required until the task at hand is resolved.

This offer shall remain valid for a period of ten days from the receipt of this letter. After this period, the proposition will no longer stand, and I shall seek other avenues to fulfil the task.

Should you accept, I expect you at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

Viktor Velesny

You read the letter thrice, your hands trembling ever so slightly as you unfurl its edges, the sharp, crisp folds of parchment yielding to your touch. The words blur, then sharpen in your vision, each stroke of ink etching itself deeper into your mind with every passing glance. The third reading is out loud, your voice sounding foreign to you, hoarse and thick from hours of silence in the library. You had feared opening it for seven days, dread mingling with an eagerness you could not wholly suppress. The envelope, now empty of its contents, still weighed heavily in your palm. With only three days left, you knew tonight was the last opportunity to make a decision. You could either close the book on it entirely or surrender yourself to whatever unknown awaited you at his mansion.

For days you had worked relentlessly, pushing your research on ancient Greek texts to its absolute limits, your fingers aching from the effort. But it had not been clairvoyance that drove you to finish; no, it was the whispers that travelled faster than any letter. Gossip—blistering, scalding gossip—had swept through the academic halls like wildfire, and the tale of Viktor Velesny seeking external aid, however vague and fleeting, had reached your ears before he’d even put ink to parchment. The notion of this strange request—coming from a man whose reputation already stirred both dread and intrigue—had made its way to you before you even realised it.

You pointed a figurative finger to three other colleagues, even though you knew, deep down, that this particular invitation would ultimately find its way to you. It had to. As it arrived, your heart quickened in a strange mixture of fear and excitement, your colleagues' inquisitive eyes watching, perhaps with the faintest trace of envy or disbelief. Some were astonished at your consideration, others appalled you hadn't immediately leapt at the opportunity. That look—the one that lingered long after they caught wind of this peculiar summons—reminded you of the well-known truth: people were intrigued by the unknown, yet they feared it just the same.

And Viktor Velesny? The subject of this gossip? His reputation preceded him like a ghost, each whisper darker than the last.

Some spoke of him as a conman, a trickster who built his name on the broken backs of others’ credulity. He was said to be a charlatan, one who sold illusions of grandeur, pretending at knowledge he did not possess, preying on those desperate enough to trust his word. He was known to swindle patrons with false promises, only to disappear as swiftly as he’d arrived, leaving behind a trail of victims too ashamed to speak of their losses. His name was tied to failed endeavours, to reputations destroyed, to whispered accusations of dishonesty that always seemed to vanish into thin air, just as quickly as they were spoken.

Others, however, viewed him as a mad scientist, a delusional visionary whose fevered mind spun tales of grandiose ambition. The more extreme among his critics claimed he was a man who flirted with the very edge of reason, throwing his humanity aside for the sake of uncovering the forbidden knowledge that could undo the natural laws themselves. His obsession with the occult, with science, with all things esoteric and unnatural, bordered on madness. They spoke of experiments gone awry, of strange and twisted works that few dared to witness. Was he truly a genius, or was he simply a madman too lost in his own pursuit of the unknown?

And then there were the darker rumours—the faintest voices murmuring of a man of no honour, a man who would descend into the deepest circles of hell to fulfil his sickening ambitions. Dangerous. Delusional. A man who had supposedly sold his very soul to the devil in exchange for powers beyond mortal comprehension. Few dared to speak these words aloud, for to do so was to risk their reputation—or worse, their very sanity. Those who whispered of his brilliance did so in hushed tones, almost afraid that the mere utterance of his name would invite calamity. Some believed he was more than human, that he had crossed a threshold no one should ever cross, and that to aid him was to invite a curse upon oneself.

Your cheek is relentlessly chewed, your lips reddened from being constantly pressed together as you try to read this mysterious man’s intentions, deciphering them only from the curvature of the letters he’s bled in ink. From what you can comprehend, this is a linguistic investigation into something he cannot complete on his own. The unknown time frames for the endeavour unnerve you especially, but what excites you—this feeling crowns over all others—is the challenge.

An opportunity like that comes perhaps once in a lifetime, and the thought of spending another couple of decades—if you were so lucky—waiting for another after letting this one slip from your grasp fills you with no hope.

With trembling fingers, you dip the pen into the ink jar and scribble only a few words, the quiver in your hand preventing you from writing more.

20th of October 1851

Dear Mr. Velesny,

I accept.

Yours sincerely,

Jane Hathorne

Your name is signed with a flourish countering Viktor’s reserve with letters. Then, you blow out the candles and call for a messenger.

***

You spend the following day wrapping up last-minute errands and packing your trunk. The woman in you mourns all the garments you cannot fit, while the researcher side scolds her, insisting on taking as many books and papers as possible. They eventually reach a compromise by introducing another trunk to your previously planned, limited inventory.

It is only when you are about to step into the carriage that one of your colleagues comes running into the rain after you. The sound of your name echoes across the academy courtyard, and a few heads twist on their necks as eyes snap and ears perk up, eager to drink in the latest gossip.

“Have I forgotten something?” you ask, startled.

“No, I—” John, one of the few souls kind enough not to talk behind your back, stumbles out of the building’s mouth, chasing after you as if his life depends on it. “Are you certain you wish to go?”

“Oh. Yes, quite certain.”

“What if—” He hesitates, eyes darting with concern.

“What if? Do you fear for my health?”

“I’ve heard terrible things about him, you know,” he says, voice low but urgent.

“You and me both,” you reply with a sardonic smile. “And great things. And absolutely ridiculous things. So, if half of everything is true, he adds up to an utterly mediocre man.”

John looks unsure, wringing his hands as the rain soaks his coat. “Will you write?”

“Weekly. I will,” you promise, forcing a more reassuring smile. “You needn’t worry.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but finally nods, his concern still written across his face. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a final nod, you step into the carriage, leaving behind the academy—and John’s worried gaze—just as the rain begins to fall heavier. In its warm cloister, you drown in what you do best—research.

The texts before you vary in nature, some profoundly enlightening, others more dubious in their claims. There are scientific treatises, dense and methodical, dissecting the latest advancements in physiology and human anatomy—works penned by Viktor himself, sharp and logical, written with a mind that had clearly observed and analysed the minutiae of life with a surgeon's precision. You find his approach to medicine both bold and exhilarating, especially in his attempts to bridge the gap between the known and the unknown.

Interspersed with these are his more obscure writings, some of which veer into the realms of the occult. One text, On the Nature of the Soul and Its Astral Travels, delves into theories of spiritual manifestations and possession—strange, perhaps, but compelling in its rational structure. Another, The Resurrection of the Dead: The Theory of Reanimation, blends pseudoscience with arcane knowledge, positing that the key to immortality lies in unlocking the hidden potentials of the human body, a claim that strains credulity, yet has an undeniable allure.

Alongside these, you pore over an assortment of occult texts that were allegedly penned under Viktor’s tutelage or at least influenced by his growing fascination with the supernatural. The Aether and Its Influence on the Material World, written in florid prose, is far less scientific than his medical texts, but nonetheless an intoxicating read. You find yourself drawn to the rhythm of the language, and even as you question the plausibility of the claims within, you cannot help but be captivated by the intensity of the author's convictions.

And then there are the darker ones—tales of demonology, possession, and the dead who walk amongst us. The Unseen World: The Threshold Between Life and Death is a chilling account of the various occult practices that Viktor had reportedly studied, exploring ghostly apparitions and the interaction between the living and the dead. Some of it makes sense, neatly fitting into the framework of what you know of the natural world. But others… well, they stretch the boundaries of reason so far that they threaten to snap.

What connects them all, however, is their sheer passion. The fervour with which they are written grips you, pulling you deeper into the labyrinth of Viktor's thoughts and obsessions. Whether grounded in science or swirling in the more dubious realms of the supernatural, each text is a window into a mind that pursues knowledge with an almost feverish determination, unafraid to venture into realms others might consider madness. You find yourself lost in them, turning page after page, unable to pull away from the intense, consuming brilliance that flows through every sentence.

Impressed, is what you are at first. As a linguist, of course, most of all, you admire his ability with words, drawing his reader right into the realms of his mind. Intimidated, comes second, as Viktor begins to grow in your thoughts into a man who will indeed stop at nothing to satiate his passion and curiosity.

One of the treaties bears a picture—it is a portrait of Viktor, you presume. His expression is intense, almost ferocious in its focus, the kind of look that suggests he is not just observing the world, but dissecting it with a hunger that goes beyond simple understanding. His eyes are bright, sharp, as if they could see straight through to the very marrow of things, and they stare out of the page with an unsettling intensity. His features are aristocratic—high cheekbones, a square jaw, and sharply defined nose with a slight curve to it. His dark hair is neatly combed back, but there is a wildness to the way it catches the light, as if it rebels against being tamed, much like its owner. Two dark spots mark his face, decorating his undereye, and oh—his lips. Those you don’t dare to look at for too long.

The portrait captures him in an almost unnatural stillness, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. His posture is upright, rigid, a man of discipline. Yet, his hands—gloved, resting on a cane—seem poised on the verge of motion. The background is dimly lit, offering no distractions, leaving Viktor’s imposing figure to dominate the frame. The entire picture is bathed in shadow, except for a faint light that seems to follow the contour of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features and the gleam in his eyes.

It's a haunting image. An impression of a man driven by something darker, deeper—an insatiable desire for knowledge, perhaps, or something far more dangerous. There is an undeniable allure in the way he is depicted, a magnetic pull that you cannot put a finger on.

You trace a gloved touch through the paper, trying to read more into it. Your heart flutters when the carriage jolts over a cat’s head, and the parchment falls from your hand. With your mind full of ideas and presumptions, you decide to lean against the window and spend the rest of your journey memorizing the images flashing past.

