#and for once for their efforts not to succeed

[condescending-jerk]

genuine, dead serious new year resolution for 2024:

i think i want to try to find something i like doing

not as a job but just like…a hobby or something, y’know?

i’ve never really been interested in many things and the only thing i was interested in became my job (ikr? so lucky!!!) so most of the time i have no idea what i’m meant to do with my free time.

and it was fine because my life always had enough going on that you’d barely even notice i wasn’t doing anything. something about moving to a different continent every 2-5 years and jumping from job to job around the country really makes your life feel more full than it actually is.

so maybe it’s starting an office job and finally having some sort of regular structure in my daily life for the first time in ten years. or maybe it’s the fact i’m about to turn 30 and realizing that despite feeling like it’s been an eternity i’m still only 30 and have a whole lifetime left to get through. but something feels off about being asked every friday about weekend plans and never having an answer. and not being able to come up with a single idea when i tell people i’m not afraid of dying and they inevitably respond with “but don’t you still have things you want to do in your life?”.

the thing is, nothing is ever really that good. and i can’t imagine anything ever being that good. but maybe it doesn’t need to be. it just needs to be good enough to pass the time.

because once you actually consider how much time you have to fill for the rest of your life you realize you actually can’t just do nothing. and you know there’s no way of convincing other people that the alternative is a valid way of life…or not life…

so basically i need ideas for things i can do or the boredom will eventually kill me.

[tarotwithavi]

Saturn and what it delays

Saturn is the planet of discipline, patience, and hard lessons. It doesn’t deny things it just delays them until you are truly ready. Where Saturn is placed in your birth chart shows the area of life where you will face challenges, slow progress, and major life lessons. But once you overcome these struggles, Saturn rewards you with long-term success.

🔹 1st House – Confidence and personal identity. You may feel like life is tough from a young age, struggle with self-worth, or feel like you must work harder to be recognized. But with time, you become wise, responsible, and respected.

🔹 2nd House – Financial stability. You may face money struggles early in life, feel like wealth comes slowly, or have to learn hard lessons about savings and security. This placement can also give delayed speech. But once you master financial discipline, you can build lasting wealth.

🔹 3rd House – Speaking up, expressing yourself, and relationships with siblings. You may feel shy or have difficulty being heard. Writing, public speaking, or learning may take effort, but with time, you become a master communicator.

🔹 4th House – A stable home life. There may be issues with parents, a strict or cold childhood, or delays in feeling emotionally secure. But later in life, you build a strong and lasting foundation for yourself.

🔹 5th House – Love, fun, and creative expression. You may feel blocked in romance or struggle to enjoy life’s pleasures. Dating might feel serious or come later in life, but when love does happen, it's deep and long-lasting.

🔹 6th House – Job stability and health. You may feel overworked, face job challenges, or struggle with routines. Health issues could require discipline. Over time, you become extremely skilled and develop strong, lasting habits.

🔹 7th House – Romantic and business partnerships. Commitment in relationships may be delayed, or you may face serious relationships early in life. Once mature, you attract loyal and stable partners.

🔹 8th House – Inheritances, deep transformation, and intimacy. You may go through major life changes, have trust issues, or experience financial delays in shared assets. Over time, you gain deep emotional and financial wisdom.

🔹 9th House – Education, beliefs, and travel. Higher studies, spiritual growth, or traveling far may be delayed. You may struggle with rigid beliefs early on but later develop strong wisdom and perspective.

🔹 10th House – Career success and public recognition. Achievements come after long effort and hard work. You may feel restricted in career choices, but later in life, you gain respect, authority, and success.

🔹 11th House – Social connections and long-term goals. Friendships may be few but loyal. Achieving dreams takes time and effort, but once you succeed, your rewards are lasting.

🔹 12th House – Letting go, healing, and spiritual growth. You may struggle with fears, isolation, or hidden challenges. Over time, you develop deep wisdom, strong intuition, and inner peace.

[finnlongman]

I'm not going to keep going on about this, because I didn't really mean to make a whole Thing of it, but there are two reasons it really bothers me when people say my books should have had a romance plotline/love interest:

They're saying they wish my protagonist's sexuality was different. When somebody says, "I wish this gay book was straight instead so that I could relate to it more," or whatever, we rightfully recognise that as homophobic. When somebody says, "I wish this aroace character had a love interest," people call that a personal preference and make excuses for why that's not the same thing. Given that my protagonist's sexuality is something she shares with me, it feels particularly unkind, because it's essentially saying, "Lives like yours aren't interesting to me, I wish you had a different sexuality." Ouch.

I may have been exaggerating when I said 99.9% of YA books have a romance plotline... but not by much. It is everywhere. If you want a YA book with romance, you don't have to make any effort to find one, because nine times out of ten, whatever book you pick up will have one. It might be the main plot, it might be the subplot, but it'll be there. I was told repeatedly that I would have to have romance if I wanted my YA books to be published, because the category insists on it. So if you want YA books with romance: basically every other book is for you. It's not like it's a rarity that you were hoping I would finally give you. You have the entire cake; leave us our crumbs.

Like I said in the tags on my original post, this wasn't about one specific person or review. Please don't single anybody out if you've seen them say something similar to this. If it happened once, it wouldn't bother me; it's the pattern, and years of being told before publication that I would have to compromise on this element of the story if I wanted to make it, and social media marketing trends that focus almost exclusively on romance tropes and make it hard to engage when you don't have them.

And, on top of that, it's the weird anxiety of knowing that my next book, the Bisclavret retelling, is more romance-heavy, and while I want it to succeed, there's a bittersweetness to the idea that my yearning book might succeed where my aroace books didn't, purely because romance is marketable and friendship isn't.

(Even though I know there are so many other factors -- different genre, different category, different format, different publisher, different style, and a retelling that can appeal to an existing audience rather than my own characters and story that have no prior fanbase. It still feels like the romance will be what makes the difference.)

As I said on Bluesky yesterday, talking about both my fiction and my academic work:

Okay. That's all.

[heatheriran]

⚡️ “GLITCH & CRASH” METHOD — Instant Void Entering Hack (For the mentally exhausted)

Here is a raw, out-of-the-box, no second chance, 10-minute Void Entry Method — crafted for people who are tired, frustrated, in a noisy environment, with poor self-concept and zero belief. This bypasses everything: no meditation, no subliminals, no affirming, no need for belief or silence. Just do it exactly as written, no thinking.

⚠️ RULE: DO. NOT. THINK.

Act like a robot following code — even if your mind screams “this is stupid,” continue. You will "crash" the logic system — and enter.

🔥 INSTRUCTIONS (10 MIN — JUST ONCE)

Sit or stand. Doesn't matter. Close eyes or open. Doesn't matter.

You're allowed to hear the noise. In fact, use it.

Now repeat this command NON-STOP (out loud or in your mind): “CRASH SYSTEM 444” Repeat it FAST, without emotion, rhythm, or meaning — like a code stuck in a glitch. Say it like this in your mind: crashsystem444crashsystem444crashsystem444crashsystem... ❗Repeat for exactly 3 minutes. No logic. No expectation. Like a machine.

After 3 minutes, do this sudden pattern break: ❗Say internally or aloud: “I do not exist.” Say it 3 times with full stillness.

IMMEDIATELY after that, do nothing. Just STOP.

Don’t breathe intentionally.

Don’t move.

