#and a chronic overachiever

[comfreyhollywings]

every time i look up the tag of gojo satoru - i want to scream at the mischaracterization the poor man's going through 💀

[kalosian-woods]

XY021 A Pokevision of Things to Come! For the scene game

About Me!

Description: Hey everyone! My name is Serena and this is my first Pokevision video, featuring my best friend and Pokemon partner, Fennekin (and cameos of my other friends as well)! Hopefully you enjoyed the video, so please like and subscribe! :D

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Comments:

BulbaLover0206: omg ur fennekin looks like such a cutie pie!! v proper and polite!! your bond is tres magnifique and you've really showed off both of your good sides so well!! and i love ur fashion it’s so chic!! u deserve ten million subscribers for this artwork (∩˃o˂∩)♡ -> serenity-princess (CREATOR): Thank you so much for the kind words! We really had fun making this video! Any dresses that you liked in particular? :) ->> BulbaLover0206: umm basically everything?? but rn i'm really feeling like that dress you had at the end! i'm jelly /hj ദ്ദി( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ ) but seriously, who is ur designer bc i might check them out 👀 ->>> serenity-princess (CREATOR): Aww, you're so sweet! Most of these are actually hand-made by yours truly since there wasn't much I could buy. Me and my friends actually ended up staying for an extra day so we can shoot, and in the end I had to pick out a dress and just modify it since we didn't have a lot of time, so I'm so happy that you've enjoyed that one the most! If all else fails, I guess I can just make a living selling clothes lol :P ->>>> BulbaLover0206: NOO UR 2 GOOD FOR THIS PLS DON'T GIVE UP EVEN THO I WOULD BUY UR CLOTHES!!!! now i'm convinced that it was fate that brought us together at this time - u cannot let this channel go to waste!! keep showing off your amazing skills with ur pokemon and i know you'll be a star!!! i can even give u some tips if you want?? (˵ •̀ ᴗ •́ ˵ ) ✧ ->>>>> serenity-princess (CREATOR): Sorry I took so long to respond but yes please! As you can see I'm totally a beginner at this, and making Pokevision is a lot different than just watching :/ But can I say that your videos look so cute as well?? I can't believe someone like you would find me. ->>>>>> BulbaLover0206: and i can't believe i found a beginner with how amazingly you've made your debut!! hey, why don't we take this to DMs?? i'd love to talk to you more, new friend ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ ->>>>>>> serenity-princess (CREATOR): You're amazing yourself <3 And I'd love to! See you there!

blast_operetta: wow, this is pretty neat!! this gets a stamp of approval from my delphox heh 🐾💌 can't wait to see more :3 -> serenity-princess (CREATOR): Thanks a lot for the kind words!

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looking for HOT SINGLE WOMEN in LUMIOSE CITY or KALOS I'M FINE WITH THASEDGHNK,NBVCD

Description: [none added]

2.1M views / 742K likes / 38.1K comments | Share | Save | (...)

Comments (TOP):

mistearyous8: bro looking hella fine, don't mind if i do :3c -> See 142 replies machamp-deserved-better: is paldea okay? i'm right at the border as we speak -> See 56 replies [Comment removed] hgv762: ISN'T THAT THE LUMIOSE GYM LEADER? -> bunbunbun: nah ur tripping, this guy is a certified human being. ->> yubbles: what the hell do you mean human being? ->>> See 27 replies [Comment removed] [Comment removed] dandesta!: why does it feel like there are only bigots or thirsty people in this comment section? am i the only normal one??? -> memelord-of-the-kyo: BRO it's not just me!!!!!!! ->> pikachu: damn it can't believe that the twerp got big and not me ->>> pikachu: i have to admit he's pulling off that suit with much aplomb. might need to make my own video with inkay one day ->>>> pikachu: not without me youre not >:( ->>>>> sew_sawd34: does anyone in this thread smoke torkoal? ->>>>>> pikachu: be thankfulyuy ythaty at keastb you nactually goit hnads to typedw withj ->>>>>>> clemgearON (CREATOR): TEAM ROCKET??? ->>>>>>>> See 3.5k replies