And those, too, grow progressively more unfamiliar. The landscape outside the window unfolds like a painting, drenched in the muted light of the fading afternoon. The sky, heavy with brooding clouds, casts a pallor over the earth, as though the very air trembles in anticipation of something inevitable. The fields roll in endless waves of withered grass, their once-vibrant green now a weary brown, hanging on to life with a final breath before the frost comes to claim them. The hills, distant and indifferent, stretch out like weary bones, sloping gently, only to fall into a vast, oppressive nothingness—a barren, lifeless expanse that stretches endlessly before you. The land seems to sag under its own weight, as if the very earth itself has given up hope, awaiting the final kiss of winter's cold embrace.

The gloom thickens, devouring what little warmth remains in the air, until the world outside becomes a blank canvas—void, desolate, and endless. In the midst of this eerie silence, a dark shape slowly begins to emerge on the horizon, its form rising like a spectre from the desolation. A shadow, strong and commanding, breaks the monotony of the emptiness—the shape of Viktor’s home. Its silhouette looms against the darkening sky, an imposing presence rising out of the desolation, a dark monument to something unknown. Its walls, heavy with the weight of secrets, stand like a watchful sentry, ready to consume you whole.

It stands alone—a place that seems to absorb the very light around it, as if it exists in a perpetual twilight. The closer it draws, the more foreboding it becomes, pulling you into its vast, dark heart. And as the carriage moves ever closer, you wonder if the land itself, stretching out in weary despair, is simply a reflection of what lies within.

Your chin slides off your hand as the carriage approaches the main gates. A tall, stiff butler steps out, holding a black umbrella, ready to escort you the ten steps that part you from your future. He keeps his gaze lowered as he walks toward the vehicle, opens the door for you, and—before greeting you—swings the umbrella open.

“My lady,” he says, bowing his head. “Allow me to escort you. Master Velesny awaits you.”

“Oh, I take it the messenger got here safely?” you ask, taking his hand as you step out of the carriage onto the muddy ground.

“Yes, and he arrived with haste, for which Master Velesny is grateful,” the butler replies with practiced politeness and signals to two young footmen to take care of your bags. “I see you come prepared, my lady. Allow the boys to handle your luggage.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me—I couldn’t decide which books would be useful,” you say, neglecting to mention that one trunk is, in fact, full of velvets, not books. “May I ask your name?” you say, craning your neck, trying to take the house in.

Beyond the rim, the mansion looms—a stark silhouette against the slate-grey sky. Its façade, once grand, is softened by time; ivy clings to the stone, withered by autumn’s touch, its skeletal tendrils retreating from the ornate window frames. The first floor boasts tall, pointed arch windows, their leaded glass darkened by the overcast day. Above, a row of smaller lancet windows punctuates the steeply pitched roofline, lending the structure a solemn air. At its highest point, a narrow tower rises—a third level in miniature—its presence lending the house an air of quiet vigilance rather than menace. A pair of weathered statues flank the entrance, their faces softened by rain and years, watching as you step forward.

“Certainly, my lady. My name is Algernon Griffiths, and I have been in Master Velesny’s service for many years.” Butler’s voice makes your head snap back. He talks with pride as the rain drums against the stretched black membrane, and ensures you remain completely shielded from the drops, though his own shoulder is undoubtedly gathering dampness. “I am at your service whenever you may need me as well.”

“Thank you, Algernon, that’s—” You pause as you both step through the main door.

The hall is… intimidating and impressive at once. Something vaguely unsettling nestles in your throat at the strange shadows cast by the flickering candelabras, and you notice that not all of them are lit. Some remain empty of candles, while others hold fresh, unused wax, presumably reserved for the evening hours. Yet even in the husky daylight of this gloomy day, the space remains dark.

The ceiling stretches high above your head, where a wrought-iron chandelier hangs, its spiked ornamentation promising a clean kill to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing beneath it should it fall from its hook.

A curved double staircase straddles the far end of the hall, its dark wooden steps worn down at the edges near the winding handrail. The floor beneath your feet is polished to such a gloss that every sound bounces off it. And indeed, it is not the beauty of this space that has made you gasp, but the suffocating silence that presses against your ribs like a held breath.

“Master awaits you in the study, my lady,” Algernon urges gently, noticing your hesitation. “I assure you that you will be given a proper tour of the house and introduced to all the staff, but I’m afraid Mr. Velesny has insisted on escorting you upstairs as soon as you arrive.”

“Oh, certainly. Forgive me, it’s all very—” You gulp down the stale air and force a smile. “Enchanting.”

He nods, unimpressed, passes the umbrella to a footman, and extends his hand, motioning you up the staircase.

Your footsteps echo as you ascend, the creak of the worn wooden steps swallowed by the hush of the house. The balustrade curves beneath your gloved fingertips, polished but old, its edges softened by time and touch. The hall above yawns before you, lined with closed doors and dim sconces casting long, flickering shadows against the wallpaper—dark green, its pattern faded, some places curling at the seams.

The air is scented with books, wax and smoke, as if the house itself has been holding its breath for years. Your skirt brushes against the wooden floor, and the fabric's whisper is the only sound apart from the occasional groan of the planks beneath your feet.

At last, you reach a heavy wooden door, already ajar. Inside, dim afternoon light filters through the tall window, throwing pale, skeletal patterns across the floor. The scent of parchment and ink lingers here, richer, untainted by the cold draft of the corridor.

Algernon knocks anyway, his knuckles rapping lightly against the wood. “Master Velesny,” he announces, “your guest has arrived.”

Viktor stands by the window, his back to the door, gazing out into the grey afternoon. He does not turn fully, only angles his head, revealing his profile—sharp, as you’ve expected.

“Thank you, Algernon. That will be all for now.”

It is the sound that catches you off guard—something neither his writings nor the picture you studied in the carriage could have prepared you for. Heavy, thick, a slow roll of his tongue as it wraps around the vowels, his accent settling into the room tangibly. It complements his visage perfectly, and suddenly, you are grateful for the house’s silence, allowing his voice to echo undisturbed.

With a polite nod, Algernon steps back, retreating down the hall. The door closes with a soft click, sealing you inside the study.

As soon as it does, his shoulders slacken, and he turns to face you. His hands, bare, rest atop the handle of a cane. His stance is uneven, weight shifted onto one leg, his hips set at an angle beneath a pair of tightly fitted high-waisted trousers. A ruby velvet vest, its surface pressed with winding patterns, hugs his chest, and beneath it, a crisp white shirt peeks through. No cravat, you note—his high collar instead nudges against the sharp line of his jaw.

His throat peaks from thick material—a long, pale column, crowned by a chin that hangs low from his cheeks. His face is all sharp planes and hollowed angles, the skin stretched over pronounced bones beneath deep, sunken eyes. His brows, thick and furrowed, lend him an air of permanent concentration as he studies you—or, at least, you presume that he does.

And his eyes—oh. No picture, dulled in shades of grey, could have prepared you for them. Two rings of amber glide over your body, sharp and bright, like mead set aflame. Embarrassed, you drop your gaze, and it lands on his leg, hugged tightly by a contraption of metal and leather.

You shift, rid yourself of your cape, and wrap it around your forearms, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his gaze. If there are thoughts stirring behind those eyes, he does not betray them. His expression remains unreadable, sculpted into something close to stone.

"You took your time to reply," he says finally, blinking as slowly as an owl would. His voice curls around each syllable, daring.

"I... I had to run some errands before accepting," you reply, forcing yourself to maintain his gaze. Then, steadying your breath, you add, "I have met the deadline, have I not?"

"You have, for which I am grateful," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower. He takes a few measured steps toward you, graceful, you notice. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for your hand, fingers cool as they close around yours. He lifts it to his lips, the warmth of his breath pressing through the fabric of your glove.

"It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, my lady," he mutters against your knuckles, eyes still locked onto yours when lips come to press against the thin leather.

"Have we met in the spirit, then, without my knowledge?" you ask, your voice lighter than you intend, a thread of uncertainty winding through it.

His lips curl into the shadow of a smirk. "Ah, if you wish to go that far," he muses, rising and tilting his head, yet not letting go of your palm. "I am familiar with your work. And if I allow myself some presumptions"—his thumb brushes briefly along the side of your hand—"such as this: if you are as meticulous in your spirit as you are in your craft, then I would expect you have done your share of research on me." His eyes glint. "Therefore, our spirits have met. Metaphorically, of course."

"Bold of you to presume this much, Mr. Velesny," you counter, though there is no denying the way his words have wound their way beneath your skin. Presumptuous and cunning, this man has your curiosity piqued.

"Have you expected me to be anything but?" His lips quirk at one corner, the ghost of amusement there before it fades into something gentler. "And please—call me Viktor."

You speak your name in response, and the moment it leaves your lips, his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours. A slow squeeze. He smiles then, small but certain, as if tasting victory in the syllables.

Then, your hand is free, and Viktor turns toward the desk. Only now do you take in the room as it is—a cavernous space, dim, just as the rest of the house. Heavy drapes of deep burgundy frame mullioned windows, drawn back just enough to let in a reluctant sliver of day.

To your left, a fireplace yawns, unlit, its carved mantel adorned with a single brass candelabrum and a clock that ticks with an unsettling steadiness. The dark wood panelling along the walls bears the weight of countless bookshelves, their spines pressed tightly together, some worn to near illegibility, others pristine, their gilt titles catching what little light the room allows.

Viktor’s desk, positioned near the window, is a grand but cluttered thing—an ocean of scattered papers, maps, and instruments of his trade, the chaos strangely at odds with the meticulousness of the man himself. An oil lamp with a green glass shade casts a dull glow over the mess, illuminating the glint of a letter opener resting atop a half-folded letter.