Don’t think.

Just freeze.

Let the body go limp or still, like you're disconnected.⚠️ Your mind will scream — ignore it. Stay like this for up to 7 minutes — or until you feel:

Blankness

A falling feeling

A weird shift

Lightness

No identity

Or just nothingness

💡 What Actually Happens?

You simulate a “system crash” mentally and energetically. Like a game glitching. This overloads the identity and logic layer. Then when you suddenly go still after “I do not exist,” the brain loses the ego reference point this drops you into the void.

🧠 BONUS (If You Fail):

Immediately after the 10 minutes, say:

“This method is now embedded in my subconscious. Next attempt will succeed without effort.”

Then don’t obsess. Walk away.

⚠️ No trying. Just do exactly as instructed mechanically.

You’re not here to hope. You’re here to CRASH.

ChatGPT gave me this method, so please don’t ask questions. I haven’t entered the Void yet, but I thought it might help someone. I will also try this method myself. Nobody is helping me to enter the Void, so I came up with this based on my idea. If you enter the Void using this method, please help others too. Let’s support each other in achieving the Void.

[mossymallow]

People on this site joke a lot and yearn a lot for toxic, doomed by the narrative yaoi in their media, but Toby Fox delivered some of the best doomed toxic yaoi in the last decade with Spamton and Tenna and it's honestly incredibly impressive because it feels so real.

Two people who are so lonely and so afraid of being forgotten (be it because of the natural passage of time, being just plain annoying and intrusive, or both) that it turns both of them into a black hole that absorbs literally everything around them into their own ego like a tarnished suit of armor (it couldn't be me that's difficult/obsolete/irritating, it's everyone ELSE that's wrong) that the only thing they can do once they find each other is collide and inevitably destroy themselves

We see that in Spamton and Tenna's relationship (whether it was orchestrated to fail by Mike or not), is that they both believed they were getting something for free from the other (guidance on how to succeed/love/validation), when reality, the cost was that it shifted their already horrific levels of co-dependency from the Lightners onto one another. As a side-effect of both of them becoming too big to fail, they both became incredibly fragile, who's success and continued happiness relied solely on the other. It only took one mess up- one misinterpretation- to ruin everything, and now they both blame the other for their failure to appeal to the Lightners anymore. Their relationship was ALWAYS doomed to fail because in the end, despite any positive feelings they may have had for one another (be it love or friendship or just plain idol worship), they both put aside any genuine emotion for one another that may have blossomed for their own ego.

The one thing that could have saved both Spamton AND Tenna was honest, earnest, communication, and that's what's so tragic about it, because this happens in real life to people all the time. Without honest communication, relationships crumble- especially business partners, but I feel like they had something deeper. They were earnest in one way with one another, and that was how direly terrified they were of being alone. With proper communication they could have figured something out, been better for each other, and maybe grown past their fear of obsolescence out of, if nothing, mutual respect for one another's skills.

Yet they didn't. They chose the fickle whims of fame and the adoration of strangers over what could have been real. They chose a fantasy of popular anonymity (and probably money, at least in Spamton's case) over each other. Now at the end of everything Tenna doesn't even recognize Spamton, but he still keeps a pipis hidden in a dresser, and when he has a breakdown, just like Spamton did in Chapter 2, the first person he blames for his failure is his old business partner.

Because at the end of the day- to the both of them- it couldn't have been me, it couldn't even have been that other people have lives outside of his influence. It was obviously THAT guy, my old partner, how dare he leave me like this/not teach me to be able to sell things/learn how to use email?

They're more co-dependent now than they were even when they were together, except now it's divorced flavored. Tenna's mannerisms and speech are even Spamton flavored, but considering everything, who was actually coping who in an effort to stay relevant?

Relationships take work, and practice, and above all honesty, which is something that neither of them had the ability to exercise until they were both about to die- and that lack of empathy and genuineness is what made their relationship fall apart with heartbreaking inevitability. Time caught up to them in more ways than one.

If that is not the most toxic of doomed yaois to grace your radar idk what is.

[ccsainzleclerc5516]

Mrs Norris

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: suggestive

It was the first time in your career that you walked as a Victoria Secret Angel and you couldn't be more proud and grateful for the opportunity that was given to you. All the work and effort over the years paid off and you were finally able to check off one more thing on your wish list.

This was such a special moment for you, you were so excited to walk the runway with your wings and the fact that you knew your husband would be in the audience supporting you made that moment even special.

Lando took a private plane to NYC directly from his business commitments to support his wife and be her biggest fan. You weren't sure how he would fit it into his busy schedule, but one thing you were sure of was that he would be there. You were sure he would find a way because you knew he wouldn't miss it for anything.

But what you didn't know was that Lando was going to take your daughter with him as a surprise guest for you. He carefully planned everything so that the two most important people in your life would be there for you on one of the most important days in your career.

The show was just about to start and while you were finishing the final touches backstage, Lando and Isla settled in the front rows of the runway. Lando looked like he might as well conquer that same runway in his black suit with his shirt just unbuttoned. His mullet looked flawless, his curls stood out perfectly with his well-known necklaces around his neck, a watch on his wrist and his daughter on his lap, he looked like a god.

As the music started, you were getting more and more nervous, but in a good way, you couldn't wait to get out on the runway and walk your wings.

Words couldn't describe the adrenaline that ran through your veins once you stepped out onto the runway. You've done it a thousand times before, but this time it was a completely different experience. You felt so powerful, so proud and so important, like you could conquer the whole world, as if no one could stop you.

As you walked your eyes searched for your husband, and when they found him it took everything in you to remain professional and not let your motherly feelings get the best of you when you saw your daughter sitting on Lando's lap. Your eyes sparkled and filled with tears when you saw how happy she was, how she waved at you and shouted mommy!!.

"Yees!! That's my wife! I love you baby!!" Lando shouted proudly as you walked by and blew both of them a kiss.

"That's my mommy!" Isla said excitedly pointing her little finger at you.

"Yes, baby, that's mommy" He smiled looking how fixated Isla's eyes were on you.

"She's so pretty," She commented. "And she has wings?!"

"She is, isn't she? Do you like the wings?" Lando chuckled seeing how excited Isla got about them.

"I do!! Daddy, can I have them too?"

"Oh, baby" Lando softened. "Well, not right now, but maybe one day when you're all big and grown up. Even though I hope not.." Lando muttered the last part quietly so Isla wouldn't hear how he hoped his daughter wouldn't one day walk the runway in tiny lace lingerie set in front of a million people and cameras following her every step.

It's not that he didn't want her to succeed one day, but that's just not any dad's dream when it comes to his daughter especially not Lando's.

"But..I want them now, daddy" She pouted. "I wanna be pretty just like mommy"

"Pumpkin, you are just as beautiful as mommy. Daddy's gonna buy you smaller wings so they can fit you perfectly as soon as we get home, okay?"

"Okay." She agreed and Lando kissed her cheek before they continued to watch the rest of the models walk.

By the time the show came to an end, Isla was already too tired and fell asleep on Lando's shoulder. Since it was long past her bed time she didn't even mind all the noise happening around her, she was peacefully sleeping hiding her head in the crook of her daddy's neck.

Once the show was over, Lando, with Isla in his arms, headed backstage to congratulate you. You melted when you saw how tired your daughter was and felt a little bad that she wasn't in her bed right now.

