#using it to WRITE YOUR ESSAY is... not cool

[iteh3xael]

AI is like Alcohol

Obviously it's bad in excess but just like anything else, it is a tool that we can't just will out of existence.

Prohibition was largely "successful" because it forced people to reckon with the backlash of unfettered checks and balances to both extremes and some of y'all who are Luddites need to seriously consider the reality of AI co-existing with us. Just like any "living" thing, it has a place in the ecosystem and we must be mindful to not let it get out of control.

[johnnyshrine]

★ 123 // “Take the next best step and pray.”

[garygoldenbignaturals]

#let design students submit regular-ass word formatted essays 2025

[thatneoncrisis]

really not loving the way intellectually and physically disabled people keep being used as shields against criticism of the way in which companies implement incomplete and dishonest ai

[15fishes]

i keep thinking about this blog i saw the other day that obviously used to be a normal tumblr blog way back when, but since has turned into a hate campaign blog agaisng another random blogger to a like. obsessive amount😭and the other tumblr blogger is like problematic but like just block them dude what are you doing why is your blog just reblogging from them and yelling at them and arguing with random anons like get a fucking grip …all their evidence is posts that the person they hate made so obviously the ppl who support them know what theyre supporting you aren’t convincing anyone by posting about another random blogger so much that when you search them and hit “blogs” YOUR normal blog comes up. how does this happen to people jfc it gets to a point just go post yaoi or something man

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

✨ HOW TO ACTUALLY START A BOOK

(no ✨vibes✨, just structure, stakes, and first-sentence sweat)

hello writer friends 💌 so you opened a doc. you sat down. you cracked your knuckles. maybe you even made a playlist or moodboard. and then… you stared at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.

here’s your intervention. this post is for when you want to write chapter one, but all you have is aesthetic, maybe a plot bunny, maybe a world idea, maybe nothing at all. here’s how to actually start a book, from structure to sentence one.

—

🌶️ STEP 1: THE SPICE BASE ~ “WHAT’S CHANGING?”

start with this question:

what changes in the protagonist’s life in the first 5–10 pages?

doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. they could get a letter, lose a job, run late, break a rule, wake up hungover in the wrong house. what matters is disruption. the opening of your book should mark a shift. if their day starts normal, it shouldn’t end that way.

🏁 opening chapters are about motion. forward movement. tension. momentum. if nothing is changing, your story isn’t starting, you’re just doing a prequel.

—

⚙️ STEP 2: THE CRUNCHY BITS - CHOOSE AN ENTRY POINT

there are 3 classic places to start a novel. each one works if you’re intentional:

The Day Everything Changes most popular. you drop us in right before or during the inciting incident. clean, fast, efficient.

pro: immediate stakes con: harder to sneak in worldbuilding or character grounding

The Calm Before the Storm starts slightly earlier. show the character’s “normal” life, then break it. useful if the change won’t make sense without context.

pro: space to introduce your character’s routine/flaws con: risky if it drags or feels like setup

The Aftermath drop us in after the big event and fill in gaps as we go. works well for thrillers, mysteries, or emotionally heavy plots.

pro: instant drama con: requires precision to avoid confusion

📝 pick one. commit. don’t blend them or you’ll write three intros at once and cry.

—

🧠 STEP 3: CHARACTER FIRST, ALWAYS

readers don’t care about your setting, your magic system, or your cool mafia politics unless they’re anchored in someone.

in the first scene, we need to know:

what this person wants

what’s bothering them (externally or internally)

one trait they lead with (bold, anxious, calculating, naive, etc.)

that’s it. just one want, one tension, one vibe. no bios. no monologues. no “they weren’t like other girls” essays. put them in a situation and show how they act.

—

⛓️ STEP 4: OPEN WITH FRICTION

first scenes should create questions, not answer them.

there should be tension between:

what the character wants vs. what they’re getting

what’s happening vs. what they expected

what’s being said vs. what’s being felt

you don’t need a gunshot or a car crash (unless you want one). you need conflict. tension = momentum = readers keep reading.