[lady-harrowhark]

jaw saga update: i had my follow up appointment today, dentist started out saying that usually the follow up visits only need like 15 units. and then he felt my muscles and started laughing, said to ignore everything he just said.

we ended up injecting another 60 units (same amount as the first round)

he told me i'm the first patient he's ever had who needed 120 units for TMD

[sheisanimposter]

Got a perfect score on a final exam today for a course that my classmates love to bitch about. But the thing is, they bitch about it because

1. The professor adds questions from our very simple and straight forward reading assignments but doesn’t summarize every term and concept from the entire chapter in her lectures. Part of the exam is testing that we read the information we were assigned to read, which they feel is unfair.

2. Half the students in the class are health science majors but it is a non stem class that’s very relevant to their future careers. The information they can’t grasp is the human aspect of health. They get frustrated when assignments call for empathy and benefit of the doubt towards those with chronic illnesses.

3. My professor is a woman with a chronic illness and a PhD who has appropriate standards for college students. Her course is one of the best organized I’ve ever taken, there is no excuse to be confused if you’re putting forward any effort at all to be informed. But they love to call her a bitch for sticking to her very accessible schedule and syllabus. Many of those who complain are men who probably hate seeing a woman with a backbone.

As a woman with a chronic illness who follows course instructions and pays attention, I’ve never felt better about fucking the curve up for the rest of the class.

[xo-junie-m]

just chose my courses for next year and i’m gonna have eleven 🤠 most people have seven or eight

[somecunttookmyurl]

fwiw my physiotherapist told me that people with eds apparently metabolise things faster than other people, so your fast metabolisation of medications/caffeine/etc could be in part linked to that?

yes people with EDS (and other forms of chronic pain) are highly likely to have the abnormal liver enzyme thing

we don't really know *why* but it's just. a thing.

[horsemage]

“a few hours” is so optimistic of my professor considering some seniors last year told me they’d be up until 4am for this class ;-;

[gilligould]

in high school i selected crime and punishment from a list for an independent reading project and the librarian that checked me out said it was a very brave choice. i’m still riding that high btw,,

[archersgoon]

in the modern au also: celie and banyon take some really shitty gen ed together & end up mostly faffing about during actual class hours because it's honest to god faster to just teach themselves the material later. so in class they mostly discuss other stuff. like how banyon's been having trouble recently because she wants to branch out in terms of clothing but it is sooo fucking difficult to find clothes that fit. and of course celie who is 5'10 is like my friend i understand completely. my solution is unnecessarily complicated but what i do is blah blah blah and then the deeply sinister med student who sits behind them and monopolises the demonstrator for like 30 minutes at a time is like wow i could not help but overhear that you are having trouble with your clothes if only there was someone around. who was a genius who understand fashion really well. maybe better than anyone else ever

[scottapez]

no one is stronger than stupid bitches who still looove to overwork themselves in the most lazy manner possible (meee :3)

[sorbriquette]

It is unfortunate i need money to like live and shit, cause my psyche fractures more every day

[avrorean]

@hoboblaidd. ❛  the spell was wrong but there was true magic in it. try again.  ❜

𝒯he thrum of fingers tapping against the leather of her belt punctuated Solas's gentle guidance with an unusual impatience. Nanna's eyes were kept fixed on the remnants of the spell hanging in slow dissipation in the air, the faintest shimmer left to catch the light as it faded from reality. Another failure. Solas had been gracious enough to advise her ever since they encountered the remnant spirit of the arcane warrior, and his help in deciphering the magic from them had proven invaluable. She, however, was less than satisfied.

If there were one thing in the world to irritate Nanna Amell to no end, it was any inability to take to a spell.

It does not feel as though it should be this hard, she thought to herself, but wordlessly prepped the spell again as instructed. Scripts of the old tongue wove itself in the air as before, somehow more scripted and simultaneously loosely formed than the weave of magic she was familiar with. Elvhen magic, she was learning, liked to take its time in its construction. But again, it stalled and dissipated.

"I do not know where I am going wrong," she complained, hands on her hips and shifting to pace. "It feels as though it is pushing against the Veil, but I cannot grasp it like the others."