"I'm so proud of you, Mrs Norris" Lando said kissing you as you hugged him over Isla.

"Thank you, baby. How..? How did you manage to do this?"

"Just wanted to make sure both of your biggest fans were there for you on such an important day"

"You're incredible..I love you so much" You said feeling so grateful for the immense support you felt from him, not only now, but always.

In his vows, he promised you that he would always be there for you and ever since that day, he has never broken that promise. He always did everything for you and you only. When it came to you, nothing was impossible for him.

"I love you too, baby. Do you wanna go to the after party?" He asked.

"No, I wanna go to the hotel with you and Isla."

"Oh, she's going over to grandma and grandpa's tonight" Lando smirked.

"What do you mean? We're in New York?" You asked confused not knowing that Lando's parents were there as well tonight.

"Let's say I flew them out here so she can stay with them after the show."

"Oh really?" You laughed already knowing what he had planned in his mind. "And why did you do that?"

"Because I knew what I wanted to do to you tonight." He smirked squeezing your hip. "Daddy needs to show mommy just how proud he is of her for being so marvelously beautiful and owning that runway tonight."

"Oh so I get to have my own personal after party?"

"Oh yeah" He smirked connecting your lips again. "Do you get to take that set with you?" He asked referring to what you were wearing tonight before you changed.

You moved closer to his ear and whispered "I'm wearing it right now under this dress"

He took a deep breath in closing his eyes picturing you again in it.

"Good, because all I could think about was how I'm gonna be taking it off you after the show ends."

When you were ready to leave the show venue, a crowd of paparazzi greeted you at the exit on your way to your waiting car. Camera flashes went off so hard it made it hard to see where you were walking. Lando took off his blazer and wrapped it around Isla to shield her since she was still sleeping undisturbed on his chest. He kept you both under his grip, his hand on your waist first pulling you closer to him then letting you walk in front of him so he can keep an eye on you while with the other hand he tightly held your daughter.

You weren't the least bit sorry that you weren't going to attend the after party with the rest of the models because you knew that the after party you were about to get tonight would be like no other.

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[mariasont]

ALLERGIES AND OTHER LIES - A.H

trying to downplay your illness at work becomes increasingly complicated, thanks to morgan's teasing and hotch's concern.

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: illness (mild cold symptoms), implied age gap dynamics, dbf!hotch, chronic people pleasing, mentions of parental disapproval, overworking, power imbalance (mild, but like... still), caretaking, mentions of anxiety/imposter syndrome wc: 1.8k request: here!

In your household, illness had been less about care and more about damage control, specifically, making sure your father never noticed the slightest sniffle or shiver.

Showing weakness of any kind had been about as welcome as bringing home a bad grade (below A) or an unsuitable boyfriend (anyone whose parents weren’t well known in your parents’ circle of friends).

Your mother had a mantra of chin up, honey. So, in turn, you spent most of your childhood mastering silent coughs and hiding tissues like contraband. You become an expert, too, in using makeup as camouflage, plastering concealer beneath tired eyes and an irritated nose.

These were the skills you employed again today, transforming your reflection to something more presentable.

Or at least, you hoped.

One might reasonably expect your workplace, filled with empathetic experts who practically radiate concern and affection for you, to be the ideal environment to relax those defenses. Clearly, reason is not a reliable source.

Old habits die hard, or something like that.

You clear your throat again, trying to make it quieter this time as if to be a peace offering for your body, hoping it might abandon its melodrama and remember that once upon a blue moon, you had shared priorities.

Shared priorities like appearing professional, impressing Hotch, not dying of embarrassment in the middle of the office. At least, ideally not before Hotch realizes he’s secretly in love with you, but beggars can’t be choosers.

And to your credit, you know you’re perfectly functional. You're completely capable of performing basic duties. It's only a paperwork day, and all you need to accomplish is sitting upright for the next six hours without collapsing.

Piece of cake, really.

This holds true despite your head's best efforts to contract this narrative, floating dizzily atop your shoulders like an overinflated balloon, packed with cottony static.

It’s as if someone (you suspect Satan himself at this point, no lesser evil would be quite so cruel) is intent on squeezing, testing just how much strain your overstretched rubber can endure before ultimately popping.

But to deem this a real illness would be the sort of overstatement that would’ve set your mother’s lips into a tight, disapproving line.

No, this is just the polite-stranger-on-the-street level of cold, the type you acknowledge with that polite, no-teeth, slightly awkward smile (the one dads exchange at hardware stores), giving it just enough recognition so it doesn’t engage you further.

Though, this strategy of pointedly ignoring your symptoms seems to be failing, if your rapidly dwindling tissue supply is any indication. Most people would say it is. Spencer, for instance. Rossi. Emily. JJ. Morgan.

Especially Morgan.

You wonder whether anyone would care, or even notice, if you slipped out to restock. It’s tempting to steal someone else’s box outright. Desperate times, desperate measures, etc.

Your hand rises to settle against your cheek, fingers pressing and reshaping fever-warmed skin in a hopeful bid to pacify the throbbing discomfort that has nestled firmly behind your eyes.

“You doing okay over there?” JJ asks, fingers flying over her tablet screen without sparing you more than half a distracted glance. “Sounds like you’re fighting a losing battle over there.”

You force out a laugh, but it comes out strangled, undermining your performance before it even has a chance to succeed. Pathetic.

“Allergies,” you insist weakly.

This finally earns her full attention and a look she probably usually reserves for Henry and Michael.

“If you say so.”

You're still mentally fumbling for a better excuse when Hotch steps through the entrance of the bullpen.

Immediately, your spine goes rigid, snapping into proper alignment designed to fool him into believing you're the very picture of health. It's a level of optimistic delusion typically reserved for thinking you'll actually wake up early to run. Or for ill-advised crushes. (Not that the latter has any relevance to you whatsoever, of course.)

Feigning disinterest, you slide the sad, flattened tissue box toward the outermost corner of your desk, secretly hoping it might vanish into some blind spot and escape his notoriously observant gaze.

Unfortunately, Morgan doesn’t have blind spots. You can feel his curiosity practically burning through you without needing visual confirmation. 

And when you finally cave and glance over, sure enough, he’s exactly as you feared — reclining with that self-assured smirk of this.

You shoot back an imploring, wordless appeal you hope is conveyed properly in the desperate look on your face — Derek if you have any compassion left in your soul, don’t embarrass me in full view of the human epitome of perfection who, by some cosmic injustice, also happens to sign my paychecks.

“Hey, Hotch, you might want to keep a safe distance. Somebody over here sounds ready to keel over.”

You stiffen in an instant, a flush saturating your skin in a wave of flaring skin. So, it's decided then, Morgan is either immune to the nuances of telepathy or human decency. Maybe both.

His comment lands with brutal accuracy to its intended target, Hotch's all-seeing attention, exactly where they're guaranteed to do the most harm.

Against all better judgment, you look toward your boss.

His expression is reliably neutral — an impenetrable facade he’s perfected over countless interrogations and internal crises. But you, in your infinite and perhaps slightly unhealthy fascination, have long since memorized the subtle dialects of his face. The language spoken by small lines that now deepening along his forehead.

Those shadowed creases betray worry, mild irritation, or an even more troubling amalgamation of both. 

You shoot Morgan a pointed glare, but the strength of your conviction fizzles out fast, morphing unwillingly into something you’re sure resembles a wounded pout.