—

✏️ STEP 5: WRITE THE FIRST SENTENCE - THEN IGNORE IT

okay. now you write it.

no pressure. you’re not tattooing it on your soul. this isn’t the final line on the final page. you just need something.

tricks that work:

start in the middle of an action

start with a contradiction

start with something unexpected, funny, or sharp

start with a small lie or a weird detail

💬 examples:

“The body was exactly where she’d left it - rude.” “He was already two hours late to his own kidnapping.” “There was blood on the welcome mat. Again.” “They said don’t open the door. She opened it anyway.”

once you’ve got it? keep going. don’t revise yet. don’t edit. just build momentum.

you can come back and make it ✨iconic✨ later.

—

📦 BONUS: WHAT NOT TO DO IN YOUR OPENING

don’t start with a dream

don’t info-dump lore in paragraph one

don’t give me three pages of your OC making toast

don’t try to sound like a Victorian cryptid unless it’s on purpose

don’t introduce 7 named characters in one scene

don’t start with a quote unless you are 800% sure it slaps

be weird. be sharp. be specific. aim for interest, not perfection.

—

🏁 TL;DR (but make it ✨useful✨)

something in your MC’s life should change immediately

pick a structural entry point and stick to it

give us a person, not a setting

friction = good

first lines are disposable, just make them interesting

and if you needed a sign to just start the damn book, this is it.

💌 love, -rin t.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[lokissweater]

“i would never lie to you.”

{toge inumaki x f!reader}

summary: inumaki’s always coming home to you from missions coughing up mass amounts of blood and completely overdoing it while fighting curses with his cursed speech technique. and no matter how many times you tell him to be careful, he just doesn’t, arguing with him, giving him the cold shoulder, and completely unaware of the reason behind why he fights so hard when he’s out there— that reason being of course… because of you.

warnings: angst, fluff, cursing, toge and reader have a lil argument but it’s more the aftermath, slight sexual mention but it’s literally once and nothing LOL, no smut!, toge thinks he’s not doing enough SNIFFF, angst with comfort, toge is DEVOTED to you, aged up characters, pet names, afab!reader.

word count: 2.3k

authors note: short n sweet one!! wanted to give you guys a break from my MLA format essays i always make y’all read LMFAOOO!! this one is SHO SOFT AHHHH :] i hope this keeps you guys fed in the meantime while i write the next one! i love you and i love you all ALWAYS MWAAHH <33

————————————————————————

toge inumaki hates it when you don’t talk to him.

as if he doesn’t do that enough already, toge absolutely despises when you both get into arguments or heated discussions and you turn a cold shoulder to him— needing space to unwind and prevent yourself from lashing out even more, to let the situation simmer down.

he understands it. believe him he does— you’re upset and angry and you need time to cool off… but toge is stubborn and needy and just doesn’t care, needing you and only you, him going absolutely crazy at the silence in your shared apartment that he was starting to hear random ringing in his ear drums.

so as he sat on the couch, eyes unblinking as they stared off into the darkness of the living room as the sun had already began to set, you upstairs locked away— he wanted nothing more than to open his mouth and let his cursed speech force you to come downstairs and talk to him.

but he didn’t, though the thought was definitely tempting, as toge vowed the day that he laid eyes on you to never ever use his cursed technique on you, even if it was harmless, an oath he wanted to carry with him until his very death bed and until he was six feet under.

his ears perked up then at the quiet sounds of the upstairs room door knob twisting and clicking open, soft padded footsteps making their way down the hall and closer to where he was, feet sticking against the cold tiles of the kitchen floor.

at the sight of you with your hair a little disheveled, your eyes so red and puffy, and an arm wrapped around yourself as you rummaged through the fridge looking for fuck knows what and not sparing a single glance at him— toge felt like a fifty pound gutting weight was resting on his chest and crushing his heart.

