#midniighter

[chellestrash]

Mercy for the Sinner

Paul Hill/John Pruitt x GN!Reader

Summary: Description of one of the many nights you spent at the little wooden house next to the town church.

Warnings: 18+, uh oh, smut, explicit in some places but pretty basic stuff, priest kink, hierophilia, catholic guilt, prayers, corruption 

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Alright sooo...I know this won't be everyone's cup of tea so if it’s not yours just...move on thank youuu. First Paul fic so might be shit but I couldn't let it just sit in my head I wouldn't be able to do anything, so yeah. Enjoy! Thank you @chelseasdagger​ for proofreading like alwaaays!

You let a loud moan slip past your lips as you feel yourself loosing balance. Grabbing the headboard behind Paul, you steady yourself on top of him. With your fingers gripping the wooden frame, you feel your body tightening around him.

His fingers press into your body as you rock slowly on top of him. His grip makes you feel wanted, makes you feel needed in that place, that moment, like he doesn't want you to leave. Maybe he will, later. Once this is over, once he’ll rethink what happened between you two again. Once the deep desire and longing present at this moment wears out. Maybe then he’ll ask you to leave, tell you that you should, you have to, you can't stay here, you… he, he can't risk people seeing you here. The house is too close to the church, too close to the main road, it's too close to… people.

So maybe then, but not now. Not right now, not at this moment when no matter what he keeps telling himself, with every single fiber of his body he could feel how much he needed and wanted this. Needed and wanted you.

Rolling your hips back on top of him, you feel your lips part.  Your head falls back and his hand traces up your back, almost to your neck. A gasp and another loud moan falls from you, and his fingers dig deeper into your skin as he pulls you in closer.

Paul watches you move on top of him, his head tilted back slightly, his eyes fixed on you. His mouth falls open as if he was to say something, but he decides against it. Fighting with his own thoughts, he turns away, glancing up at the ceiling the moment your eyes open and search for his gaze.

“It's okay, no one knows.”

Your words are quiet and gentle. Your hand now rests on his cheek as you turn his face to look at you again. You see his eyes dance around your face, lingering at your lips but never quite making it up to your eyes. You slowly lift your hips up on top of him, feeling his length slowly dragging out of you. You bite down on your lower lip, attempting to muffle the moan now stuck in your throat. Paul lets out a shaky breath, pushing his hips up slightly, chasing the feeling of your body around him, silently affirming you that he still wants this. His fingers dig into your hips as he pulls you back down on top of him, slowly helping you get back to the previous pace. The gentle hands of the priest reassuringly guide you to keep fucking yourself on his cock. Cupping his face in your hands, you catch the glimpse of his gaze, you catch the second his dark brown eyes fix on yours and for a moment, for a short second you’re his, you hope, you pray? You pray for the kiss, knowing it won't happen, you still wish for it.

The priest battles his own thoughts, fighting the urge to kiss you, the normal, human need for affection. The longing for closeness of another being, and the knowledge, the awareness of his sins. Wrapping his arms tightly around you, he suddenly pulls your body closer to his, nudging his face into your neck. It feels almost like an escape, from the choice from the decision, from your eyes. Your hips buck slightly against his body the moment you can feel his warm lips against your shoulder. Your arms wrap around his back, your hand pushing into the curls at the back of his neck.

Paul moves his hips underneath you, pushing harder inside you with every thrust, your bodies gradually beginning to move at the same pace, the same tempo. A whine slips past your lips when you feel his tip right under your stomach, the way he feels inside you, the way you can feel him so deep within you, makes your fingers wrap tightly around his pretty curls. With his every move, you tug at them a bit harder, each of his thrusts followed by a quiet grunt.

He curses himself in his mind for it all. Not for the act alone, but more so for the fact that if you were to stop right now, walk out and leave, promise him it wouldn't happen again, he'd beg you to stay. The worst part is that he's sure you know it. You can tell by the way he holds you close, the way his hands never leave your body, the way his cock reacts to the movements of your body.

“Almost there, almost there, Father.”

His body tenses up at the way you use the title so freely, like it doesn't mean anything, as if it simply doesn't matter. The warmth between his legs feels impossible to fight back now. His heart beats faster, his whole body tensing up as the feeling gets closer and closer.

“I-God,”

His eyes widen at his own words.

“It's okay.”

You reassure him quietly.

“It's okay, Father, it's okay.”