[klickklackwack]

sometimes i wish that someone could’ve warned me that burnout is like losing a part of yourself and then getting it back but it will never fit again.

the grief i’ve gone through for my brain, specifically for my memory, is something that i’ll never probably get fully over even if i’ve come to accept it in some ways.

on bad days or weeks i’ll suddenly realise i don’t remember if watered the plants yesterday or week ago. if i told my mother that i love her when i left to drive home the day before. if i booked that important work meeting for friday.

it even can feel that i’m in the edge of remembering but the information is just out of reach before it’s just truly gone.

then on good days i’ll remember everything. and when i say everything, i really mean it. every mistake i’ve made, every word of a song i love or hate, pathways to a worksystem i used ten years ago and everytime my partner did a tiny little thing for me or for us that says ”i love you” louder than any word ever could.

i still feel it like was yesterday when i got told by the second professional that my memory and brain is fine. i do not remember the words but i remember how it felt. how i did not feel relieved at all, how i got told that basically in plain words i’ve just burned a part of my brain, it is still there and this just new normal. that my brain just cannot handle pressure in a way it used to. i remember just thinking, i did this all on my own. and even if i think about why i treated myself like i used to, for short term goals, it was not worth it in the end.

(jokes on me: it was after i stopped treating myself badly that i found the love and the light in my life.)

and still everyday i try. i try to do my best, i try to be merciful on myself, i try to remember how much love is in my life rn. i try to remember that it’s okay to forget things, that it does not mean i’m a bad person if i forget.

try to remember that it is sometimes okay to say that you are tired and that you cannot handle something. all of it is okay, good days will come as long as you just try your best and even the bad days won’t be so bad as long as you do not try to force yourself to go through them without help.

[nerdofmanymediumsandfandoms]

fuuuuuuck this idiot body why do I have to always hurt

[tfofufu]

whumptober vs my slow writing: round one, FIGHT

[rauspberries]

HIGH EXPECTATIONS!

summary: you get yourself hurt in the field. aaron covers up his worry with frustration. pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader. tags: afab reader, pre-established built-up tension, mentions of violence & murder, r gets the shit kicked out of them, aaron doesn't know how to use his words like a big boy, r hates that he can't just give her some emotion, mentions of r having daddy issues [self-insert] word count: 3.1k notes: this oneshot went through eighty different prompts & eighty different rewrites before i got even slightly happy enough to post it. based off of a request for #15 of the excuse prompts. enjoy!

This case had been killer, pun unintended. At first, it had just been a consult. A police station in Omaha, Nebraska asking for assistance in locating a serial killer that had been murdering young, brunette women after he had left a few notes for them at crime scenes. Then, you had to fly out in the early morning on Monday once he had struck again, to get a feel for the crime scene and to get a better grip on victimology. 

By the time you had located the unsub, two more dead bodies and six nights of little to no sleep later, you had been absolutely exhausted. A self-diagnosed chronic overachiever, your last week had consisted of nights filled with bad coffee, staring at photos of dead bodies and scribbling unintelligible notes on more sticky notes than was good for the environment. All you prayed for was to catch the bad guy, wrap up the case and take a nice long nap on the two-and-a-half hour long plane ride back home.

The worst part about it was that your exhaustion was noticeable. As you had been putting on your vest, Hotch had walked up to you, fingertips brushing against your elbow to catch your attention. One glance at his face told you everything you needed to know. The wrinkles forming between his eyebrows, the barely noticeable squint of his eyes, the white line on his lips from pressing them together - he was worried.

He’d tried to convince you not to go. That paperwork needed to be done, that he and the rest of the team could handle it, that he needed someone to stay there. In the end, you had won the tense stand-off, steely brow and all. Admittedly, he’d always been too soft on you, too quick to back down when you argued back. Never able to actually say no.

Looking back on it all, he probably should’ve tried harder.

You remembered the night in flashes. Foot getting caught on something hidden in the untamed grass as you separated from the team, sending you sprawling on the dew-soaked ground, mud seeping into your clothes. The clacking sound of a boot kicking away your weapon. The burst of pain in your torso as the unsub sent multiple steel-toed kicks into your ribs and face, followed by a cry - your own, although it sounded like it came from a mile away. A thud you later recognized as the unsub getting tackled to the ground and the clicking of handcuffs.