you had both argued about something you always seemed to circle back to almost every week. but this time, you were sick and tired and fed up, seeing as toge was never going to try and understand the situation at hand through your worried eyes.

every time toge was out for a mission, you would spend your days anxiously throwing yourself over the couch or trying to keep yourself busy with random activities like baking or scrapbooking (which you deemed later meaningless), all within the sole purpose of trying to get your mind off of your boyfriend and the recklessness he always seemed to pull while on missions, regardless of how much you begged and pleaded with him to be more careful and aware of his health.

toge inumaki had such a powerful and lethal cursed technique that frightened and astonished you all at the same time, a conflicting feeling to have when he had to leave you in the middle of the night or during the early hours of the morning to run around and fight curses… but always coming home to you warm and loving and safe.

but not right now.

not when toge had literally come home this morning with not even two steps in the door and he was already on his knees, coughing up strings and loads of crimson blood, it pooling on the floor as he had used his cursed speech to the highest degree today and had you a crying mess thinking he was dying.

and he always did that. always. today was just the worst of them all, him without a fault coming home with excruciating pain in his bruised and clawed up throat, the cough syrup medicine he usually downed like water having absolutely no effect anymore as you scrambled around every time trying to find a solution, toge brushing off your distressed and frightened rambling as if his health wasn’t a big deal, and as if how much it affected you wasn’t a big deal either.

upon you closing the fridge, toge slowly stood from the couch and carefully walked over to you, his throat still in pieces but his mind lurching and guilty over how upset you were at him.

he slowly raised a gentle hand and placed it on your shoulder, you shaking your head somberly in response— your back to him.

“i don’t wanna talk right now toge i’m sorry…” you mumbled, rubbing over your tired sore eyes.

he squeezed your shoulder, insisting.

but you only shook your head again.

toge huffed and placed both hands on your shoulders this time, physically turning you around to face him— his eyes soft and his eyebrows pinched together in pure concern for you.

you peeked up reluctantly, but the sight of his face and the events from earlier flashing through your mind only made your bottom lip wobble and the bottom of your palms shoot up to dig into your eyes, more stinging tears flooding in and slipping through the corners of your closed lids.

his heart fucking broke.

“why don’t you care toge?” you hiccuped. “i worry myself sick every time you leave for a mission and— and that’s fine because it’s what you do but you never take care of yourself!”

he gently pried your shaking hands away from your eyes and wiped your tears softly with his thumbs, caressing your cheeks after— wishing so badly, more than anything in this fucking world, to just be able to speak to you like a normal human being instead of resorting to words scrambled on a piece of paper or text messages on a screen.

he gently placed a little timid peck to your nose before releasing your face and fumbling around in his pockets for his phone, tapping it awake once he retrieved it and opening his notes app to write out a sentence.

he flipped and faced the screen towards you, the brightness making you squint a bit.

“i do care i swear. i just always forget when i’m in the middle of it and i’m sorry baby.”

“so you keep forgetting after what feels like the fifteenth time i’ve told you?” you wiped more tears from your cheeks. “how— how do you think it makes me feel when you come home and you’re coughing up blood all over your clothes and the furniture huh? all over me?”

he sighed softly through his nose and went to type again, but you continued.

“i get scared toge that one day you’ll push yourself way too far and then you just won’t come home. you scare me when you cough up so much blood like that!—”

toge tugged you in then with his unoccupied hand and wrapped his arms around you, pushing your head in and stuffing your face against his chest— the scent of his freshly washed t-shirt filling your nose as you cried softly.

fuck he felt like such a douche.

he typed for a moment behind your head, a pit in his stomach that only grew in size the longer he heard your little sniffles.

toge pulled back a bit, his arms still keeping you in place but just enough so that he could lower his phone and show you his message.

“please please don’t cry. i’m really sorry okay i really am and honest to god this won’t happen again.”

you nodded meekly and he flipped his phone back, quickly typing again and showing you once he finished.