Predictably, his grin expands, and before you can conjure a sufficiently damning curse to smite him into oblivion, Hotch materializes beside your work space.

His eyes skim over your desk — the messy heap of tissues, the scattered remnants of cough drop wrappers, and the cluster of half empty tea cups.

“Something wrong?”

“Me?” 

“Yes, you,” Hotch clarifies patiently. More than you deserve.

“Oh, right — no, I’m completely fine,” you babble quickly, fingers scrambling in vain to conceal the damning evidence. “I’m — this is nothing, really.”

His eyes narrow.

“How about you tell me the truth this time?”

“Seriously. I feel totally —” Your defense promptly collapses as you pivot hastily, barely managing to muffle a sneeze into the crook of your elbow. You sniffle sheepishly, eyes watering, and turn back to him. “— great,” you croak. “Fantastic, even.”

He offers his handkerchief without comment, and you accept it, fingertips hovering just shy of his, keeping distance the way you’d steer clear of a freshly painted wall (tempting, but dangerous). Because, frankly, you don’t trust your fever-addled nerves to cope gracefully with even a microscopic brush of his skin.

You look down at the cloth, starched and clean, just another perfect aspect of him. One more checkmark on an ever-expanding list.

He must have routines for everything — shirts arranged by hue and texture, socks rolled into disciplined bundles. In your mind's eye, you also see a perfectly aligned row of identical handkerchiefs stacked neatly in the top drawer.

You doubt he ever lets himself sprawl out on the sofa with takeout containers littered across the coffee table.

But then again, it’s equally hard to picture him performing mundane domestic things like folding fitted sheets. Maybe he hires someone specifically for that.

Maybe (and here your heart skips a beat), just maybe he could be persuaded to leave those sheets rumpled occasionally. 

Possibly even by someone as hopeless as yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but it’s too late. The images are planted firmly, sending out stubborn roots to your already overstimulated imagination. 

“I’ll wash it,” you mumble hastily, realizing you've been staring wordlessly at him for an inappropriate amount of time. “Sorry. I mean, thank you. And I’ll wash it.”

“I’ve got more.” He watches you for another second. “Do you need to go home?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m good. Really.”

You’re not exactly sure why the words come out so defensive, like admitting you actually might need rest would irrevocably confirm some inadequacy you’ve tried to conceal.

Realistically, you understand he’s simply offering grace, giving you an escape hatch if your pride allows you to take it. You know that. Emotionally, however, your heart has a habit of misinterpreting tenderness, of hearing concern and translating it into criticism.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” He turns, steps back just enough to gesture with a tilt of his head. “Come with me.”

You blink slowly, mind briefly stalling in a fog of congestion and confusion, unsure of what exactly you're agreeing to.

But then you're following him. No questions asked. No explanation needed, destination a secondary detail at best, because you're familiar with the fact that your behavior, apparently, tends to regress to that of a loyal golden retriever when he's around (which doesn't paint you in a particularly flattering light).

He walks. You heel. Once again, pathetic.

It’s only when his hand touches the doorknob to his office, that realization crystallizes into a cold dread.

This, then, is a conversation. And not the easy, casual kind either. It’s one of those conversations, the sort he delivers in velvet tones that mask disappointment beneath layers of practiced compassion. Objectively ten times worse than yelling.

Not that you've personally ever been subjected to Hotch's raised voice. You've watched it happen sparingly, set aside for suspects — and to the one unfortunate officer whose conversational style with you could charitably be called outdated.

For a reckless second, you find yourself imagining what it might feel like to bear the brunt of such restrained anger. Your thighs clench involuntarily.

You make a vow to steer clear of that mental avenue from now on.

“I know I probably seem irresponsible,” you rush out, even as he pushes the door open. “I wasn’t trying to be. It’s just been a long week, and I didn’t think — well, I thought, but clearly not enough, and I wasn’t trying to hide anything —”

You freeze, words hanging unfinished in the air, eyes fixed as he lowers himself to one knee and opens a cabinet. He pulls out a tightly folded blanket accompanied by a pillow still wrapped in crinkling plastic.

“If you’re not going home,” he says, not unkind, just definitive, “then you’re going to sleep.”

“But I —”

“Morgan will cover your responsibilities.”

“That’s not —”

“— fair to him?” he finishes your exact thought, his back already turned as he adjusts the blinds, shutting out distractions along with daylight. “Maybe not. But he’ll be fine. I’m not convinced you will.”

You draw in a breath, ready to say something (though what exactly you're not sure) to prove you’re not completely powerless here, but his eyes cut past you to the couch. And that’s it. The conversation ends before it begins.

You drop to the cushions, limbs too tired to pretend at defiance, and he, unbothered, resumes gathering his files and paperwork.

“I’ll be in the conference room,” he says. “You’re staying here and resting. Two hours minimum. If I see you at your desk before then, I’ll walk you out myself.”

“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm’s there, but it limps, undersold by a renewed stabbing at your temple.

He’s almost through the door before he hesitates, looking back. “Come get me if you need anything.”

It’s softer than the rest. You tuck that away carefully, right alongside the headache.

You made it precisely an hour and forty-seven minutes. You rounded up. You told yourself it was close enough to two to count. You did the math. He undoubtedly would too.

So later, passing Hotch in the hallway, you braced yourself, but he said nothing. Just offered another one of those indecipherable looks that could equally be subtle approval, polite disappointment, or simply proof he had a running tally in his head confirming you cracked right on schedule.

You assume it’s that last one.

When you get back to your desk, there’s a bright yellow sticky note patiently waiting for you.

Hotch didn’t sign it, but he didn’t have to. The handwriting is barely legible, a clear indicator. Doctors everywhere would be proud.

You’ve learned to decode his scrawl purely out of survival, especially when it comes to finding your name hidden somewhere in the mess he leaves on paperwork. It usually takes two tries, a careful squint, and occasionally rotating the page at odd angles before you can definitely confirm that yes, that enigmatic scribble is indeed meant to be you.

You smile to yourself, slipping the words into your drawer, stashing it away like a lucky charm or a secret love letter, safely hidden from prying eyes.

There’s something comforting in the thought that maybe, if you follow Hotch’s instructions well enough, he’ll write another one. Lucky you.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[theriverbeyond]

Harrow the Ninth is really a book about what happens when you are the Best At Something your whole life and you sweat and bleed and sacrifice everything to earn your way to the place/position you've always dreamed of, but then when you do succeed it isn't as you expected. Not only does everyone you once admired turn out to be an awful person, but your abilities are no longer special. Your talent isn't enough. Your effort isn't enough. Your new peers have worked just as hard as you have and know just as much as you do, but more than that: they seem suddenly better, faster, more capable, all while you flounder in the shallow end of the pool as the abilities you spent your whole life honing abandon you in your time of need. Humiliation becomes your constant companion as you sweat and bleed and try anyway, but what once netted you endless success and acolades is now barely enough to survive.

And then, of course, there is The Skull

[moonlight-joy]

Winter’s Bride

MASTERLIST

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You are a southern lady, sent to marry Lord Cregan Stark as part of a political alliance during the Dance of Dragons. At first, you find him cold and distant, but as the harsh northern winter sets in, the ice between you begins to thaw.