Hotch had slid into the grass next to you moments after. He would’ve gotten to you faster if it wasn’t for the distance or the ache in his back he hadn’t been able to shake since he was thirty. His fingertips had brushed against the blooming bruise on your cheekbone, nerves sparking with a reminder that you were still alive.

Now, a few days of monitoring later, you sit on the edge of your bed in a hospital room. Luckily for you, the unsub hadn’t been able to do too much damage to you in the bit of time he had been kicking you around. An ugly bruise on your cheek, bruised ribs, a grade 2 concussion and a small pneumothroax when you had first arrived at the hospital.

Could’ve been worse. You could be dead, if he had been smart enough to go for your gun instead. Fool.

You’re standing up to tie the strings on your sweatpants [and struggling to do so] when there’s a knock at the door. Glancing over your shoulder, you’re met with the sight of Hotch, dressed in a maroon polo and jeans. It’s almost startling, seeing him in something other than a tailored suit, but it's not unwelcome. The shirt stretches at the broadness of his chest and shoulders, hugging the toned muscle of his biceps and chest. The way he looks is sinful, especially compared to your raggedty t-shirt and old sweatpants.

He’s your boss, he’s your boss, he’s your boss…

“Are you decent?” He rumbles, shutting the door slowly behind him. Despite the question, his eyes brush over you quickly, lingering on the bruise on your cheek with a guarded look. He loved making it impossible for you to read him, even with the whole being-a-profiler thing and all.

With a soft scoff of amusement, you quirk a brow at him. “Don’t think it matters, since you’re already looking at me.” It’s a gentle tease, an attempt to break the tension that has settled over the room, although you note the slight grimace that takes over his face and the way his eyes immediately divert from your face, like he was caught red-handed. What he doesn’t know is that you’d do anything to keep his focus on you, even if it meant getting pummelled in the face and ribs again.

It was no secret that there was something going on between you and Hotch. Unspoken, not acted upon, inappropriate, but there. It wasn’t named, or mentioned, just known. Like really flirting with a friend you’d never date, or a gift left on a kitchen counter and never spoken about. It’d become its own entity, hovering around you and growing more irritating by the milisecond, covered by stale jokes from you and a feigned indifference from him.

It lingers in the furrow of his brow whenever the cops at the local precincts looked at you too long, at the hand brushing your back when you stepped into or out of the SUVs, at the quiet murmuring of a nickname when he had joined you in the back of the ambulance. And now it hovers in this hospital room like a thick fog, watching you with a tough facade that covers up the relief of seeing you up and alive, of being at a hospital with you in Nebraska when he should be spending it at home with his son in Virginia. 

Clearing your throat, you pull your focus away from that damned maroon polo, grabbing the newly-purchased stuff you had scattered across all of the tables and chairs in your room to shove them into the bag Emily had brought for you as soon as you had been told you needed to be kept for observation. “Can I help you, sir?”

With your back to him, you don’t notice the way he tenses at the formality, the raise of his shoulders and his fingers curling. Immediately after saying it, you had regretted letting it leave your mouth, wanting to crawl into your skin. It’s like you were begging him to bend you over the hospital bed. Pitiful.

His voice is tense as he speaks. “I’m here to drive you home.” A gentleman through and through, you shouldn’t be surprised, especially with the way he keeps letting his eyes roam over you, testing for any sight of pain or discomfort. 

It seemed to be a habit of his, checking on your comfort levels. You haven’t been able to forget the time he’d grabbed you by the shoulder turning a case briefing, turning you around just long enough to silently rip off the tag of your shirt after noticing that it had been irritating the back of your neck all meeting. Stupid profiling. A dumb skill to have, even if it kept you employed.

His words grasp your full attention, face contorting in confusion as you whip around to look at him. “Why? I could’ve gotten someone else to drive me. I’m sure you have things to do. You know, clean the house, organize your button-ups by color. Black, white, slightly off-white.”