Biting into his lip, he fights another moan as his hips raise up one more time to push further inside you. You twitch, clenching around the priest when his legs shake slightly, his stomach tenses with eyes shut tightly. You talk him through the climax, like you always do. Praising the way it feels inside you, the way he attempts to hold it back for you.

The couple of drops of sweat shine in the warm lamp light, the few strands of hair stuck to his forehead. His fingers dig deep into your thighs as he helps you with the pace again moments after.  Paul did this every time, every time he accidentally finished first, never wanting to leave you unsatisfied or to feel like someone else could’ve done the job better.

You rest your head against Paul's body now and feel his hands on your back. It's bizarre how gentle and how innocent the closeness feels at that moment as you both attempt to calm your bodies down. The images of his body under you slowly fade as the overwhelming silence, so familiar to you now, fills the small bedroom once again. It's not a bad thing, it wasn’t the wrong decision, you tell yourself. You repeat it in your mind like you do each time you two meet, each time this happens. Your guilt doesn't stand in your way. The church, the faith, the people on the island, throughout your life you managed to get your own perspective on this, understand what's important to you, what values you believe in. But you know, you know and understand it's not the same for the man lying in the bed with you right now.

Despite the gentle touches, despite the way his arms wrap around you to hold you so close to him, you know he's somewhere else, somewhere far away now. Overthinking, overanalyzing… possibly regretting the choice he made to see you again today. Maybe, maybe that’s it, but this wasn’t your decision alone. It was a mutual agreement, just like it always was. You glance up slowly, shifting your gaze from the droplets of rain falling down the small bedroom window to the face of the priest.

Paul holds you in his arms, craving the feeling of another person so, so close to him. His body slows down now, his chest rising and falling less drastically, his thumb slowly brushing over your back. His mind is racing, of course it is, he's unable to stop. He feels the guilt growing in him with every second, every minute passing. He wonders, he asks himself how he let this happen again, how was this possible and why, of God, why did he need you so badly. He glances down when you enter his mind and your eyes meet for a brief moment before he turns away quickly. He shouldn't have done this, he shouldn't have broken like this, he shouldn't have let you break him like this again. The wave of regret washes over him when his heartbeat slows down again. Your body weighs heavy on top of him, skin to skin, and the realization of his choices, his weakness, slowly fill up every little part of his body. He should pray, ask for forgiveness, pray and tell you to leave, to fight the urges that lead you back to him and him back to you time after time.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Your quiet voice cuts through the silence filling the small house like a knife. There's a sharp pain in his chest when your words reach his ears and he swallows hard, closing his eyes.

“Don’t.”

You feel his fingers grip your arm tighter to a point where it hurts slightly, a pleasant sensation you choose not to point out at this time and spare him the details. Looking up slowly, you bite the inside of your cheek, carefully considering your options. Your eyes scan his face; his dark, now slightly curled hair is pushed back, only a couple stands still on his forehead. His deep, dark eyes running from your now oh so innocent gaze, the few droplets of sweat running down the side of his face. You rest your head against his chest again, his eyes back on you the moment you look away, and he knows you can tell he's watching you carefully. Your fingers draw small patterns on his ribs as you choose to continue the confession.

“My God.”

You whisper and he gasps almost silently.

“My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.”

You recite the prayer from memory.

“In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You, whom I should love above all things”.

You pause, glancing up and watching as he listens with his head resting against the bed. His eyes are shut tightly, his lips parted.

“I firmly intend, with Your help, to do penance, to sin no more.”

It's funny how easy the words come to you. How difficult it is to forget the prayers you've been through since childhood, how with the passing of time, for you, they've lost the meaning they used to carry. And the meaning they still have for him.

“... and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.”

Your hips move back on top of him again, and you feel his hand at your side. His touch follows with a quiet grunt he didn't quite manage to fight back.

“...my God…”

His cock twitches underneath you and he curses his own body in his mind, his shaky inhale interrupting your words. But he doesn't stop you.

“...have mercy.”

You finish the prayer and rest your chin on your arms crossed on top of his chest. With your face now turned to him, you watch his face, waiting for his reaction. The priest spends a moment in silence, his eyes closed. His thoughts slip from him, the images of you plaguing his mind. His Adam's apple bobs slightly as he slowly recalls his part of the prayer, the confession.

“God, the father of mercies.”

He starts, his voice barely a whisper, as if he worries that God himself might be listening. You shift on top of him and Paul swallows hard. His eyes now open but again, they never find your gaze, focused on something far behind you.