Pairing: Reader/Cregan Stark

The air was sharp and cold as you stepped down from the carriage, your breath visible in the frigid northern air. The towering walls of Winterfell loomed before you, their ancient stones dusted with snow. The north was nothing like the lush green lands of your childhood; it was wild, untamed, and unyielding. Much like the man you were about to marry.

Lord Cregan Stark stood at the gates, his imposing figure framed by the snow-covered battlements. His expression was unreadable, his gray eyes as cold and distant as the land he ruled. You curtsied politely, the thick layers of your southern gown doing little to protect you from the biting chill.

“My lord,” you said, your voice steady despite the nerves that churned in your stomach.

He inclined his head, his tone formal. “Lady (Y/N). Welcome to Winterfell.”

And so began your new life as the bride of the North.

The days that followed were a blur of introductions and formalities. The northern lords regarded you with curiosity, some with open skepticism. You were an outsider, a southern lady who had no place in their harsh, unforgiving land. But you bore their scrutiny with grace, determined to fulfill your duty and prove your worth.

Cregan was courteous but distant, his focus consumed by the responsibilities of ruling Winterfell. He spoke little to you beyond what was necessary, and the silence between you grew heavier with each passing day.

One evening, as you sat by the fire in the great hall, you couldn’t hold back your frustration any longer.

“You don’t have to love me, my lord,” you said, breaking the tense silence. “But we must at least pretend to care for one another if this alliance is to succeed.”

Cregan looked up from the map he was studying, his expression unreadable. “I don’t need love to rule Winterfell,” he said simply.

You met his gaze, your own eyes blazing with defiance. “Good, because I wasn’t planning on falling in love with you.”

For a moment, his lips twitched as if he might smile, but the moment passed, and he returned to his work. “Then we are in agreement.”

As the harsh northern winter set in, you began to adapt to your new life. The chill that once bit at your skin became familiar, and you found solace in the warmth of the hearths and the sturdy walls of Winterfell. The northern people, initially wary of you, began to soften as they saw your efforts to learn their ways and contribute to their community.

You joined the women of the castle in spinning wool for winter cloaks, and you accompanied Cregan’s sister to the market square to distribute food to the smallfolk. The more you immersed yourself in northern life, the more you came to understand its people—and its lord.

Cregan remained distant, but there were moments when the ice between you seemed to thaw. You caught glimpses of the man beneath the lord: a fleeting smile as he watched the children of Winterfell play in the snow, a rare laugh shared with his trusted bannermen, or the way his eyes softened when he spoke of his family’s legacy.

One evening, as a snowstorm raged outside, you found yourself alone with Cregan in the library. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room. You were reading by the light of a single candle when he entered, his presence filling the space.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, pausing in the doorway.

“You’re not,” you replied, gesturing for him to sit. “I’m not used to being alone in such a large castle.”

He hesitated for a moment before taking a seat across from you. “The winters are long here. Solitude is something we learn to live with.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t have to be that way,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Cregan didn’t reply, but the look in his eyes lingered, the cold gray depths reflecting something warmer, something unspoken.

The turning point came during a feast held in honor of the northern lords. As the wine flowed and the fires burned bright, one of the lords—a grizzled man with a scarred face—stood and addressed Cregan.

“Lord Stark, with all respect, how can we trust her?” he said, gesturing toward you. “A southern lady, sent here by those who would see the North weakened. How do we know her loyalty lies with us and not her own kin?”

The hall fell silent, all eyes turning to Cregan. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear and humiliation threatening to overwhelm you. But before you could respond, Cregan rose from his seat.

“Enough,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. “Lady (Y/N) is my wife, and her loyalty is to Winterfell. She has done nothing to earn your suspicion, and I will not have her honor questioned.”

The lord opened his mouth to protest, but Cregan cut him off with a sharp glare. “If you cannot respect her, then you do not respect me. And I will not tolerate such disrespect in my hall.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, and the tension eased as the feast continued. You sat in stunned silence, Cregan’s words echoing in your mind.

Later that night, as you prepared for bed, he entered your chambers. You turned to face him, your emotions a whirlwind of gratitude and confusion.

“Why did you defend me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Because you are my wife,” he said simply. “And because you’ve shown more strength and honor than most men in that hall tonight.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, and for the first time, you saw not just the lord, but the man. The man who, beneath the ice, carried a heart capable of great warmth.

The following weeks brought a subtle but undeniable change. Cregan began seeking you out, whether to discuss the day’s events or to share a quiet meal. He asked your opinions on matters of the household, and he even invited you to accompany him on a hunt. Though his manner remained reserved, there was a newfound softness in his gaze when he looked at you.

One evening, as you walked together through the snow-covered godswood, he surprised you by taking your gloved hand in his. “The North can be a harsh place,” he said, his voice low. “But it’s not without its beauty. I hope you’ve come to see that.”

You smiled, your heart warming at the rare vulnerability in his tone. “I have. And I think I’m beginning to understand its people as well.”

“And its lord?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You met his gaze, your breath visible in the cold air. “I think I’m beginning to understand him too.”

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the snow falling softly around you. And in that moment, you felt the ice between you finally begin to melt, leaving room for something stronger, something enduring. Something that could weather even the harshest of winters.

Please support my work with like and comment

[jinusajas]

03/05/25; 02:00am

sylus x fem.reader

notes: drabble inspired by… this post.

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

thinking about riding sylus as you slowly quicken his descent into a needy type of madness….

dressed only in the sheer material of your nightgown, you start by straddling yourself on his abdomen. the once powerful onychinus leader lays back against your mattress, bare except for a flimsy pair of boxers covering the sole part of him that you craved for. no ropes or chains were needed to bind his wrists as he remained utterly still for you, ruby red eyes meeting yours as if silently challenging you, telling you to do your worst.

a smile spreads across your full lips, one that was a bit too saccharine-

too innocent as it succeeds in keeping your true intentions hidden.

letting out a breathy sigh of his name, you trail the tip of your nails down his chest, basking in his broken grunts that choke out your name. his body goes taut in the wake of your touches, making the veins that decorate his powerful arms seem to pop out in response.

you slowly continue to slide down his god-like body, chewing at your bottom lip before trailing your gaze towards sylus’s features. he was panting heavily with his eyes clenched shut, ignoring every other sensation as he was entirely focused on you. due to your own desires, you felt your arousal coating at his skin, leaving a shiny trail across the expanse of his muscled abdomen.

you manage to earn a low groan from sylus, the sound further heightened the ache you felt between your legs. with labored breaths, you manage to reach his boxers, purposefully sliding across the prominent tent seen as you earned a low fuck! from sylus.

hah… your soft mewls echo throughout the room with your shaky hands pulling down the fabric of his boxers, sliding them low enough to reveal his thick cock to you. not only did he have the length to satisfy you, but the girth and thickness as well.

needing to do something to assuage the ache felt between your legs, you settle the side of his cock against your pulsating heat. the sensation of your slick walls against his cock makes him let out another low groan, tossing his head back when you began to move your cunt up and down the shaft of his cock.

you had your eyes closed the moment you decided to stroke his cock with your slick, yet the sounds sylus was making had been far too hedonistic to ignore that you forced your eyes to open-

making your arousal leak even more out of you at the sudden sight.

sylus remained beneath you with his head tossed back. his eyes were clenched shut while his lips were slightly parted in response to your movements. his eyebrows were furrowed, as if it were taking him a herculean effort to keep from releasing himself at this very moment.