A chair sits across from his own, clearly set for you. “Take a seat, please. This won’t take long,” Viktor says, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “You must be weary from your travels. I will leave the debrief for tomorrow, but I would like you to take a look at what we are dealing with.”

The we rings pleasantly in your ears—infuriatingly so—as you gather your skirts and lower yourself onto the chair. The leather creaks softly beneath you. Viktor does not sit. Instead, he leans over you, one hand braced on the cane, the other pointing a long, precise finger at the papers sprawled before you. His proximity is unexpected, his scent even more so—fresh, unadorned, untouched by perfume or powder. Like moss in an undisturbed forest. Freshwater drawn from a deep spring. Skin sunbathed and warm.

An insistent tap of his finger against the desk pulls you from your daze. You blink and focus on the papers. Letters—familiar yet unplaceable—are scrawled across countless sheets, some rough and uncertain, others more refined, as if Viktor had been attempting to capture them with increasing accuracy.

“This… looks like some proto-Slavic dialect,” you say slowly, tracing the edge of a page with your fingertip. Your brow furrows. “Forgive my bluntness, but have I wrongly assumed your accent to be Slavic?”

“Not at all. I am,” Viktor confirms, his voice smooth and clipped. His gaze flicks to the documents. “But this is no known language to me. I am at my wit’s end. Otherwise, I would not be calling for aid, as you may know.”

You nod, intrigued. “I have brought some books with me. We could compare sources tomorrow?”

“That would be perfect,” he says dryly, as if he’s expected you to do exactly that.

“How did you come across this?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“I was called upon for a job. Usual business. Seemed like a mediocre haunting at first.”

“Mediocre?” You tilt your head. “Are you truly this well-versed in ghosts, Viktor?”

His lips twitch, but it is not quite a smile. “Ah. By mediocre, I mean possibly a con,” he corrects. He shifts, standing upright again, his hands folding over the handle of his cane. “A family member trying to scare their relatives. A neighbour hoping to chase people away from valuable land. Hauntings of that sort are what I usually come across.”

“Usually, but not always?��� you ask, studying him.

“Not always,” he replies offering nothing more.

“So… are you a myth buster, then?” you tease, watching him closely.

“No,” he says without hesitation, his golden eyes locking onto yours. “I am a truth seeker.”

His gaze is sharp—challenging—but something beneath it feels measured, a shield. You sense a restraint in him, a man who has learned to temper his own excitement, to speak in careful tones that reveal nothing. And you wonder—when was the last time he had the opportunity to speak with someone as an equal?

“But I suppose you have heard many names granted to me,” he continues, tone even. “A con man. A devil worshiper. A mad scientist.”

“I’ve also heard of your brilliance,” you offer quietly

“Ah,” his lips curve, knowing. You hope he doesn’t read it as a pity. “And which one do you think to be true?”

“I do not know yet.” You hold his gaze. “I suppose I will have to find out for myself?”

“That you will, hopefully.” He exhales, straightening, the flicker of an expression unknown to you vanishing as he retreats behind composure once more. “I shall keep you no longer. Algernon will give you a short tour and escort you to your rooms. Your luggage should already be there.”

It’s a gentle but firm dismissal, and soon after, Algernon returns, inclining his head and ushering you politely through the study door.

As he guides you down the dimly lit corridor, his steps are even, his voice smooth and practiced. “I shall show you the most necessary rooms first. There will be time for a proper exploration tomorrow, but for tonight, I believe you will wish to settle in, my lady.”

The first door he gestures toward reveals a vast library, lined floor to ceiling with shelves of aged leather-bound tomes. A single chandelier sways faintly above, its candlelight flickering against dark wood and gold filigree. A sturdy desk sits by the window, and near the hearth, two deep armchairs face one another, waiting for occupants who never came. The scent of dust fills the air.

Next is the music room. Though smaller than the library, it holds an air of quiet grandeur. A grand piano dominates the centre, its polished surface reflecting the dim light. A violin and cello rest nearby, their strings long untouched, and in the corner, a harp stands draped with a fine sheet, as if to protect it from time itself.

“The guest quarters are also on this floor,” Algernon notes, leading you past a series of doors. “Though I do not expect they will be occupied anytime soon.” He moves along without pausing.

Descending the staircase, the house’s shadows stretch in strange ways, the flickering sconces offering little comfort against the vastness of the halls. The dining room is stately yet stark—long enough to seat far more than its apparent master keeps for company. The drawing room, in contrast, is lived-in, with a decanter of dark amber liquid resting on a side table, books left slightly out of place on a chaise, and a few logs stacked beside the fireplace.

At last, Algernon stops by a set of wide glass doors leading into the winter garden. The panes are fogged, obscuring what lies beyond, but the skeletal shapes of vines press against the glass. “You may visit the garden tomorrow during daylight,” he says, his voice lowering slightly. “But not tonight. The day has been especially dark.”

His words are peculiar, but you say nothing.

When you come back one storey, Algernon points to another set of stairs, far less impressive than the main staircase. “The master’s chambers are upstairs,” he states simply, and you wonder why on earth Viktor would choose to climb two stories daily when he clearly uses the cane not only as an accessory.

As you continue, one door remains conspicuously closed, and Algernon makes no mention of it, his stride never faltering.

Instead, he turns to you. “The household staff is minimal but sufficient. A maid will attend to you in the mornings and evenings, should you require assistance.”

At last, he stops before your own quarters and steps aside, allowing you to enter first.

Your bedroom is unexpectedly inviting, with a large canopy bed draped in heavy fabric, its dark wood carved with intricate detailing. A fireplace rests along one wall, unlit, but stacked with fresh logs. A writing desk sits beneath a wide window, its curtains drawn, and across from it, a modest yet elegant wardrobe stands ready for use. A faint scent of lavender lingers in the air—perhaps a lingering touch from the maid who prepared it for you.

Algernon lingers just outside. “Dinner is served at six. If you require anything further, do not hesitate to ring.” A pause, then with a slight bow, he departs, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality.

And for the first time since your arrival, you are alone.

Wasting no time, you sit on the bed and kick your shoes off. You sigh deeply and heavily, stacking the events of today in your head. Viktor is... nothing and everything you expected. Driven, yes. Eager, even more than you anticipated. And still, he manages to remain reserved, as if torn between reaching out and closing in on himself. A sadness of some kind lingers around him, but you try to withhold your pity. Is he the demon they paint him to be, or the genius you wish him to be? You do not know, but you itch to find out.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

I found my least favorite pages

Uggg. Yeah. No.

Like okay, with this one I could see them doing something really cool where they could use this as a lead in for Azula trying to dissuade her followers from fighting for the throne on her behalf. But I doubt that they will do that.

This second one has made me decide that I won't be getting this comic. I could write this off as a Mai POV joke but the phrasing of it is a bit too meta for my tastes. And given the vitriol the writers seem to have had for Azula fans in the past I feel inclined to take it at face value.

The only other time I've seen an author take such digs at a portion of their fanbase was when Rowling declared that there was something wrong with people who liked Draco.

Same energy.

It's just so disappointing because I could have sworn that Hicks seemed to like Azula and seemed to have taken some of the Azula fans' povs into account when writing the solo comic. Azula was portrayed sympathetically and some hope was offered. And then we get a complete 180.

It almost feels like baiting an mockery at this point and I'm borderline done with this franchise. Maybe I'm reading to deeply on this one but the writers have a history of making fun of portions of the fandom. I have no love for Zutara but the writers and official IG accounts like to make jabs at the shippers. I just don't have any respect for writers the stoke the flames of/actively encourage fandom drama and bashing portions of the fandom.

[holybibly]

So, bunnies, shall we talk? I'll start by saying that this post is going to be long.

So, here I am: Valerie, Mommy, Queen, Cult Leader, Dominatrix, Crazy, Bitch, Slut and many other nice nicknames.

Since the beginning of the blog I've always told you that you can call me whatever you want, I've never asked to be called mummy or any other nickname, if you've been following my blog for a long time you know that. I've talked about it in DMs, in replies to inbox messages and in posts. But nobody seems to care.

So let's clear things up:

A dominatrix is a woman who takes the dominant role in BDSM activities. The practice of BDSM is called female dominance or femdom. A dominatrix can be of any sexual orientation, but this does not necessarily limit the gender of her submissive partners. Dominatrixes are commonly known to inflict physical pain on their submissive subjects, but this is not always the case.

Cult Leader - Someone who leads a large group of followers with the intention of gaining financial advantage and brainwashing the followers into blindly accepting that their views are the only correct ones and anyone who disagrees is evil and must be banished.

Both of these terms have absolutely nothing to do with me and are offensive to me. I always turn things like this into a joke, trying to ignore something so insignificant, but this nonsense continues to spread.

Come on, if I were a dominatrix or a cult leader, would I be wasting my time writing fanfics? Are you serious? So stop throwing around terms you do not understand.

2. I have told you more than once or twice, if I close this blog, nothing will change in my life. Look, I have a well-paid, loved job, I am the princess of the office and an excellent manager for working with VIP clients. I travel the world all the time, I never deny myself anything, I have wonderful friends, two adorable cats and a huge collection of perfumes, and after all that, after an eight-hour day at work, cooking dinner, cleaning the house, doing yoga and pilates and other things, I come here and share my thoughts and stories with you. Do you think I will lose something if I stop? I would like to remind you that all the writers on the platform share their stories completely free of charge, we do it for entertainment and when you click the "read more" button you are shifting all responsibility to yourself. Based on logic and hateful nitpicking of certain words, I would like to point out that every author should mark the entire fanfic as one continuous trigger, because maybe someone's trigger word is "pink" or "pretty". My point here is that there are as many triggers/quirks/personal preferences/anxieties and sensitivities as there are people, and the one person you put all the responsibility on for knowingly reading dark or niche sexual content cannot be the scapegoat for your choices.