“God, the father of mercies…”

He repeats, and you kick your feet in the air slowly, waiting for him as he closes his eyes with a quiet sigh.

“...through the death and the resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins…”

He pauses for a second, your eyes never leaving his face, his hand resting on your back, thumb gently brushing over your skin.

“Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace.”

Another pause, and you watch him fight with himself, doubting his own words and the power and meaning behind them.

“And I absolve you… from your sins… in the name of the Father, and, and of… the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

You mumble quietly and give him a brief moment of peace before pushing your tongue against his chest. You lick a stripe right from his nipple up, up over his neck before kissing the side of his jaw. The priest swallows hard, inhaling sharply through his teeth before brushing his hand over your hair.

“Rest.”

He instructs, and for once, you listen.

“Am I forgiven, then?”

“Don't. Don't ask me that when you know the answer. God can not forgive us for our sins if we, his children, don't regret them. Regret, is the foundation of penance, of forgiveness. If you lack regret for your sins, for your choices, for this…if you lack that feeling within you, God can not help you.”

How could you regret it?

“Do you regret it, father?”

“Yes.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

“But I don't enough to be forgiven for this.”

There's not enough regret, instead there's longing, the need and the desire for more. The feelings have been present in the back of his mind ever since he got to feel you for the first time. There was regret, anger and guilt, but it was never, never enough to push him away from you. Always too much and never enough.

[babyjakes]

@onsunnyside dis one goes out to u 😎

[spriinglocked]

if shes your girl why am i getting crumbs in the bed

[recitedemise]

"i'm very fond of walking." (Callisto)

PRIDE & PREJUDICE STARTERS: still accepting.

“Considering how the weather finds us this evening, your fondness for walking is toeing dangerously with those waters of endearment. I hope it denies you its affections a bit more today. You might as well find yourself sick tomorrow otherwise.”

The café hums. Percolators hiss from behind him in a sing-songing number with sweet, rambling, and languorous talk. It’s all watercolor, really, though not simply for the rain plick-plick-plonking fall-wet roads. In fact, the world’s gone gauzy, the lights in the establishment blurring at its edges, and with the ease of the hour and some laughter from afar, the room, this season, feels quite Monet. Huh. It’d be nice to stay here, sights on his novel as he rode out the rain; however, here now wanders Callisto in the shower. Book abandoned, brow raised, he sips his drink.

“It’d be remiss of me were I to allow that to happen to you of all people,” he picks up, standing up and slipping his book in his bag. “So, if it’s all the same to you, I much prefer to see that you don’t. Now, just a moment, if you would. Fantastic. After you.” He casts. He hadn't even said a word, but against the shiver and drag of these autumn winds, there’s now a sliver more warmth to their evening ensembles. Slipping on his pea coat, he grabs his belongings, and going outside to slot by her right, Gale, with umbrella, shields them both. “Better. Now you can traverse a bit more properly. The common cold hasn’t a cure, in case you haven’t realized. If you got sick, the fine denizens of this city would have my head.”

[recitedemise]

Oh! "I'm implying that you often have, well, quite a verve to you," he hedges. A panache for slaughter, in other words. "If our great host of adversaries should flounder before your company, then I fear for the half-sauced wizard that would dare keep step." Hilarious...! But nonetheless, she is shimmering. Beaming, really. Gale, eyes upon her, sees how she's gone and reached for starlight, cupping in her palms its night-silver glimmer. She'd drank at it eagerly, with a taste, perhaps, for either spirit or joy, for that would explain why she glows as she does...! She's thrilled, ecstatic, and her company grins. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were making grounds toward appealing to my more competitive nature." Which could, to be honest, work. Stirring, Gale lowers his glass of wine, mood bright, blushed, and novelly playful. "Far be it from me to doubt your years. Several centuries is a great period of time to perfect any skill, to be sure, though in the same breath, one can find one's mistakes stubbornly ingrained."

"Why, Gale Dekarios, are you implying that I'm a terrible dancer?" The faux-outrage she's trying to portray is completely belied by the little two-step she's already doing, fighting to tamp down the grin she's wearing for just a second to furrow her brows. In truth, she didn't really care if he danced with her or not - she could continue her own little wiggle in his orbit and be perfectly content. Just being here, amongst the merriment, meant nothing could ruin her mood. Oh, the Selûnites would throw celebrations occasionally, and while she was formally, technically invited, it was simply understood that she wouldn't. After all, it had been impressed upon her that having a vampire as one of the longest-serving acolytes would reflect badly on Selûne - and cause concern with the general public. "I have quite a few years on you, remember. Plenty of time to practice."