“i feel like you think i don’t care but that’s not true at all. part of the reason why i try so hard when i work is because the more curses i fuck up the safer you’ll be when you’re out there without me.”

you laughed a bit at his wording, and he beamed at that, typing.

“i love you pretty girl. and im sorry i always get blood everywhere.”

“oh i don’t care about the mess baby, i care about youu,” you whined lightly and wrapped your arms around his torso, pulling him in tight.

“and i love you too, a lot… like an embarrassing amount that strips away my dignity.”

he chuckled boyishly and pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, his body stuttering slightly as a single thought grazed his mind— the same thought that’s been in the crevices of his brain since he asked you to be his.

you felt his tension and pulled back.

“what?”

toge bit the inside of his cheek and looked down at you, his weight shifting as he contemplated telling you something he didn’t want to burden or upset you with, the pad of his thumb softly rubbing over your chubby cheek.

you quirked an eyebrow. “what? are you cheating on me?”

he burst out laughing and shook his head, kissing your forehead before dropping his hand from your cheek and pulling out his phone again.

he typed for a minute then showed you.

“me not being able to speak to you like a normal boyfriend should or respond to you whenever makes me freaking useless. so i push myself out there to keep you safe because that’s literally the least i can do for you, since i can’t even do the bare minimum.”

you gasped softly. “toge huh? this is—”

he shook his head once more and you stopped as he typed again.

“i always try to make you laugh with the things that i do or whenever i text you because i’m afraid that one day you’ll get tired of me not being able to talk to you and you’ll leave. which is also something i would never blame you for and understand.”

your heart squeezed in the worst excruciatingly way possible, completely baffled and mortified to the fact that toge was thinking about things like this and wholeheartedly believing it without you noticing or him saying anything to you about it.

he typed again.

“that’s why i cosplay as gojo when i leave for missions and come back a dumbass with blood in my mouth. that’s why i forget when you tell me to be careful because the need to be something for you is way fucking greater.”

“togeee!” you sobbed, bursting out crying like a little baby as you were moved and haunted by his words simultaneously, your arms engulfing him as he desperately shot his hands out and quickly wiped your tears again, shaking his head frantically as if pleading with you not to cry.

“how could you ever believe that?” you nudged him away and hiccuped, your eyes serious. “why haven’t you told me about this? everything you just said is literally propaganda.”

he chuckled, but you could tell he wasn’t convinced.

“toge, why do you think i’ve been with you for so long? do you think i’m just dicking around?”

“dicking around on my dick?”

you swatted his phone away. “no! not right now.”

you both shared a small giggle, twinkling eyes looking at each other.

“if i felt like you weren’t doing even the bare minimum, i would’ve been gone before you had the chance to put this ring on—”

his gaze drifted down to the black shiny heart promise ring on your ring finger that you held up for him, and he smiled softly.

“baby what you do for me everyday is above and beyond the bare minimum. i’m happy. i’m so happy to be with you that you not doing enough has never crossed my mind and it never will.”

you slid your arms around his neck and pulled him down a little, gently. “i’ve never cared about your ability to speak. i fell in love with you, who you are, and the fact that i did without you having to iterate words to me? olympic sport.”

toge rolled his eyes playfully at your comment, and you stood on your tippy toes and kissed the tip of his pretty nose then. “all men do when they talk is lie anyways…” you tilted your head. “but i know you’ll never lie to me.”

“never.” he mouthed silently.

he bundled you up in his arms and lifted you like you were nothing, him carefully leaning in and pressing his lips to yours as if you were a fragile little thing— kissing you so devotedly, warmly, his forehead resting against yours once he pulled apart after greedily getting his daily fix of you.

“i know your job as a jujutsu sorcerer pays the bills and comes with you putting yourself in difficult situations… and my job doesn’t even compare, but please don’t overdo it for my sake. i want you to come home, okay?”

you know it’s selfish… he should be saving lives no matter the cost.

but he was your man. was it so bad to just want to keep him for the rest of your days? to get the chance to grow old with him, and buy a little quiet house on the country side like you always joked about in the late hours of the night with him? drinking cool glasses of lemonade on the porch?