3. I have warned everyone several times about the content of my blog and the responsibility for the choices you make when reading my stories. These are some of the many posts 1. 2. 3.

But still you come here, insult me, humiliate me, advise me to see a psychotherapist, call my stories disgusting and this is just a small part of what I heard yesterday after someone threw a tantrum because I did not respond to DMs?

Speaking of which, I don't have to answer DMs if I don't want to, and I don't have to be nice and polite to everyone if I'm treated with contempt. And you won't scare me with phrases like "if you don't answer my messages, it won't be good". Can I personally choose whether or not to reply to me? Or are you prepared to show me an article in the constitution that obliges me to answer every message?

Have you ever considered that I have a life outside the blog? Or, according to the logic of the haters, I spend all day on Tumblr just waiting to attack, insult, sling mud or be duplicitous? I want to annoy you, I spend the day at the office and then go home to eat my hot dinner and watch TV series. I'm boring as hell.

4. I have said my age hundreds of times and I will say it again and again. Let's be serious, without hard evidence like the one I provided yesterday (I almost showed you my entire passport), the number in your bio means nothing. I already said this in one of my posts, give me a guarantee that you are not lying about your age. For my part, as an author, I point out that my content is not intended for minors, but even here it is my fault that they somehow still read it.

Let's blame Tumblr for not checking the authenticity of the information, or blame the parents who don't use "parental controls for this kind of content". Don't blame the content creators when the system of society itself can't control this issue.

5. I always give my bunnies a lot of freedom: from choosing an MC and a plot to choosing kinks and perversions. We even had a poll about what kind of smut they liked more: "hard, graphic and darker" or "vanilla, fluffy and sweet". Based on my content, which of the two options do you think won?

Everything on my blog is designed to make everyone feel safe about their sexual preferences, various intimate practices and other things related to sex and desire.

I also always encourage you to communicate and express your thoughts, and that is literally in every post I make. Everyone in our pink bunny space bears some responsibility for what happens in one way or another. Not directly, but nominally, because the connection between author and reader determines what content we publish, what style we write in, and how we talk to our followers.

I will express more of my thoughts another time, but to sum it up, what happened yesterday was absolutely childish, immature and at times hateful, aggressive and humiliating. This is called cyberbullying and, as I said, you can be held seriously accountable for it.

This is not just about me, I will defend my friends, my followers and other writers who face such injustice towards them and their content.

All the aggression and hateful, false phrases and insults that I heard yesterday have in fact subjected me to emotional abuse, and the saddest thing is that other users are spreading this information without even understanding what is happening. And judging by the cheerful emoticons and cheeky comments of the author of the post, he is having the time of his life and enjoying the fact that he has insulted me.

That's all for now.

[muffinrag]

Oh man. You're right. Okay -

Acclamation I can get behind. Maybe. I'd have to see it in action. But it's simple, it's clean, it's about as wide as a question mark, and it definitely gets across a bolder, more intense exclamation. It could be an acceptable alternative to multiple exclamation points. My misgivings are that the design might interrupt the visual flow of the text due to the backslash, and that the dot at the bottom might be too far out for it to flow well.

Exclamation comma is intriguing. It could work to get across a certain tone. I think it'd be interesting to experiment with. The design is simple enough that it would blend alright into a text.

Interrobang is my nemesis. I hate that thing, and it's entirely petty. It feels juvenile. I dislike the name of it, I dislike the design - imo it's too complex for a punctuation mark - and I genuinely believe that anything you'd want to use an interrobang for would be better served with a different combination of punctuation and contextualizing text.

Love point is cute, but that's it. It's far too wide; it would visually interrupt the flow of the text, and that alone disqualifies it entirely. It's also odd to me that it's two question marks mashed together, like the "love" is implied to be uncertain or questionable. I know it's trying to be the shape of a heart, but it just doesn't work.

Friendly period is an upside down whole note. I can't unsee an upside down whole note, and that unfortunately undoes the entire concept for me. An alright idea, but poorly executed. It's also too wide, and would interrupt the visual flow of the text.

Authority I'm kinda torn on. It's not the worst one on here. Again, the kerning might force the dot at the bottom out too far. I'm also just not sure about the design from a conceptual standpoint. The use of an exclamation point as the base implies a shout, anger, frustration, or urgency, with the cap on top to imply authority - but shouted authority is militaristic. Authority is supposed to garner respect. To me, authority should be calm, collected, straightforward and unquestionable, and the use of an exclamation point instantly undermines that. In my opinion, the punctuation point that most effectively expresses true authority is the humble period.

Rhetorical question mark is meh. Firstly, it immediately gives the vibe that you're writing in Spanish (although it's not facing the correct way, it still gives me that impression). Second, I don't like the period in the air. It's visually disruptive. And third, I just don't think a mark specifically for rhetorical questions is necessary. Which is, I suppose, why it's on this list of "dead" punctuation marks.

Doubt is fun. Doubt is flirty. Doubt has a little something going on. Doubt has the potential to be absolutely hilarious. However, much like many of the others here, its uses would be pretty circumstantial. It also has the potential to be easily mistaken for a simple question mark. Also, it kinda looks too much like a math symbol to work well in regular prose. I like it, but I, uh... I doubt if it'd work in practice.

The question comma is much the same as the exclamation comma. It could be subtly and cleverly used to manipulate the cadence and vibe of a piece of dialogue - that's where it would work best: in dialogue. Same with the exclamation comma. It'd be great fun to see these two well-utilized. Not terribly practical, not necessarily good for common usage, but in a novel willing to experiment with punctuation marks? Very fun.

Ultimately, there are two important things for a punctuation mark: the first is visual flow. It has to fit. It cannot disrupt the text. Punctuation marks should be virtually unnoticeable - the silent markers and rule enforcers, effortlessly signaling to the reader how the text should be read.

The second is that it has to have an obvious use. Most punctuation that we use can be used in multiple ways. They are extremely basic and versatile marks, and can work in tandem to bring out the emotion and nuance of a text. Most of these "dead" marks are flawed simply because they are too specific. The circumstances surrounding their use is too niche for them to become commonly used.

Have I mentioned that I fucking love punctuation? I fucking love punctuation

I love you dead punctuation marks.

[i-get-obsessed-fast]

So may or may not be self indulgent, but i just got done with a fantasy map for a progect im working on and i picture early seasons reid reading in the living room as i do it and after he finishes the series (bro reads 8 books in a sitting) he comes into the kitchen for a snack and seeing my very elaborate map making, complete with a coffee paper dye system and hes like ".....so THIS is what authors do when they get writers block" and the moment we call it stupid and childish he gets very personally involved in world building with us because creativity is nice

Omg this request is so interesting! I want to apologize firstly because I don’t know anything about fantasy maps so I kept it short & simple, I really do hope you enjoy it though! <3

Fantasy | Spencer Reid

The sound of a book snapping shut echos from the living room, followed by a satisfied sigh. Spencer must have finished reading the last book in his series - that he had started today.

Meanwhile, the kitchen table is a complete mess, sheets of paper, stained with coffee dye for an “authentic” aged effect, are spread out in front of you. Smudges of ink cover your fingers.

It started as a small distraction, something to break through your stubborn writer's block, or maybe it was procrastination, but either way, now it’s grown into a full-blown map-making operation.

You’re adding tiny rivers when Spencer finally wanders in, probably in search for a snack. He pauses, his eyes narrowing at the scene.

“Huh, so this is what authors do when they get writers block.”

You glance up at him, already grinning. “Caught me.” He steps closer, tilting his head as he examined the coffee stained papers. “You dyed these yourself?”

“Yup, authentic.”

“And the mountain ranges? The contour lines?” He study’s the paper, his fingers tracing over your work. “I got a little carried away.” You nervously laugh.

“So, you’re building an entire world instead of writing about it?” He looked at you, teasingly.

“Pretty much.” You tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear leaving a small mark on your cheek. “It’s stupid.” You add quickly. “And childish.”

“What, Childish?” He frowns. “A lot of creative authors do this. You’re constructing a geographical foundation, which is essential for world-building.” He leans over, his eyes scanning along a winding river.

“This isn’t procrastination, this is immersive, it’s…impressive.”

The warmth of his words catches you off-guard, but before you can respond, he pulls out a chair and settles in, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright.” He says completely serious.

“You’re missing a key. And borders. And I assume there are neighboring kingdoms? Trade routes? You’ll need those.”

You laugh, warmth filling your chest. “Alright captain Reid, any more ideas?” You giggle as you take a seat right next to him, the both of you getting lost in the world of fantasy map making. . .

Thank you for requesting!

I am going to get to the other req’s soon, thank you to all who read, like, and reblog. It means a lot!!

[itsnesss]

I have a request!!! Sensei Wolf x Reader Wife. Both are senseis from Iron Dragons, and Wolf gets jealous after a sensei from another dojo hits on her. And the students can only laugh discreetly at the sight of their sensei being jealous.

𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | sensei wolf × fem!reader

summary | at the annual martial arts exhibition, a new sensei openly flirts with you, drawing the immediate and intense jealousy of wolf

warnings | jealous/possessive behavior, mild aggression, heavy romantic/territorial attitude

word count | 0.7 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The Iron Dragons dojo had always been a place of discipline and respect, but also of camaraderie. Its students were used to seeing their senseis working in perfect sync: you and Sensei Wolf, a couple both on and off the tatami, led with firmness and passion. It was no secret that there was an unbreakable chemistry between you two, but what few had witnessed was how Wolf handled jealousy… until now.

Several new dojos had arrived at the annual martial arts exhibition, bringing their respective senseis with them. Among them, one, in particular, seemed too interested in you. A tall man with a confident smile and polished manners who never missed an opportunity to address you with comments that ranged from professional to dangerously flirtatious.

"It's incredible to see such a talented sensei like you. Not many can balance strength and grace at the same time." His gaze lingering on your figure did not go unnoticed.