[l3viat8an]

It’s almoost midniight here ‘m drunk but HAPPYYYY NEW YEARRRR LOVES ✺◟(＊❛ัᴗ❛ั＊)◞✺

[sockreads]

starting nine lives by machiroads !!

chapter 1⬇️

starting off strong with the opening summary..

ABSOLUTELY FOUL !!!!!

⤵️forget god. blud was so close to dying he saw his dead best friend 💀

…🤨

ENOUGH🫴🖊️

OMGGG MICCC HIIIIIII🤭🤭

MISS LADY MIDNIIGHT

i’m reclined rn but i think i just fell to my knees

⤵️🤨🫵🏳️‍🌈👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨⁉️

only halfway thru chapter 1 and they’re already acting like this 🚨

[mega-delicatelysuperbcollector]

"7 Satisfying Midniight Snacks"/Daily Interesting Blogs

7 Satisfying Midnight Snacks: The Best Foods to Eat If You’re Hungry at Night

[vitalphenomena]

"Is knowing you a desperate thing."

"Do you think she knows? That she's your girlfriend?"

Because as far as Billie knows, the last time she'd spoken to Bella there still hadn't been any commitment.

"You must be desperate then. Or am I the only one of Bella's friends you know?"

[armandyke]

OH! Billy and Tommy are Wanda n Visions kids (kinda?) Billy is jewish and gay and has a boyfriend named Teddy. And now he aint even born. Fckn marvel.

I can’t believe Marvel have robbed me of 2 gay jewish boys now

[bananaofswifts]

Atmospheric. Subtle. Introspective. Painful. Triumphant.

With Midnights, Taylor Swift finally makes an album that feels the age she actually is. Mining 13 midnights, each measuring an emotional apex and aftermath, the lithe 32-year-old who’s spent more of her life as a public figure than a private citizen sorts the reality of an unnatural existence, human yearnings, the judging/speculative/click-seeking media, exceptional achievements and the price they extract.

“Qu’elle triste!” one could cry, clutching their pearls. “Quel dommage!”

But that misses the point; free-falling into her trap of trope-baiting the ones who live to drag her it’s not. Midnights explores horrible moments of doubt, anxiety, depression, raw desire and her own self-recriminations. But she also spins society’s need to build up and destroy its heroes, self-seeking sycophants, faux friends and the mistakes people make along the way on a mostly lo-fi, Taylor ’n’ Jack Antonoff fever dream that takes listeners to a vibey place.

Think of it as postcards from the (l)edge―and the resolve to let the days play out. Lana Del Rey, the queen of lo-fi dysthymia, appears for a brief moment on the lulling, strange synchronicity loop “Snow on the Beach,” and Zoë Kravitz co-wrote the opener; but this is not a special-guest kind of project.

And while you can play the name game―pin-the-tale on the former paramour or malignant industry weasel―deny yourself the ability to seek our own truth in these songs. Just listen, absorb the struggle, face the dumb-ass stumble and smile as it resolves into something worth happening, maybe even the result of one’s own (subconscious) design.

If you want some names, try these: Jane Austen, Emily Dickinson, Jacqueline Susann, Erica Jong, 2022 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee Carly Simon, Brandi Carlile and her muse Joni Mitchell. All women who wrote the details but also gutted the way women are seen in the name of how life really is.

The opening “Lavender Haze” sifts through the floating nature of love’s first wave; Swift also serves notice that she knows the game is rigged. “I’m damned if I do give a damn what people say/ No deal/ The 1950s shit they want from me...” tackles the good-girl shackles she’s lived with. Then, half-laughing about the two roles she’s assigned, she sighs and sings, “The only kinda girl they see is a one-night or a wife.”

Well, then. She adroitly paints scenes of unrequited love and the extremes to realize it (“You’re on Your Own, Kid”), Polaroids from figuring relationships out (“Maroon”), her ambition-at-odds-with-fairy-tale-endings (“Midnight Rain”) and the daggers of consequence (“Karma”) in ways that any 20-something pick-your-pronoun human can embrace as their own life, too.

She is both hilarious and scathing on “Questions...?,” all rhetorical inquiries and the complicated layers of who loves/wants whom. She dryly intones, “Fuckin’ politics and gender roles/ And you’re not sure and I don’t know/ Got swept away in the gray/ I just might like to have a conversation...”