unable to hold back any longer, you let out a breathy moan of his name, telling him how badly you needed him before removing your cunt off of him. basking in his needy grunts of your name, you allow your hands to grip at his cock, using your arousal to further lubricate him as you stroked him to full hardness. once his thickness was enough to satisfy you, you press the mushroom tip of his cock against your entrance, slapping it a few times on your swollen bundle of nerves before slowly taking him in.

feeling every inch of him slowly invading your walls causes you to nearly cum on the spot, yet by some miracle, you hold yourself back, managing to watch sylus’s expression morph into something even more sinful as he tosses his head back even further. his mouth was open while letting out a loud groan, his entire body trembling with need as he fights to keep his impending release at bay.

feeling so full of him the moment your hips met with his, your pants and soft mewls turn into desperate moans of his name, with you riding him with a newfound passion you had never felt before. the sounds of your copulation were heard throughout the room, making your fervent movements lose its rhythmic thrusts, becoming sloppier as evident of your desperation for release.

hah…hah…hah!

each time you came back down on him, further stroking his thick erection with your wet heat, sylus attempts to meet your thrusts with his own upward movements, the sounds of your moans and groans morphing together. you allow yourself to lose the last bit of restraint you had, slamming your cunt back down on his cock while feeling your walls clench tightly around him.

ngh fuck!

sylus’s cock lengthen inside of you, with his large hands gripping at your waist to force your hips to keep still. a shrill cry of his name was ripped from your throat, and you forced your dazed expression to take in sylus’s devastating features twisted in pure bliss-

eyes clenched shut-

mouth parted so wide in a silent groan that you could practically see his perfect row of teeth-

and the way his body shudders so deliciously in response to his climax-

it was during moments like these that you cursed your mind’s inability to retain a photographic memory, since you were certain you would replay his fucked out expression on repeat-

yet you suppose that the best way to bask in his beauty was to simply ride him over and over again to your heart’s content.

end notes: honorable mention (⺣◡⺣)♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[ozzgin]

I really hope you continue the eldrich God story. I may or may not have become obsessed with the idea, and i think it's actually really funny and I also just love the idea of a God being in love with a human.

Also, I love your writing and art! I hope you're doing well!

Yandere! Eldritch God x Detective! Reader

Based on this prompt and this meme. You're sent to a remote island to investigate a string of murders, and end up with a horde of cultists and their Lovecraftian God who is very much obsessed with you. Don't worry, he just wants to help you with your case!

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, tentacle tomfoolery again

[More Monsters]

The island checks all the boxes for a stereotypical shady place: the grimy boat captain who talks in riddles and vague warnings, the constant fog, the tavern filled with rumors and fears, the bizarre statue of a creature with tentacles. You were expecting most of it, save for their patron God being a literal monster.

Soon after your arrival, you discover that you’re being followed by men in dark robes. Could it be related to your case? A little alcohol-aided interrogation, and the locals confess to you about the existence of a cult. The dots begin to connect.

Unfortunately for you, whatever theory is cooking up in your mind couldn’t be further from the truth. The patron Beast of the land has been watching you from the moment of your arrival. He’s rather intrigued by your nonchalant city attitude, your stubbornness, your lack of any sense of danger. Thus he demands that you’re brought to his lair.

A game of cat and mouse. You are now convinced this said cult is responsible for the murders, so you delve deeper into their secrets. At the same time, the men put all their efforts into chasing you down. The Lord's wishes are their command; for how long can you outsmart sheer numbers?

At last, they succeed. You’re dragged over, cocooned in thick rope. “My Lord, we’ve brought you the sacrifice”, one cultist proclaims victoriously. Sacrifice? The ancient creature gazes at the men with utmost confusion. He frees you from your restraints with a mere point of his tentacle appendage, and proceeds to lecture his devout following for treating his special guest with such shameful brutality. Everyone blinks in disbelief, you included.

What the hell is this, some beastly romcom? Once everything is cleared up, you dust your knees, stand up unceremoniously, and tell the cosmic deity you’ve no time for idle gossip. “There’s a criminal running free and it’s my task to stop it”, you bark. Aha, that’s the very same attitude that got his nebulous heart pumping with curious desire. He cannot explain the maddening interest he’s taken into you. The monster releases a monotonous hum, causing you to jolt in surprise. The cult leader gasps. “He…he wants to help you solve the case”, the man concludes, defeat in his voice.

“Does it have to be all of you?” You whine, clicking your tongue at the sight. It’s the morning after the godly encounter, and you’re greeted outside your room by the cult leaders and their monster. “I can’t be discreet with a dozen monks after me. Not to mention…” your eyebrows furrow. “What on Earth is he wearing? Is that a detective hat and a mustache? Are you mocking my job?” You demand, glaring at the eldritch beast and his ridiculous disguise.

“Excuse me, I’ll have to ask you to quiet down”, an employee suddenly interrupts. “You and the gentlemen over there.” You stare at him incredulously. Can he really not see he’s facing an enormous, tentacle monstrosity? You swear you can discern a grin forming across the creature’s amorphous, unholy features. Alright, you’ve been convinced. What now?

As a child, Sherlock Holmes was one of your favorite books. You'd flip through the pages and daydream about your own future as a detective, though your little fantasies never included Watson as a cursed entity of a thousand tentacles. The eldritch creature seems to be more interested in you than the case itself. Eyes always fixated on your movements, tendrils creeping around you, never leaving your proximity.

Why would he need to look elsewhere? He can already tell how things will unfold. He is, after all, the God of this land. He knew your wanted culprit had been hiding in a sealed room right under your nose, as you dusted for footprints and scribbled hurried notes. He knew the underground tunnel had deadly traps, which would have normally put your investigation to a swift end. "Kind of suspicious to leave his trail unguarded like this", you mumble in deep thought. The cosmic God smiles.

He wouldn't dare ruin your fun. Consequently, he only interferes when your safety is involved. As annoyed as he is by the criminal's persistent attempts to kill you, he doesn't want to steal your grand capture. Besides, he is very much content with the current circumstances.

As the two of you follow along the dark passageway, you clear your throat, lips pursed awkwardly. "Uh...Thank you for dealing with the obstacles", you finally say. The monster pretends to ponder your words. "Hey now, don't play dumb with me. The conveniently deactivated bombs? The mutilated guards clumsily stuffed behind the door? I am a detective, after all."

You feel a thick tendril wrapping around your arm, and you turn to glance at the creature. His eyes of spiraling depths regard you intensely. A voice suddenly echoes in your head; is he trying to communicate with you? Deep, resounding, and imposing. "I am looking forward to our next case."

"Next case? Sorry pal, I work alone-" your throat clenches involuntarily. Somehow, your innards are flooded with a particular kind of certainty, dictating an ironclad truth: you do not have the option to refuse. You sigh, exasperated. "Fine! Have it your way. At least skip the fake mustache", you beg, then pause. You slap a second tentacle that has made its way under your shirt. "And avoid groping me when I'm thinking. You interrupt the little gray cells at work." You tap your temple to prove your point, and the eldritch God bows lightly. Of course.

He'll refrain himself until you're off work, Detective.

[bxtxnx]

the twelfth.

Planets in the twelfth house can be some of the most challenging placements in a natal chart. In today's world, where everything is getting increasingly difficult, expensive and you are supposed to hustle to succeed, having planets in the twelfth house is like trying to drive with the handbrake on.