"Thank you." You kept your response brief and professional, unwilling to play along.

However, before you could step away, Sensei Wolf’s imposing presence materialized beside you. His eyes burned like flames, his jaw was tense, and his posture spoke for itself—he was furious.

"Do you need something, friend?" His deep, dry voice cut through the air like a katana.

The other sensei, seemingly unaware of the danger he was in, smiled arrogantly.

"Just appreciating talent, Wolf. You have an impressive wife. You must be proud."

That was his mistake. Wolf stepped forward, his presence wrapping around you in a mix of possessiveness and territoriality. His hands clenched into fists, and though he wasn’t one to fight without reason, everyone in the dojo knew that if someone provoked him, the beast would come out.

"I am," he growled, "and I don’t need anyone else to appreciate her."

The tension in the air was thick, and your students, who had been watching from a corner, exchanged amused glances. It was rare to see their sensei lose his composure, and his almost childish jealousy entertained them.

You decided to intervene before things escalated.

"Come on, darling. It’s not worth it." You gently took his hand, pulling him away.

Wolf didn’t protest, but his body was rigid as he let you guide him out of the common area. The students barely waited for you both to leave before exchanging whispers and quiet laughter.

"I’ve never seen Sensei Wolf so jealous."

"If looks could kill, that guy would be dead."

But they weren’t far enough for Wolf not to hear. He let out a low growl, his arm tightening around your waist as he led you toward his private office inside the dojo.

As soon as you crossed the door, his grip became more intense, his mouth descending dangerously close to your neck.

"That idiot got under my skin," he murmured, his voice rough against your skin.

"You don’t have to be like this. I’m not interested in him at all."

"I know," he admitted, "but that doesn’t mean I like seeing other idiots looking at you like they have a chance."

His hand traveled to your hip, squeezing it with a mix of frustration and desire. The air between you grew heavy.

"Do you know how hard it was not to rip his head off right there?" he whispered into your ear.

"I think I noticed," you replied with a smile, enjoying his reaction.

His response was immediate. Before you could react, Wolf pinned you against the wall, his mouth claiming yours with hunger. The kiss was deep, desperate, as if he needed to remind you who you belonged to.

His hands roamed your back, pulling you flush against his body as his tongue explored your mouth with a dominance that left you breathless. There was nothing gentle about the way he took you—only pure, burning possessiveness.

"You’re mine," he murmured against your lips, his fingers tangling in your hair.

"Always," you answered without hesitation.

And when his mouth trailed down your neck, leaving scorching kisses to mark you, you knew this was his way of making sure no one else would ever cross the line again.

[bethanydelleman]

Re: the first name discussion

You mentioned that Mrs. Bennet called Mr. Bennet that even in family circles - so I was wondering how exactly did the rules work and how flexible were they? Was it okay to call your husband by his first name in front of family but not in front of people who were not family? I also notice (although this is my own observation) that men are way more likely to call their wives by their first names in public, than the women are. In Emma for example Knightly calls her Emma all the time (though that is understandable since he knew her as a kid), and Mr. Elton also calls Mrs. Elton Augusta in front of everyone. Also I understood that there was a sort of heirarchy to who could call whom by their first name: like Mrs. Elton could call Jane by her first name but Jane could not do the same. Frank says something in his letter like it frustrated him to see her name "bandiyed between them with imagined superiority" (I'm quoting from memory sorry if I get it a little wrong) Do you think there was some sort of gender heirarchy in play as well as men can take their wives first names easily but vice versa not so much ?

Okay, so the Reading Jane Austen podcast has discussed this and I've noticed myself while reading, but it seems like the rules probably changed over the course of Jane Austen's writing career and there seems to be generational differences as well. This is acknowledged in the preface of Northanger Abbey:

But with this, neither the author nor the public have any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon those parts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete. The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have passed since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and that during that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone considerable changes.

For example, we never hear Mr. or Mrs. Bennet's first names because they never use them. Mr. Bennet uses "dear" or "Mrs. Bennet" even when only his children are present, Mrs. Bennet calls him "Mr. Bennet." However, the younger Mary Musgrove in Persuasion calls her husband "Charles" all the time and he calls her "Mary". I think this may be generational, and I once stopped reading a JAFF because Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner were referring to each other by last name only (which isn't confirmed or denied I think in Austen, I don't know a scene where two old men of equal status talk to each other, but it felt wrong to me).

Up until Pride & Prejudice, women refer to men by only their last name after knowing them, "Willoughby" "Wickham" "Bingley," but that stops by Mansfield Park. Emma is appalled that Mrs. Elton calls Mr. Knightley by only his last name, but this may be about familiarity and rank (little and lower). Emma calls Harriet "Harriet" while she always says "Miss Woodhouse," which is clearly about rank. Mrs. Elton does a similar dynamic with Jane Fairfax which is less justified (Mrs. Elton is from trade, Jane is gentry, and their disparity isn't as wide as Emma/Harriet).

Family can use first names (Marianne Dashwood calls Edward Ferrars "Edward" because they are in-laws) and Edmund calls Fanny "Fanny" (she avoids calling him "Edmund" probably because she loves him and wants to create distance, usually calls him "cousin") Female friends use first names, male friends last names.

But yeah, I think that even over the course of Jane Austen's publishing, the rules changed and they aren't super clear, so I can't fully answer your question.

[honeyhotteoks]

I went to read the plagiarizing fic just to see for myself—they 100% took your fic and reworded all the plot points with Seonghwa.

It could have been just a super weird coincidence in the first few hundred words, but by the time it got to where the MC confesses to Seonghwa that she listens to his audios the fic reads almost the exact same as yours, line for line.

I hope the author posts an explanation soon.

i haven’t reached out to them or anything, i’m honestly a little tired of chasing down stuff when this happens which at this point is like every few months.

the thing about it that’s such a bummer is that like…. the idea of reader x sex worker member is not new at all, but writing compelling plots is like half of the entire point of writing. if you take someone’s plot like i think this person did, it doesn’t matter that it’s a different member or that my exact phrasing wasn’t used….. you still ripped out the soul of my fic and repackaged it.

i don’t know. it just gets really exhausting posting work for free and being excited to share it knowing some people are ripping it off or god forbid feeding it into chat gpt or something.

i appreciate you throwing me a second opinion here tho! very often in these situations i give huge benefits of the doubt, or im afraid to say yes definitely this is stolen bc what if im just reading into it? but knowing at least two other people agree is helpful.

[dsireland86]

YOU KNOW I'M REQUESTING SOMETHING 💗

I'm feeling I need some more Dad!Noah in my life. How about the reader is having her baby shower (she is more towards the end of her pregnancy). Noah shows up at the end with flowers for her, admiring her as she interacts with everyone. That night, the reader ends up going into labor. I just need to read some Dad!Noah. Him helping the reader through the labor, holding their baby for the first time, etc. I know you will work your magic 🥰

Author's Note:

As you can see, there are two requests attached to this one-shot. The first one is for a Tumblr bestie, and the second came in a few days ago, so I thought I'd tag team them both since they are a little bit the same yet a little. different. 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

Author's Note pt.2:

As I was writing this it took me back to the first Dad Noah fic I wrote; Beautiful Things, and the main idea of this new story kind of fits in well with that one. So I guess really, this is a part 2 to Beautiful Things. Thanks to my two lovelies who sent me both of these requests and helped me tap down deep into passionate fluff side of my brain. I'd been wanting to write something like it for a while.

You can read "Beautiful Things" HERE if you haven't yet 😊

The Unexpected

Tag list:

@philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @thisbicc @lacy1986 @dominuslunae @shayzillaaaa @mrsnoahsebastian @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @stardustsirenmelody @romanreigns-supreme @anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @rumoured-whispers @myownthoughts12 @sister-sebastian @missduffsblog @bngurngheart @somebodyllelse @xxkittenkissesxx @dizzylmwahh @kenjipepsi1 @blackveilomens @chey-h @disappearintothegrey @jilliemiw86 @pathion @fear-its-beauty @an0mallly @potterheadquinn @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @montgomery-929494 @flowery-mess @bloody-spades @missduffsblog

If life had taught him anything in the past twenty-nine years, it's that nothing ever goes the way you plan for it to go. High school plans, college plans, job plans, personal life plans, family plans; none of it. Noah never intended on getting married so young, never intended on adopting a child before thirty and he never, ever thought that shortly after adopting their seven year old little girl, that his wife would get pregnant. They were told conceiving would be harder for them compared to most couples. But God had other plans and she did, and they were never happier than they were that day in the hospital as a family of three, watching the camera swirl over her bulging belly and seeing the beautiful little life moving around inside.

It was their creation, something that was made from the purest kind of selfless, passionate love that existed in the world. It was better than any music Noah ever wrote or any visual concept he came up with for a show. It was his and only his; the three of them. His two girls and... well...

"No, put that over there, it goes over on that table," the lady told Nicholas, who held the plate full of fresh fruit. He nodded and went straight to work, putting it in place and arranging the utensils and such around it accordingly.

"What about this?" Folio asked, hold up two bowls with what appeared to be tangled yarn and scraps of paper. The older lady smiled at him. "That goes over there on that table, dear. It's a game." She smiled again as Folio thanked her and headed over in the right direction.

"She called me dear," he gushed at Matt as he sat the bowls down on the table. "I think someone has a crush," Matt teased him. Folio turned around and looked back at the lady. She was still smiling at him then gave him a quick wink.

"Oh god! She just winked at you," Matt laughed, turning around quickly to hide his laughter. "Who winked at who?" Jolly asked, joining in on the conversation. "The lady over there who's probably old enough to be Folio's grandmother," Matt explained, still chuckling. Jolly looked over in her direction and grinned. "Well, if that's what grandmothers today look like, then sign me up. Damn!" Matt rolled his eyes. "Oh for god's sake," he groaned, no longer laughing.