Swift knows what we don’t get will color, even taint, how we seek love going forward. Her whole (dating) life has been parsed, judged, mocked and tracked, yet the human need for love remains. She knows she can be the wrecker as well as the wrecked; she can inflict as well as feel the pain. It’s what makes the techno/synth cloud “Anti-Hero” such an out-of-body experience; wrestling self-doubt and depression, watching others watch her, she queries, “Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism like some kind of congressman...”

Dizzying, yet true―especially for Gen Z, coming of age in the distorted reality social media flings across platforms, apps and streamers―Midnights narcotically traverses a life lived in the glare.

A bit of her “Shake It Off” earworming, though decidedly lower impact, “Vigilante Shit” will―no doubt―be the clothier’s holiday refrain; she boasts across the arrangement’s slow synth eroticism, “I don’t dress for women/ I don’t dress for men/ Lately I’ve been dressing for revenge...”

See the designers fight for it for their catwalks! Watch shifting alliances seek to adopt the song’s Mata Hari confessions as their own master plan! With a second chorus that proclaims, “I don’t start shit, but I can tell you how it ends/ Don’t get sad; get even...,” this is big-girl stuff.

Ironically, “Vigilante Shit”’s shift―two-thirds through Midnights―also signals a self-possession that does shake it off. She finds an equanimity that suggests drama, cruelty, even anxiety can be survived.

“Bejeweled,” with its slowed-down Men Without Hats/“Safety Dance” groove, delivers a dismissal and explanation of how Miss Swift’s relationships will work. She understands her worth; she’s not selling short. Deal with it.

“Karma,” too, offers a brushed-off “You’ll get yours” to those who’ve done her wrong. When she coos, “Karma’s my boyfriend,” you sense the threat, even as she’s not gonna lift one finger to hurt the people who’ve said terrible things.

Instead, she surrenders to the dreamy “Labyrinth,” which unpacks the process of getting through the damage and disappointment of “break up, break free, break through, break down” en route to “Sweet Nothings,” a song co-written with William Bowery. Over a variety of simple keyboard parts, she eschews it all for a very quiet world away from it all.

Not quite a lullaby, her cooed vocal whispers what should matter. An assessment of what everyone’s chasing based on what they’re told they should want―“Industry disrupters and soul deconstructors/ Smooth-talking hucksters out gladhanding each other/ And the voices that implore, 'You should do something more'"―turns into a rejection in the name of love.

WTF? After all that, she quietly surrenders? Or is she saved by a bucolic romance with a British actor? Seriously?

Maybe. Maybe not.

“Mastermind,” the closing track and an obvious single, suggests La Tay Tay is the mistress of her own destiny. On some level, she saw “the one,” set things in motion to claim him and her happiness. She invokes Machiavelli in the song as she admits, “No one wanted to play with me as a little kid/ So I’ve been scheming like a criminal ever since/ To make them love me and make it seem effortless/ This is the first time I’ve felt the need to confess...”

Intense. Complex. Purgative and replenishing. You can listen deep and take away the lessons. Or you can drift along the surface, relaxing on the pillowy drafts of warmth. Either way, Midnights is an album a long time coming. Catching up with herself chronologically, Swift opens the portals for the rest of her career’s journeying.

[roxymusicandlayers]

Klaine Advent - Day 3: Creed/Christmas Trees

“Hey you,” Blaine greeted his competitor with a cheery smile. “I thought your creed was to never eat at bar food. Something about it being too basic.”

“Really, Blaine? You talk like you don’t know me well at all. I guess maybe you don’t. That reference specifically applied to the food at Scandals. I still cannot believe we took a little field trip, on a school night, no less, to the only gay bar near us in high school.” Kurt smiled and took a sip of his hot chocolate. Mmmmnnn…That was delicious. Did I detect a hint of nutmeg and star anise?

“To be honest, I’m still shocked you agreed to go,” Blaine grinned and took a seat across from Kurt.

“Well, it’s not like I had hundreds of invites from cute guys asking me to check out gay bars with them in Ohio.”

“So you thought I was cute, huh?” Blaine teased, grabbed one of Kurt’s cookies and plopped it in his mouth.

“Oh whatever, Blaine. Maybe you were cute then, but certainly not now. And stop eating my cookies. I paid for them!” By reflex, Kurt grabbed his plate of cookies and placed it closer to him building an imaginary shield to protect the last few remaining.