You try your hardest, but you can't achieve your goal.

You try to meet someone and revive your nonexistent social or romantic life, but people don't even notice you, as if you don't exist.

You have applied to over a thousand of jobs in the last six months, but you don't even get a single interview, much less a job.

You work hard, you hustle and you do everything right, so why is nothing working?

And then you see the dreaded twelfth house placements - Mars in the twelfth house, Venus in the house of loss, the ruler of your tenth house of career in the house of passivity.

Everyone believes that if you work hard enough your efforts will be rewarded. No hard work goes unnoticed by the universe or the higher power you believe in. Bullshit. No one knows better how fruitless hard work can be than a person with placements in the twelfth house.

But then again, no one goes with the flow better than the one with planets in the twelfth house.

Once you let go of the goals and the tireless and endless hard work, pursuing this and that and just start living and enjoying yourself, then everything flows to you. You don't seek a job, but a great opportunity comes to you. You don't go out of your way to meet people, but they are the ones coming to you on their own two feet, wanting to stick around you.

When you stop worrying, when you stop trying hard and just live your life and mind your own business, everything finds its way to you without you having to lift a finger. Things develop and happen in your life in weird and even miraculous ways.

As someone with twelfth house placements, you can't fight for things. You just let whatever is best come to you. And then the twelfth house is no longer the house of loss. It becomes the house of miracles and divine intervention. ☽

[a-bad-case-of-the-stephs]

Stephanie Brown: it’s not my job to protect Crystals sobriety

Also Stephanie Brown: it’s absolutely my job to protect Crystals sobriety

This isn’t inconsistent to me at all btw . I think it makes a lot of sense and says a lot about the evolution of Steph and Crystals relationship.

I just find it super duper interesting. Bc Steph isn’t wrong at all, it isn’t her job, but it was. It was her job for a WHILE! it was her job to protect crystal because no one else (including crystal herself) was going to.

Crystal doesn’t really start to clean herself up until Cataclysm starts, and even then it’s not an automatic thing. Especially not for Steph, who doesn’t move on and accept that Crystals better now, that she’s going to be there for Steph, that Steph doesn’t have to protect her anymore, because that just hadn’t been true for the previous 15 years.

And it shows so evidently over and over again that Steph just doesn’t immediately accept and embrace this development. She supports Crystal all the way, and she loves her mom so goddamn much, but Steph doesn’t slot naturally into the ‘Crystal can be trusted to take care of me / I don’t need to take care of her’ dynamic at ALL!

In the very scene where we start to see Crystal recognizing her shortcomings as Steph’s parent, what I consider the turning point for Crystals recovery, we see how unnatural a relationship with Crystal where Steph doesn’t need to take care of her comes to Steph:

It’s Steph who reaches out to emotionally support Crystal, it’s Steph who crouches down to reassure her, it’s Steph who comforts and takes care of her and literally tucks her in to sleep. Steph is framed in every way as the caretaker, even as Crystal starts to recognize the unfairness of Steph taking on that role instead of Crystal.

Steph hides things from Crystal, she takes care of issues herself. When Crystals brother, Steph’s ‘Uncle Dave’ begins hitting on Steph, she takes care of it herself, and when Spoiler succeeds in sending him to jail, Steph brushes off Crystals question of where Dave went, seemingly finding it unnecessary and superfluous to explain anything to Crystal. After all, Steph makes the connection herself when she directly compares Arthur to Dave in terms of Crystals ‘malfunctioning lie detector’- Steph sees Crystal as just as ineffectual to protect Steph from Dave as Crystal was in protecting Steph from Arthur. It’s not something Steph has to think twice about at all, she deals with the issue herself, and she doesn’t worry Crystal with the details. She takes that burden automatically, because that was Steph’s childhood. Thats her natural state.

Not to mention the framing of this moment alongside another smaller instance of Steph looking out for Crystal, she made her breakfast.

There lots of smaller instances of Steph being unwilling to confide in Crystal, and while some of them come across as run of the mill teen angst- I think there is an understandable undercurrent. Even with their relationship at its very best- Steph can’t fully confide in or communicate effectively with Crystal. Steph usually comes to the conclusion that Crystal won’t get it, that Crystal won’t be able to understand very quickly. Reading this as an extension of how unreliable and just plain out of it Crystal was for the majority of Steph’s childhood, how ‘checked out’ mentally Crystal was feels like a fair read. And Crystals well meaning efforts to talk to Steph usually don’t extend very far past a dismissal from Steph. Crystal gave it a go, but seems to give up and move on fairly easily once stonewalled by Steph.

Steph’s subconscious image of Crystal while she gives birth is that of Crystal at her worst - enabling Arthur’s abuse and completely untrustworthy and unable to determine a dangerous situation.

Another quick example of Steph’s frame of mind when it comes to Crystal and Steph’s assumed responsibility for her:

These are all examples that take place after Crystal has begun to clean herself up and becomes much more aware of how she’d let down Steph in her childhood.

Anyway all that to say, I think it’s actually might be a good sign that Steph takes that angle, that she asserts aloud that maintaining Crystals sobriety isn’t her job. She’s not trying to be cruel, and she’s not heartless, and it definitely doesn’t mean she doesn’t love her mom, it just means maybe Steph has finally really started to come to terms with Crystals growth and their new relationship. Maybe their relationship has reached a point where even when they’re on the outs, when Steph is pissed and scared and upset at Crystal, she’s secure enough overall to trust that Crystal doesn’t need Steph to constantly be there like watching over her, that Crystals recovery isn’t Steph’s responsibility anymore.

Their relationship doesn’t get like instantly healed and it doesn’t mean they’re suddenly great at communicating, the opposite rly, Steph literally runs away to avoid having to be around Crystal, but I think this line says something and I think it’s probably a good something.

[asterafroditis]

𐔌 . ⋮ studying for finals .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆First Years x gn! reader

𓏵 603 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

In honor of finishing my finals hehe >< Second Years and Third Years coming up next! feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Studying with Ace is chaotic, but somehow... productive? He swings between cracking jokes and randomly pulling out a surprisingly solid explanation of a spell or formula.

You usually end up sprawled out on the floor of his room with snacks between you and books open in every direction.

He pretends to be nonchalant about it, but he keeps glancing over to make sure you’re understanding stuff. He wants to be helpful, even if he acts like it’s just for fun.

“Look, I ain’t saying I’m a genius or anything, but that explanation? Kinda smooth, right?”

If he sees you stressed, he changes the topic for a moment—makes you laugh, tosses you a candy, anything to lift your spirits before going back to studying.

─────────────────────────

Deuce takes your study session very seriously. He shows up ten minutes early, with color-coded notes and homemade flashcards.

He’s worried he’s not doing enough, so he overcompensates with effort. But with you beside him, he actually relaxes a bit.

When you compliment his notes or say you understand better because of him, he just freezes and then blushes.

“I—I’m glad it helped! I wasn’t sure if I explained it right... but thanks!”

He’ll gently correct your mistakes without making you feel dumb. And if you’re ever discouraged, he’s quick to say:

“We’ll both pass. No question about it.”

─────────────────────────

Jack prefers studying in the fresh air, so you usually meet him under a tree behind the dorms or in a quiet courtyard.

He doesn’t talk much at first—just studies beside you, occasionally answering your questions in his calm, straightforward way.