"What's happening over here," her sweet voice rang out. The three guys turned and looked over at Noah's wife who was thirty-three and a half weeks pregnant with their new little niece or nephew. "Nothing Käraste," Jolly informed her, leaning in and kissing her cheek. "Hmm? Doesn't look like nothing. Folio's cheeks are blood red," she pointed out with a smirk. Folio looked away even more embarrassed.

"How's this little one," Matt asked, placing a hand on the large bump, feeling the life inside move around.

"Still cooking," she sighed, taking a sip from her water cup.

"Hey, you, it's almost time for you to come out and meet your family. Hurry up so we can have your mommy back again. I need my assistant," Matt told the baby before planting a soft kiss on her belly.

"Is that all I'm good for, Matt Dierkes?" she chuckled.

"Well, that and cooking," he smiled.

"Oh, you dog!" she cried, punching Matt playfully in the shoulder.

After the adoption and the surprise pregnancy, teaching grew to be too much for her, so she took a temporary leave of absence from her job to focus more on her growing family. Nothing could've made Noah happier. He loved having his beautiful love near him everyday, where he could feed off her strength and support and not have to fight the monkey on his back that was hell bent on making his life hell. She was the constant flow of fresh water his soul needed. Then there was their daughter; a picture of pure resilience, strength, and sweetness. Her previous home life wasn't ideal, and there had been a lot of trauma involved, but after a few in-house meetings with her and the social worker, they both knew she was meant to be theirs. Luckily, the adoption process went smoother than any of them expected, another sign that it was meant to be, and in just a little over ten months, Noah and his wife were parents. A few months later they celebrated their little girl's seventh birthday, and nine weeks later found out she was pregnant. It was a whirlwind of events and all of it came and went so fast. But it was their life now. Their beautiful life.

"That was Noah," Nicholas said, once he was off the phone. "He said he tried calling you but you didn't answer."

"Typical," Jolly and Matt said in unison.

"Hey! It is not!" she cried in protest.

"Uh, yeah it kind of is," Folio agreed with a cheeky grin.

"Anyway, Noah said he's running late and to start without him. He's on the way."

Everyone nodded and dispersed, informing the hostess of the baby shower who was a co-worker and close friend of hers, of what was going on. She was nervous, thinking Noah wasn't going to make it in time. This wasn't just a baby shower. It was the day they revealed the gender of their sweet little one. She really needed him to be here with her for it. It was important, and Noah knew it. So, she took a breath and sat down, trusting in Noah to make it in time because he always did when it came to the important stuff. He never missed out.

Her daughter came skipping out of the house, following in the footsteps of her Uncle Brian, ready to help him take pictures. Photography was her new passion and with the small digital camera she got for her birthday, wherever Brian was with his camera, so was she.

The shower started and everything went smoothly. Noah made it in time, even managing to stop and get her a bouquet of her favorite flowers on the way. As he quietly walked through the house, past all the pictures on the mantle and walls, Noah stared out into the back yard with eyes searching for only one thing. Once he found his target, a wide smile sweeping across his face.

She never looked more beautiful to him than she did at that moment. Her hair was piled high on top of her head, she wore no makeup, and had the biggest, brightest smile on her face. She was graceful and kind, even though Noah knew how miserable she was feeling given the text she sent earlier, but the best thing about her was how she incorporated their daughter into just about everything she did. It moved Noah's soul, making his faith in God a little bit stronger. They still had crap to work out, but so far, he'd been good to Noah, and Noah was grateful. Matt stood behind her as the protector of her that he was, making sure she was safe and out of harm's way. Nicholas was right beside her taking the gifts as she opened them and Jolly was close by with a trash bag, collecting the wrapping paper as she handed it to Folio. Noah watched his family in sync with one another as tears filled his eyes. These unexpected, beautiful things just fell into his life, showing up at the perfect time and taking their proper places as puzzle pieces in the great puzzle of his life. He knew this was how his life was meant to be; a husband, a father, a brother, and a friend. If you had told him at fifteen when he left home that this would be his life thought, he would have laughed in your face and gave you the middle finger.

Her heart was racing. Noah wasn't here yet and it was almost time. The pain in her lower back wouldn't go away, giving her a lot of discomfort, and the pressure beneath her belly was a little stronger than it was an hour ago. Fighting the tears she continued smiling and being as gracious as she could be, but it was all starting to become a little too much. Nicholas could tell, from the look on her face and Matt could tell by her body language.

"You're not alright, what's wrong?" Matt asked, the concern thick in his tone.

"I'm not sure. But something is off. I need Noah. Like, I really need him. I feel like I'm going to have a panic attack," she whispered, taking a deep breath.

"Hey here he comes," Nicholas said, settling her fears instantly.

With Jolly's help, she stood up as Noah's arms caught her and swept her up in a strong, loving embrace. Noah breathed her in, burying his face against her neck. He whispered words of comfort and reassurance to her, instantly chasing away all the stress and fear that was rearing up inside her. He gave her the flowers, smiling when he saw the look in her eyes, and kissing her passionately. He felt the way her body relaxed, almost as if melting into him. She'd been needing him more than he realized and he cursed at himself for making her wait as long as he had. His daughter clung to his leg, begging for her daddy to pick her up, which he did, and brushed the loose brown curls out of her face. He kissed her cheek, giving her "daddy's funny kisses" as she called them, laughing at the way she wrinkled her cute button nose. Noah loved her laugh and hearing her call him daddy made his heart soar with so much pride.

Kissing his wife's forehead, they walked over to where the gender reveal would happen, placing his daughter down after telling her he had to help mommy. His wife leaned over some, clutching the lower part of her belly. The pain wasn't unbearable, but it was there, a slow, non-persistent pain that would come and go. She assured Noah she was fine, but he kept his arms around her just the same, standing behind her with his hands resting on her belly. She leaned back into him, knowing he was there to hold all of her weight and be her support. Noah wasn't going anywhere, and the thought made her cry. He was hers forever. This life they had built together was hers forever, and she felt like she had or never would love her husband as much as she did at that moment.

Jolly, Folio, Matt, and Nick did the honors of announcing the gender, with each one holding a covered confetti container. With Brian and their daughter ready to take pictures, they pulled the strings, and revealed the big secret; a girl.

He ran her a bath of hot water and helped her undress. After such an eventful day, she was past the point of exhaustion and still in a great deal of pain. Her lower back just wouldn't stop hurting, and the harsh pressure that was coming and going a little more rapidly now wouldn't let up. Noah said it was from being up and on her feet too much and pushing herself too hard, and he blamed himself for not being home to help her. He got in the bath first, then helped her in, slowly lowering her into the water. Even though he'd never helped or even been around a pregnant woman before, it seemed like Noah knew exactly what to do and how to do it for his wife. He slipped in behind her, pulling her back against his chest and feeling her entire body melt into him. The drastic difference of their skin was something Noah loved to see, her porcelain complexion against his dark, colored skin, making such a loud difference. Before he even touched her, he watched her belly move as the little hands and feet of his daughter moved so actively inside her mommy's tummy. When he touched her, though, the movements stopped, almost as if the baby had been begging to feel the touch of her daddy's hand.

She sighed, finally feeling a lot of much needed relief. Noah's hand traveled down beneath the water and over her sex and he grinned at the first little hitch in her breath that he heard. He knew what his wife needed and was more than willing to give it to her.

"Pull your legs up, princess," Noah whispered, and she did, full of eager anticipation for the much needed pleasure her husband was about to give her.

His hand found her sex, fingers floating over it slightly, searching for the one spot that would send her to heaven and back. Slipping a finger slowly inside her, Noah groaned deep within his chest at the slight gasped moan that fell out her mouth. Her head fell back against his shoulder as he worked her nice and gently, taking his time when slipping a second one in. His wife grinded against his fingers, desperately seeking for anything that was going to give her what she needed.

"You like that?" Noah asked quietly as she moved against him. Her hand found the back of his neck, and she gently pulled on the short locks that her fingers touched. "Mmm, god, you know I do, baby," she muttered. Her eyes were closed, completely focused on the feeling of her husband's fingers inside her, finding her g-spot so easily. "I love you so fucking much, princess," Noah groaned, feeling her clench and unclench her muscles around his fingers. Soon, he had her moaning beautifully, just for his satisfaction, giving him all the necessary will to make her have an orgasm. "I can't. It's not a good idea," she panted, wrapping her hands around his wrist. "Shhh, relax. It's totally safe, you know it is. You heard the doctor yourself, baby," Noah reassured her, kissing her temple. "Let me pleasure you, help you feel what a woman should feel like."

Noah thrusted his two middle fingers up inside her a little harder, and she made the sounds that only she could make that got him excited. His hands found her breast, so full and luscious, rubbing them just the right way that had her begging him not to stop. "You're about to cum, aren't you?" he asked sweetly, slipping his arm beneath hers then around the front of her chest to grip her shoulder. "Mmmhmm. Noah, please don't stop," she begged, digging her nails into the skin of her knees. "I won't," he promised, feeling almost at the edge himself. "Princess, keep moving against me like that. Don't stop," he muttered through gritted teeth and lips that were pressed against the skin of her neck. "Noah!" she cried softly, letting out a soft whimper as her orgasm swept over her. Noah kissed her neck, breathing her in deeply as he found his release, too, pulling her tight against his chest so they could chase the moment together.

He helped her out of the bath once he was dressed in a fresh pair of boxers and sweatpants. Noah's shy smile at her when she climbed out of the tub made her heart flutter, but that flutter turned into worry as he helped her dress into something comfortable. The tight pressure and harsh pain in her lower body returned, and she told Noah that something wasn't right. Doing her best to breathe through the pain, it hit her that she could possibly be in labor. Noah froze. It was still too soon. They still had two and a half weeks left. He shuck it off, suggesting maybe she just needed to lie down, so she agreed and took her husband's offered hand. But on her way over the bed, a sudden flow of water, almost as if she had peed herself, soaked her pants and made a small puddle beneath her feet.