Blaine reached for a second cookie and took a bite.“So what brings you to this bar? I’ve haven’t seen you here before.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and shook his head. Clearly, Blaine was on a mission to bother him that afternoon. Wasn’t enough pain that he had to deal with Blaine during the competition? He really didn’t want to waste any of his free time discussing bar food and recollecting about high school — especially not with Blaine.

“Well, if that isn’t the lamest pick up line ever. It’s a wonder you have a boyfriend.” Kurt retorted. 

“Actually Kurt, I don’t have a boyfriend anymore. Gosh, I haven’t dated anyone since Seb and I broke up years ago. It was around the time we had dinner at your place for Christmas. Remember? You even got a mini Christmas tree to accent the dining table. I have to say, your food was delicious.”

“Oh I’m sorry to bring that up. I just assumed you were still with that meerkat.”

“Kuuuurt! Just because you and Seb didn’t get along in culinary school, it doesn’t mean that he was awful. We are still good friends. He’s probably my best friend now. He moved back to Paris after we graduated. But yes, back to your question, we broke up I think two days after that glorious Christmas dinner.”

Kurt kept quiet. That had been their first Christmas in New York, and being the broke students that they were, they decided not to make the trip back to Ohio. It was amazing how during their first term in culinary school, they had seemed almost like friends -- competitive but still friendly enough to each other. Of course, things changed pretty abruptly in their second term. But still, that Christmas dinner was a fond memory, and Blaine was right. His food had been delicious indeed. 

@gleepotluckbigbang​

[starcharmfunzies]

happy venqua family + mermaids, my two favorite things ❤️

[chromecries]

yea we watchin strictly!! gonna b fun:DD and i absolutely want cake gimme gimme gimme

ok when its iced and cooled ill give you some :)

[recitedemise]

Far from the stodginess of the classrooms, Doctor Dekarios' office is the center of comfort. A globe idly works, constellations and star patterns twisting and turning, and with his oil lantern bathing the room in amber, there are far worse place's for an academic death. Gale looks to Flynn, his mild-mannered student...

And as it turns out, his brazen one, too.

"Enrolling in 'Advanced Seminar in Evocation' out of intrigue shows the extent of your daring, at the very least. I admire your gumption. Should ever my entirely hypothetical blood hawk fall ill, I'll know precisely who to go to." Getting up, he begins to fix him a cup of tea. It's an admittedly luxurious brand, something teetering on just this side of remarkably pretentious, but hey: a decent brew, especially fragrant, is a decent brew. "The Weave is infinitely layered. One can spend one's whole life grappling with its innumerable eccentricities, and when at last we take our final rest, we would have come no closer to measuring its depths. In that way, you and I, student and instructor, aren't so different." Gale smiles, enchanting a spoon to stir honey in his cup. "When compared to the dry-eyed masses of my lectures, your excitement is decidedly refreshing." Look at him now in his element: his eyes, sparkling, twinkle as though with the stars. Gale slides Flynn his tea, decidedly amused. "I won't say passion is all one needs for success, but one can hardly expect to live fully with out. I venture you've little need for Mordenkainen's Sword where you're headed, but personally, I'm of the opinion all fields can improve with magic. I expect Sleep and Hold Monster to do for you wonders." That said... "Not as an affront to you of course, but would I be right in assuming Weaving is all Thorass to you?"

Flynn does step inside, murky eyes dimming in the better-lit room that the professor was working in. The acceptance of his interruption felt begrudging at best, but far be it from him to turn down an opportunity to chat. Especially with Professor Dekarios, since the stories about him were the main reason Flynn had enrolled in this course in the first place.

Dropping into the proffered seat, Flynn tucks his precious backpack between his feet, nodding at the offer of tea. "Tea would be great, thankyou sir. And yes, I'm specialising in creature biology and eventual care." Though, he is surprised that the professor knows that - after all, Flynn is just one of many students (though, this maybe goes to show what an outlier he is in this class). "I've been trying to apply the principles of my other study to your lessons and vice versa but they might be too different - I'm not really succeeding either way." He lets out a small laugh. "But between you and me sir, I never really expected to do well in your class anyway. I have very little proclivity to the Weave, you know. Well. You do know." Flynn winces a little - who let him start talking? Hopefully the professor would see this as amusing more than anything. "But as soon as I saw your course in my list of available electives I knew I had to take it. It's so interesting."

[nosignalformiles]

stll feelingphysically shitty as all hell, but spent yesterday writing up some stuff and sleeping, so gonna post them, reply to messages, post some other stuff, and see how feeling after that to see if I’m going to hand around for a few hours before crashing