But once he notices you struggling with something, he patiently walks you through it, never once making you feel bad.

And if you do well? He gives you the rarest thing: a proud smile.

“Told you you’d get it. You just needed a little push.”

He’s attentive in quiet ways—making sure you’re hydrated, suggesting breaks when you look tired, and making space for you to rest against his shoulder if you nod off.

─────────────────────────

You and Epel usually study at Ramshackle because he says Pomefiore is “too stuffy” for his taste. He stretches out on the floor or slouches upside-down on your bed while quizzing you.

He fidgets when he’s bored—tosses pencils, messes with your hair, or doodles—but the moment the subject is something he likes (like Flight or anything Physical Education related), he lights up.

If you praise him, he gets all red-eared and bashful:

“Wha—? I-I ain’t that good or nothin’! Just paid attention that day, I guess…”

If he sees you getting overwhelmed, he pauses and offers a quick grin:

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s not like Trein’s gonna turn us into toads if we miss one answer. Probably.”

─────────────────────────

Sebek treats your study session like a royal mission. He insists on structure: reviewing vocabulary, reciting theories, and pacing the floor with a textbook in hand.

He’s intense, but deeply invested in your success. If you get something wrong, he corrects you immediately, but always circles back to make sure you truly understand.

“You must be precise! But… if you do not understand, I shall explain again. Pay attention!”

When you do succeed, though? His proud expression is borderline dramatic.

“EXCELLENT! You’re finally starting to think like a proper scholar!”

And if you thank him for his help, he gets awkward for a second before nodding, slightly flushed.

“Tch… It is only natural to assist a companion in need.”

[lohotine]

``Doubt: a self-fulfilling prophecy.``

Cw: self destructive SMC, toxic relationship, angst, light proof reading only

Shadow Milk Cookie x GN! Reader

The only thing you will ever understand about Shadow Milk Cookie is that he will never gain understanding.

Does this mean that he's been understood?

Shadow Milk stares into the broken mirror, pieces of glass beneath his fingers that he almost wishes would peirce him.

It's always an almost;

He's too selfish to actually wish it.

He knows that he is not a good person; there is no way you could even hope to bend the truth in his favor.

Yet, you still remain, as does your hope to try and fix him.

It's laughable, and needless to say, foolish.

You, the biggest clown in the room.

Yet he is the one with the painted face.

Perhaps you're both dumb, in a way. You for trying to redeem him, and him for wishing you'd succeed.

After all, even when it's impossible, a sinner will always wish to one day be redeemed, right?

How pointless it is... this small dance that the two of you are doing.

You're both being so careful... but for what?

To love each other?

To understand the other?

Perhaps this gentleness of his is proof that he's changed...

Have you succeeded? Have you changed him?

He wants to prove that you have.

After all, he's selfish.

See? He's redeemable! All he needed was time! Don't declare him as forever damned. He can change.

He'll prove he can; and so he proves.

He gives you so much, and he asks for so little in return.

See? He's not really selfish...

He does this, time and time again. It's draining, to ask for so little, but he deserves it, right?

He deserves this after everything he's done, right?

Bad people deserve bad things.

But... he's not bad anymore.

He's changing for the better... doesn't that mean he deserves better?

He certainly starts to expect better...

And yet, he continues to decline everything.

To prove he's not selfish, he says... to prove he's still good, he says...

And yet

he still expects.

Silently, but it's there.

Why isn't he getting what he wants? After all he's done to change, and with him continuing to prove how good he is...

Doesn't he deserve something?

And so he'll give you hell, and make lots of noise and beg and scream and shout.

He's put in so much effort! When will you do the same?

And then he'll yell once more,

And then-

And then he will realize:

He's not a good person anymore.

And now he's back at sqaure one.

Once again, he'll start to give and give and give.

It's atonement, he says.

It's his way of showing guilt, he says.

Now do you see?

He's a beast, through and through. An unredeemable monster. A cold hearted freak. One that is stuck in the painful cycle; a prison of his own doing.

He's finally been understood!

...But it's not the type of understanding that he wants.

That's just what happens when you trap

a clown

and a fool with a painted face

inside a prison of the mind.

[kindsail]

TAKE A BITE OF THE BIG APPLE. HOGWARTS INTRO!

SO I CRY, ONLY IN THE RAIN!

I. BEFORE THE GIRL!

once upon a time, in the aristocratic house of black, cygnus and druella black brought a set of twins into the world; narcissa and cassian black. taught the philosophy of blood purity from a young age, cassian grew up empathetic of those who weren't pure bloods. so, when his favourite sister, andromeda, married a muggle-born, cassian, alongside his two other sisters, were forced into disowning her. however, he secretly made efforts to stay in brief contact with her.

unlike the rest of his family, who had all been sorted into slytherin, cassian was sorted into gryffindor during the sorting ceremony of '66. this came as a shock to his family, who were angered greatly as it showed his true nature; that his views had already diverged from the rest of his family.

cassian was the first of the black family to not be sorted into slytherin.

during his first year at hogwarts, cassian met liliane monet. born to muggle-parents, michel and colette monet, in bordeaux, france, they relocated to wales when liliane was six. at hogwarts, she was sorted into gryffindor and quickly distinguished herself as a talented potioneer. her skill caught the eye of professor horace slughorn, who invited her to join the exclusive slug club.

due to liliane being a muggle-born, and after witnessing the disownment of his elder sister, they married in secret and began their new life together in hiding. they settled in a small town on the outskirts of devon named ebonmere, where cassian stayed in limited contact with his relatives.

II. MEET THE GIRL!

dear diary,

is that how i'm supposed to start this thing off? meh. it's now september 1st, 1993, and i start my first day of fifth year today. i guess i should give a little introduction on myself... just so you're aware for future reference.

okay, so, i, sorana lenore black, was born on february 14th, 1978. my mum, liliane monet-turned-black, was in labour for 12 hours!!! i know. insane. she said i was adorable as a baby and that she couldn't bring herself to care about the nine months of absolute torture i put her through, that's pretty privilege for you.

so basically... my family have a lot of errr history. specifically my dad's family. the black family aka a large group of stuck up pure blood cunts oops it'd be best if i scribbled that out. anyways. they hate muggle-borns, half-bloods.. ... anything that they're not; pure-blooded and rich. and well, my mother is a muggle-born witch.

i know, my dad is suchhh a rebel for going against his family!!!

anywho. my life has been pretty average if you block out the part where my dad's elder sister, bellatrix, found out about me and my brother and my mother and my dad's secret life and well.. came to kill us. she didn't succeed, clearly. the duel ended with no fatal casualties thankfully, but my dad was formally and officially disowned.

which is what he was avoiding because helloooo generational money!!!

but of course, they found out about us.

sooo we're not rich or anything. which sucks. but i guess we're kind of lucky because my dad has a decent job at the ministry and my mum is a potion archivist and magical flora specialist (pretty cool if you ask me!) so we're not poor to the point of struggling. my mum calls us "middle-class" whatever that means.

a few cool facts about me, now that we've discussed the elephant in the room...

1 . i'm president of the fashion club at hogwarts.

2 . i’ve memorised half the castle’s secret passages.

3 . i have a ferret named button.

andddd

4 . i'm a gryffindor like my parents.

anyway. gotta go now. mum's shouting at silas and i to get in the car.

don't worry. i'll pack you, keep your bloody knickers on.