Unlucky for your inability to not crack a joke when things got serious, Hotch’s face is back to its guarded look, arms crossed over your chest like he was just praying for you to stare at his arms. “I don’t see anyone else here, do you?” The question is pointed with a raise of his brow, carrying a smugness that he won’t let seep through the armor he’s built around himself. 

“Attitude,” you hiss back, like a mother scolding their child for rolling their eyes. “I said I could've, not that I did. I was hoping to book it down the street before anyone even noticed I was gone.” A lie. You hadn’t even thought about how you were going to get home, too distracted by the fact that you were finally allowed to leave this god-forsaken place. You missed your apartment, where you could throw things on the floor and no one would come in, wrinkle their nose and pick it up for you. 

Making a mess was your love language. They were silencing you here.

It’s incredibly annoying, the way Hotch continues to stand like a statue, face still in the same bored look he had painted on moments before. It’s times like these where you wonder if the unspoken connection was all in your head, a delusion that you had created due to the absence of both a romantic partner and/or a father figure in your life. Definitely plausible.

He lets out a sigh that’s bordering on sounding irritated as he lets his arms drop to his sides, gesturing to the bag you had just finished zipping up. “Hand me your bag.”

“No.” Your response is immediate, lifting it over your shoulder and immediately suffering the consequences of your actions by the pain that shoots throughout your ribs. “Fuck me,” you hiss in both shock and agony.

Again, he doesn’t respond with any sort of emotion, making you wonder if you should put a heart monitor on and hold your breath just to see something. Instead, he takes a few steps forward, the bergamot cologne on his wrist wafting through your nose as he uses one hand to pull the bag off of your arm, the other one lowering it slowly. “Don’t be stubborn,” he scolds, although it doesn’t sound much different than the bored, low tone he often sported.

Rolling your eyes, you hold your hand over your rib like you’d been punched again. “Be nice. I’m hurt.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten hurt if you wouldn’t have been stubborn and had listened to me about staying at the station.” His response is immediate, as if he had been holding onto the words until you had given him a reason to use them. For a singular good-humored moment, you contemplate if Hotch was the type of guy to have an argument with someone in his head. As a former lawyer, that had to be the case, right? 

The smile that has slowly started to seep into your lips at the thought immediately dissipates when he speaks your name, head raising and lips parting. “Huh?”

There it is, the tilt of his head downward, forming what he thinks is a scowl. “I said, can we please go?”

Another roll of your eyes. “Well, since you asked so politely,” you sarcastically respond. Slipping on the cheap slippers that Emily had bought for you at the local Walmart, you follow behind Hotch like a lost puppy, gaze taking in everything around you like you hadn’t been outside in years.

As he leads you out of the entrance and into the parking lot, the thick silence stretching around you starts to make you nervous. You’ve been hurt in the field before – it usually came with the job – but he had never been quiet after the fact. It was also something. 

So and so weeks until you come back.

Are you feeling okay?

Is there anything we can do for you? But there was nothing coming from him. You’re forced to stare at his back as he walks two steps ahead of you, arms swinging beside him as he scans the parking lot like someone was going to jump out and finish the job on you. Tense shoulders, gritted jaw. He was giving you the silent treatment, like a petulant child. 

The thought eats at you until you finally get to the SUV, his hand grabbing the door handle on the passenger side to open it for you. Even in his obvious brooding, he is ever the gentleman, not allowing you to make any move by yourself. Chivalry is ingrained into his being, and it just pisses you off more.

You pounce as soon as he settles in the driver seat. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Hotch’s brow raises so high you swear it dips into his hairline. “I’m sorry?”

With a wince and a soft grunt, you turn yourself to face him, stubbornly crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re ignoring me. I got the shit kicked out of me and you haven’t asked me if I’m okay once, yet you look at me like I’m going to fall apart. What is happening? Why are you mad at me?”

There it was, the slight widening of his eyes, the soft tell of him trying to pretend nothing was wrong. It was the same thing that happened every time someone asked him if he was okay. A widen of his dark eyes to smoothen out the permanent crease on his forehead, the loosening of his lips that took out the tension in his jaw. “I’m not mad at you.” Liar. 