"Oh god! Noah! I think my water just broke!

Noah flew like a bat out of hell to the hospital after waking their next-door neighbors and asking if they could watch their daughter. Noah was never more grateful for the kindness of others. He got her to the emergency room and told the lady at the front desk what was happening, and quickly, she called for help. This was it. This was the day Noah had only ever thought about, believing it could never happen for them. But it did, and as he watched his beautiful soon to no longer be pregnant wife, his heart exploded with joy. He held her close as they waited and wiped the few tears that slipped down her beautiful face when she looked up at him. Placing his hands on her belly, Noah got down on one knee and kissed it for the last time, knowing he was going to be holding the life inside shortly. The whole thing was too much for him and he found himself talking to his daughter as he cried softly and quietly. His wife watched in sheer bliss despite her discomfort, undeniably falling more in love with the man before her.

The nurses came, got her into a room, and helped her dress into the proper clothing shortly before the doctor came in. He checked her dilation and was pleased to say she was at a full nine centimeters, and it would only be a matter of time. Twenty-two minutes later, Noah watched his wife deliver their second child, bringing the third most beautiful thing to him into the world.

Pregnancy and birthing was a serious miracle that Noah would forever highly respect. It amazed him, watching his wife and child grow so fast in less than a year and nothing would ever compare to knowing what he knew about what a woman went through just to bring another life into the world. His wife was a force of nature, a warrior, and the bravest person he knew, and knowing he had three of the most powerful beings on the plant under his protection, he would never doubt his place or purpose in this world, ever again.

[ere-the-sun-rises]

Y'know, my sister reads a lot of fantasy and romantasy books written by men and women and I've noticed a few things.

1 - "Fairy smut". What the fuck does this mean? What the fuck are you referring to here? What are the conditions that make it so? Because otherwise it just sounds derogatory to an outsider like me.

My sister read a series authored by a man (not GoT) that had copious - arguably even gratuitous - amounts of sex it in. Graphic sex, both consentual and not. Sex that arguably did not serve the plot or mean anything to the character. It didn't build depth or attachment or do worldbuilding - it was just there. The woman the MC wound up with was underdeveloped and kinda inane, but he still got one despite eschewing women's company most of the series and being hostile to any he came across. Is that not "fairy smut" too? It had lots of sex in a fantasy world - does that not count or something? Was it the rape and/or sexual coersion that disqualifies it? Because more than one of the "booktok" romantasy books have that too.

And arguably, all the sex that happens in romantasy books DIRECTLY serves the plot of the book. That's it's primary objective. So, checkmate, I guess.

2 - Content warnings. I've noticed women authors have started to put little spoiler-free warnings flagging things like rape or sexual abuse content while other "regular fantasy" books don't.

This isn't a complaint so much as a curious observation. Perhaps these women have fanfic roots or realize that getting jumpscared by a graphic rape scene is not very fun. (That is a personal experience - was reading a book about dragon riding and literally out of nowhere the MC got graphically and violently raped by an otherwise inconsequential character. Afterwards, the book moved on like it hadn't happened and I was so upset I never finished it.) I actually quite like those little notes. Maybe more authors should do it, but I also understand why they might not.

3 - "Romantasy". What? Why? It's just fucking Fantasy, babes. I was always under the impression that Romance books were real-world AUs, be it present or historical (ei. regency, medieval, etc.) and Fantasy books were defined by elements of supernatural/creatures/other humanoid species/taking place Not Here. If a book has a fantasy setting, it's a fantasy book. Does that make sense?

And don't get me wrong - I understand that there is genre crossover. I'm not saying that's bad or wrong or non-existent. My point is that labelling it separately demeans it. Kind of like when Sci-Fi disinherited the dystopia!AU progenitors that formed YA.

[Side Tangent] Let's be real here, dystopia!AUs are Sci-Fi. Halo: SILENT STORM and The Hunger Games are both about a 15 year old forced into a do-or-die situation where failure and/or disobedience can get them killed and their whole home annihilated. Never thought Master Chief and Katniss Everdeen might have something in common, huh?

4 - I think men should read fantasy romance more, actually.

A lot of men whine about not having access to the way women think or want to be wooed. Well sweetheart, work your way around a few of these books and you'll have a better idea. Just be aware that some of the stuff you'll encounter is kink shit (ei. anything about being "tamed" is kink fr fr - she wants to be taken care of without having to ask for it and by god does that get her off).

Also, it will improve your dirty talk. Ever wonder why women can summon up some of the nastiest, filthiest dirty talk you've ever heard? Because they read and/or write it. Who knows, maybe you'll discover something about yourself too. After all, porn only shows you how it looks, it doesn't describe how it feels.

[reingkings]

"Can you recommend a fanfic where the characters are closer to their versions in the series? For example, I saw someone write that they are writing a fanfic where Gi-hun is much closer to his version in the series."

Apologies for the delay. This question really stumped me, if I’m honest ;-; Mostly because I don’t know what “closer” means. I think there’s many different interpretations we can have based off canon. Here’s some I like from a canon-compliant character study lense:

lighter fic:

> Protective Measures by faintneko

Outsider POV from Sae-byeok’s perspective. No Squid Games AU, but the adjustments are accurate. The character voice is very strong in this one.

> this morning, this evening, so soon by layoyo

A what-if story exploring if Gi-hun got on the plane. I love stories that feel like gentle rain, and this one I think is one of them. It follows Gi-hun very closely in the process of grief and healing, and In-ho here is very much a “reaching out to you and hope you take my hand” version.

> When Will You Return + Sequel by Lust4Wife

This premise of this story is what if Gi-hun had never entered the games and met Il-nam before he passed, only to be left a small bit of inheritance. If you want a fic that feels like S1 Inhun, this is a very strong contender. I will note it’s in mandarin (I used google translate to read it), though it has an English translation. I still prefer the mandarin one. I think the English version was written to sound “perfect” to natives but it sacrificed a bit of the nuance.

> One Rainy Night In Seoul by hl14

A canon-divergent fic in which a 2015 In-ho meets Gi-hun before he becomes the Frontman, and it changes his life. hl14 is an authors whose body of work I think exemplifies the different ways In-ho and Gi-hun can be interpreted while still feeling like their canon selves.

> in other words, please be true by songxiong

This fic is a fascinating one in that it has the same premise with the opposite take: In-ho meets Gi-hun before he becomes the Frontman – and it finalizes his decision to become him. One of the earlier fics I read in the fandom and it really helped refine my perception of In-ho’s possible motivations.

> Сyclicity by Dragira_Dje

Canon AU in which every time Gi-hun dies he gets a redo, but he still joins the games. Magical realism take on canon essentially (and I know I’m cheating a little with this one). I particularly really liked the character voice. It felt very much like Gi-hun.

> The Life and Times of Worker 456 by Nite_Rose

A fic in which Gi-hun is a worker instead of a player. Based on the premise, it might not sound like a character study but I think it can definitely be seen an exploration of how different choices could lead to different outcomes, while still staying true to Gi-hun.

darker fic (heed the tags):

> i don't dream of unicorns by ha1lmary

A post-season 2 fic. We get really in Gi-hun’s head for this one and it’s just about as heart-wrenching as the first time I watched the finale. You really see Gi-hun fall apart. Which you know, is my cup of tea.

> sheepskin by throwafit

Explores the premise of “what-if Gi-hun chose to get on the plane” as well but it’s a different interpretation than this morning, this evening. In this one, In-ho’s machinations are more intense, and I think you it really emphasizes Gi-hun’s loneliness.

> Ghost of the Longing by Beb

An In-ho POV fic where he pretends to be a ghost to haunt Gi-hun after his “death.” In-ho feels very keen and spider-y in this one if it makes sense. I do so love the wolf-among-the-sheep character exploration of him.

> i'm your man series by gaycultivators

Canon-adjacent fic in which In-ho pretends to have sex somnia in order to have his way with Gi-hun. I think it plays well with the tension of what we know as an audience and what Gi-hun knows, and particularly enjoyed how it portrays In-ho’s brand of manipulation.

> Take the Bait by crankyLilah

Intense character study of In-ho’s POV from season 1 to the present. The undercurrent of obsession and delusion is impeccably interwoven into the events. It’s just poetry, really.

~ * ~

Anyway, I have 100+ bookmarks so I can be here all day. I mean just based on canon-adjacent character studies only I had to exclude a abo fics, historical, fantasy (please ask me for fantasy recs ;-;) etc since characters are affected by the world they live in. If you enjoy any of these, please remember to give the authors their flowers 💐

[simply-simplid]

I really love the way you write JackieNat and their characters and I was wondering if you have any fic recs from other writers?

OUGHH!