Displeasure pools deep in your gut, heart thudding against your ribcage in the anxiety that takes over you. Suddenly you’re a child again, begging for your friends to stop lifting their chin up at you and just tell you what you had done wrong. “Hotch, please talk to me.” It comes out as a plea, making your agitation bubble up into your throat, burning. Why did you have to beg for an answer when he was the one ignoring you? He’s quiet as he turns the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life and the silence filled with the soft thrum. You don’t back down, staring at him intently as he places a hand on the back of your headrest, reversing out of your parking space and pulling off. 

You sear your gaze into the side of his face until he lets out a soft sigh, hardening around the corners as he prepares to pull out his best bout of professionalism. “What you did was unprofessional. You should’ve never gone into the field with the lack of sleep you had, nor should you have split up from everyone else.” For a split moment, he lets his focus move off of the road in front of him, fixing you with a hard look before glancing away. 

A scoff leaves you, eyes rolling dramatically. “Please. Everyone on this team has put themselves in harm's way at some point or another, whether on purpose or out of some innate need to do something stupid. If this were anyone else, you wouldn’t be riding them half as hard and you know it.”  The accusation comes out a bit snappier than you want it to, especially since he is your superior, but red is clouding your vision and your heart is leading the way you speak and act. 

“They are not you.” He responds with gritted teeth. He doesn’t raise his voice, because he never does, pretending like he’s keeping calm in the face of everything that happens. What he doesn’t tend to notice is that the longer he continues trying to guard himself, the easier it gets to notice all of his telltale signs. Either that, or you’re so far gone in thoughts about him that you’ve noticed all of them. 

At his words, your frustration dissolves slowly until it's completely moot, leaving you staring at him with a lax brow and slightly agape mouth. “What does that mean?” No anger, no distaste, just pure curiosity.

There’s that ghost again, floating in the cab of the SUV, hanging out on the center console between you. Thick and heavy, hovering, taunting. It’s the type of feeling that makes you want to reach over, grab him by the collar of that stupid fucking polo and smack a fat one on his lips. You couldn’t complain about him not speaking to you when he was busy shoving his tongue down your throat, could you?

You don’t answer that question. You’d probably still find a way to argue. He’s infuriating. Insufferable sometimes.

Hotch’s tongue runs along the line of his bottom lip as he debates on what to say. “I shouldn’t have let you go. I could tell how exhausted you were. That, mixed with your damn stubbornness.” He shakes his head, glancing out the side window as he pulls into the private side of the airport.

Something grips at your chest, cold fingers around your heart giving it a soft squeeze. For the first time since this ubiquitous feeling had settled over the both of you, he was finally giving you something. A little peek into the shield he had fortified over the years, a soft spot for only you to see. A glimpse into a future where everything isn’t just in your head.

“Hotch, it’s not your fault,” you murmur, voice suddenly feeling too loud in the small space of the car. “You tried to tell me not to go, but I didn’t listen. That makes it my stupid fault.” Your nose wrinkles, pulling a wince from you at the ache in your cheekbone.

His arm flexes as he puts the SVU into park, bracing his elbow on the center console to turn and look at you. There’s a soft silence as he fights his own mental battle, but you let him. There was no use in arguing with someone who had spent most of his life doing everything on his own. That included self-soothing at times. 

Finally, he reaches out, brushing his knuckles against the splotchy bruise on your cheekbone. A gentle touch that sends a shiver all the way down to your toes, sparking and tingling. “You’re okay?” He asks, the question loaded with a lot more than just wondering how you feel physically.

Tilting your head enough to lean into his touch, you nod. “I’m okay.” To punctuate your point, you even give him a small smile, blinking slowly, like he’d disappear if you blinked too fast. 

It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you, however he nods back anyways, pulling his hand away from you. Without a word, he opens his door, stepping out of the car and coming around to open your door just as you reached for it. 

You don’t speak the entire time you grab your luggage, handing it off to the ramp agents, and make your way onto the jet. There, you settle into seats from across each other. 

The feeling will always be a ghost, haunting the both of you. But for now, it’s comfortable.