Omg I'm so scared to fuck this up and accidentally leave someone out but I'm going to try my best

Okay so for individual fics:

Stole My Tortured Heart by angelofyourhell

-Fake dating AU JackieNat. Hurt/Comfort beloved,,,

Drunk Walk Home by that_one_urchin @thatoneurchin

-I'm desperately waiting on this one's return,,, all of this author's writing is so good

Collision Course by chileicantwithyall

-Still updating- I love the slow burn with this one <3

Writer Recommendations:

Okay so Passionpita @passionpitawrites was the final straw that pushed me into writing fanfiction for the first time in 8 years so I would be remiss if I didn't tell you to go read literally anything from them- specifically Lacy and the Grudge is what did me in but I'm so quick to consume anything they write

and you can do no wrong with anything that AspenRoman @aspenroman writes- truly carries the 12 JackieNat truthers on their shoulders

IM ALSO DEFINITELY LEAVING OUT A BUNCH PLEASE COMMENT YOUR FAVORITE JACKIENAT FICS AND WRITERS PLEASE

[caitlynkirammansrifle]

hi!! curious question but what are ur favorite caitvi fanfics written by other authors? been wanting to know if there are any good ones I haven’t seen yet 🥰

also, if you haven’t read it yet I recommend The Sea For Your Embrace! It’s the only caitvi pirate AU i’ve read so far but it’s soooo good: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63102706

really looking forward to the pirate AU and ur updates for Low Lays the Devil & Tethered! ❤️ big fan of ur work :)

Hi!! I'm so happy to you like my stories!! Thank you so much! ❤️❤️❤️

For CaitVi, and fanfiction in general, I haven't read that much lately, if I'm being honest. It's not because I don't want to, but because 90% of my free time I have has been dedicated to writing the fics I'm currently working on that there's just not enough spare time I have to read. I used to read way more, but I honestly fell out of fandom life in general a few years ago prior to Arcane, so I just haven't engaged much with fanfiction or tumblr for a bit. Only these two fucking characters could pull me back onto this gremlin house of a website 😂

I shall add this pirate AU to my TBR bookmarks! Thank you for the rec😁

Maybe if I lose steam/inspiration for writing, I can take some time to read more fics, but for now, I'm riding this wild ride of 3 months straight of inspiration until I hit a wall, which hopefully never comes 🤞🏻🤞🏻

Below are the CaitVi fics that I've remembered bookmarked on AO3 (I'm honesty terrible at remembering to do that), it's just a shorter list than I'd like, unfortunately.

I Would Bring You the Stars and the Moon by @gutterwitchao3 obviously this is a must read for anyone in the fandom. So. Fucking. Good.

The Space Between Us by @runephoenix6769 criminally underrated fic and I really would love to check out their other CaitVi fics when I have time.

Is it casual now by @atomicjellyb3an love the kind of post-canon/canon divergence traumatized miscommunication story.

i don't want you like a best friend by an excellent one shot (ohwhatirony) no tumblr link that I could find, so here is their ao3 works link. I am a sucker for a good fic with pining!

Every Moment in Repose by GimmeTheFeels (no tumblr link that I can find, so here is their bluesky). This one is only semi-selfish because they based it Emir from my fic "Heart Made of Glass, My Mind of Stone" but it's really so good if you liked that character and the attention to detail is wonderful!!

That's all I have for right now. I'll definitely take recommendations!❤️💙

[your-local-depressed-fangirl]

This pisses me off so much!

i just wrote a review:

Archive of our own is a lovely website where authors who may not have means of proper publication can share their works for others to read. The achieve has all sorts of writing with many themes but they are all written with passion. People put their work onto the cite for free for others to enjoy. Labelling the cite “tasteless” is a huge insult to everyone who pours their soul into writing on this cite. Some may write about frowned upon subjects however it’s built to be an archive for everything writing and censorship of the cite is censorship of human voices. This was clearly approved with a heavy bias and should be corrected as soon as possible as it’s a clear attempt to silence creative minds.

DID YOU WAKE UP THIS MORNING TO FIND AO3 BLOCKED ON YOUR WORK OR SCHOOL WIFI?

So, something has happened overnight.

Many major companies and institutions use a tech called Cisco Umbrella to block “potentially objectionable” domains - porn, violent content, etc. Cisco Umbrella primarily works using categories, which, while changable by users, are pre-set by Cisco. So Cisco builds a list of websites which are, for example, "adult," and then makes that a category that a company can block all at once from its network. When you, as a network admin, choose to block "adult" websites in cisco umbrella, if you don't make changes to that list yourself, everything in that list is blocked on the domain.

There's another system called OpenDNS. OpenDNS allows you to block websites on your *home* network. If you have an OpenDNS account you can also participate in what's called "community tagging." community tagging allows people to tag certain websites, and I guess if you use OpenDNS you can block things with those tags...idk, I don't use it.

Here's the bit that matters: OpenDNS and Cisco Umbrella are owned by the same company. It appears that Cisco Umbrella, to some extent, uses OpenDNS community tags to sort websites.

Someone on OpenDNS has community tagged Ao3 as a "tasteless" website. Community tags can be proposed by anyone, but they have to be approved by a moderator. It seems a moderator has approved this tag. Because of the moderator approved tag, it looks like Ao3 has been bundled into *Cisco Umbrella's* blocked sites list for "adult" content. So now, any library, school, business, etc which is blocking Cisco Umbrella’s “adult” category is now blocking Ao3.

Here’s how you can help.

Go here (https://signup.opendns.com/homefree/) to create an OpenDNS account. This is free. Don’t do any of the steps to create or configure a network, JUST make an account. Be sure to uncheck any promotional checkboxes. Once your account is made, be sure to confirm your email, and the confirmation may go into spam - mind did, just be aware. Once you have an account made, go to https://login.opendns.com/ and log in with the account you've made.

It should take you here.

From here, click the small "community" button at the top.

It will bring you here. You will be likely prompted to create a display name. Pick something random, you won't need it again.

Click on “domain tagging." It will bring you here.

There's a small searchbox in the top right labeled "check a domain." enter archiveofourown.org in this field and hit go. You should be brought here.

What you want to do now is hit the "Flag for Review" button under "Tagged: Tasteless." Don't worry about the other tags. They are candidate tags, not approved/applied and aren't doing anything. The "tasteless" one that's been mod approved is the only one we're worried about. "Flag for review" will open a small text box.

Type in whatever you like here, but PLEASE be academic and respectful. Focus on how "tasteless" is an inaccurate and offensive description for the content. Hit submit.

That's it, you're done.

I do want to be clear about one thing - I am not 100% sure this is going to remove this domain from the cisco adult list, but I'm hoping. The “tasteless” tag that is present on OpenDNS was submitted in 2015. Now, it is not clear when the moderator approved this tag. They may have approved it last night, or in 2015. That date does not appear to be visible. I’m not sure what happened overnight that caused Ao3 to slip into the Cisco umbrella adult category. My best guess is that either the tag was approved last night, or Cisco suddenly started grouping the “tasteless” community tag under adult. It is interesting to me that previous tags such as pornography have been actively mod rejected, so it looks like this one being approved might have been one person with a vendetta. Either way, right now, this seems to be the root of the issue. Domains can be individually allowed on networks by network admins, so if you have to petition your school or place of work it's possible, but I think if we can fix the OpenDNS tag, we can fix it everywhere at once. Hopefully, if we can get enough flags for review in a short enough period of time, it will force them to review it.

Come, help me out here. Let's try and get Ao3 unblocked on the country's schools and libraries.

[prismaticpichu]

Just a few hours ago, I received a comment on a fic that nearly brought me to tears <,333 I am dying now to pass some of that love on!!

*clears throat*

~

GET BLASTED WITH RECENT FIC RECS 💖💖💖💖

@quinhwyvar your fic Fragments is a gem!!! 😭😭😭 Every one of those chapters is packed with such raw, gut-destroying FEELS, and the way you capture such a wide spectrum of emotions is beyond masterful!!! <333 Every AU is so incredibly creative, and the shifting perspectives was such a wonderful, poetic way to show how the love is mutual!! They LOVE each other, your honor, and this fic is one of the most beautiful representations of their bond and tragedy!! As a Zack & Seph obsessor, this fic was absolutely candy to my soul!!! Ty for gifting my (and many others!) Saturdays!! 💙💙*

@dyradoodles I know you have absolutely zero idea that I adore your fic Starstruck to no end, but do know that it’s an instant x100000 to my Sunday whenever it updates!!! Your dedication to detail, characterization, pacing, and FEELS is so freakin’ admirable!! There truly are few fic authors out there as beautifully meticulous and crafty as you are, and that passion is so so so clear in every chapter!!! Zack & Seph are once again such a delight to see, and the canon divergences strike a wonderful balance between staying true to their roots while making so much sense in the process!! I truly cannot thank you enough for crafting the CC of my dreams!! 💖💖💖

@rosy-crow plz know that I was knocked to the floor in delicious, delicious PAIN after reading your gorgeous fic Binary Stars!!! Not only is the prose and rhythm absolutely stellar, but the EMOTION packed in is gut-wrenching!! <,333 You do such a phenomenal job crafting Genesis & Sephiroth’s relationship, filling it with so much depth and soul, and then proceeding to masterfully write it degrading over time ;-; ;-; The guilt and regret Sephiroth feels is beyond palpable, and so is the heart that went into this fic!! Ty for such a treasure!! 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

@yingxtkm I would wait 3,000 years to experience the FEELS of I’ll give you more than words again!!!! The emotions in this are so beyond powerful, and I’m on the verge of crying with every tear that Sephiroth sheds ;-; ;-; ;-; Every characters’ reaction to seeing him return is so beautifully done, and you do such a fantastic job making their hesitance to trust Seph both believable and heart-shredding!!! ;-; ;-; ;-; The angst is REAL, and I feel it with every poetic sentence!!! Thank you for creating such a unique, powerful, outstanding Safer!Seph fic!!!! You truly are a trailblazer of the sane!Safer gang!! (And you pulled me right on board!!!) 🪽🪽🪽

~

I’m so sorry the list is so short!!! I’ve been slacking on my reading lmaooo, so plz know that there are so many wonderful authors out there who add their own gems into this fandom!!! (looking at YOU @altocat, @errantnight, @lucky-ladybugs-lovelies, @salternateunreality2, on top of so many others!!!)

~

Ty for making this fandom bigger, brighter, and better with all y’all’s magic!!! Each of us has a unique voice and perspective to contribute, and it’s beyond a pleasure to be among such creative souls!!! Keep rocking on, FF7 freindos!!! 🗡️ 💚☄️