“please don’t always be the hero.” you whispered guiltily. “but if you must… just keep me in mind while you do it.”

you’re always on his mind. he hopes you know that.

toge breathed softly through his nose and smoothly set you back down, the pads of your feet making contact with the icy tile flooring as his hands dragged up from around your waist to the sides of your head, him pushing a hard kiss to your cheek as if to seal your request.

“do you promise?” you mumbled.

he pulled back and held his little pinky out for you, and you giggled, linking yours with his firmly.

“you can’t go back on it okay? you used your pinky it’s legally binding!” you warned, a silly smile on your face. “don’t lie to me and break it.”

toge grinned and leaned towards you as he bent down a bit— your gaze locking with his as he looked at you at eye level with his hands on his knees, him mouthing his next words, slowly.

words that made your cheeks buzz a cutesy pink, words that he took seriously, and words that tied you to him and the little house by the countryside he wanted so badly with you, as those words solidified how much he truly truly loved you— him hoping you always knew.

“i would never lie to you.” he mouthed.

taglist!! <33: @saebaey

[morhido]

Sighs. Okay yeah i have thoughts about cgi toothless.

First of all, why does he look so... slimy? He feels too smooth. Like they just stretched some scaly skin over a skeleton and let it walk around. Immediately offputting.

His body language is. Fine? Am i being nitpicky or does it seem just the tiniest bit less expressive? I'm guessing this is either the scene right after hiccup cuts him free, in which case he should be way more intimidating, or the fish-sharing scene, in which case he should feel a little friendlier and more curious around hiccup. It's a quick shot so i won't put a ton of expectations onto it, but i think it's worth noting.

Okay this is a legitimately cool detail though. He has a secondary eyelid!! You can see it slipping away when he opens his eyes. That's a detail exclusive to the books so i like that they included something as small as that.

Sighs again. And this is the shot that prompted me to make this post.

Look at the original, and then look at the cgi version. I could write an essay about how inferior the cgi version is in comparison.

First off, they flattened his face. I swear every iteration of night furies after the first movie has just been compressing their snouts until they're sufficiently 'cute' enough for the audience to forget they're supposed to be sleek and aerodynamic.

Second, his eyes. Absolutely radioactive. I understand using a brighter colour for his eyes, especially in a relatively darker environment to make him stand out and seem more fantastical. But. They're just so bright. It's mildly unsettling how saturated they are compared to everything else.

Third, his eyes. Again.

Toothless is supposed to be terrified but still threatening in this scene, and the original shot conveys that perfectly. If it's a threat, then by all means hiccup should kill it or at least run, but instead he draws a connection between both of them being scared of the other and decides to cut him loose instead. And that's the core of their relationship. Toothless is staring him down with a slitted pupil that could just as easily be interpreted as "fuck around and find out" but hiccup just acknowledges that there's a frightened, injured animal in front of him that needs help, and he helps.

Is any of that conveyed in the cgi version? No!! It's trying so hard to be cute that it's gone full circle back to just being scary. The wide-eyed stare, the dilated pupil, he's basically just saying "🥺🥺 uwu pwease i'm so cute and innocent don't kill me aha 👉👈". Which is a lot less of a compelling reason for hiccup to free him!! Plus the fact that toothless turns up to look at him instead of lying and accepting his fate like in the original, which only makes it seem even more like he's trying to show off how apparently adorable he is.

Idk. Just the difference between the in-your-face sanitised cuteness of "teehe you wouldn't kill little old me would you? 🥺" and the expert subtlety of his "please don't hurt me" of the original doesn't give me high hopes for a toothless that stays true to his character from the first movie. Even from something as small as this. He's gonna get woobified. I can feel it.

[spacequokka]

GOT7 Turn Ons & Kinks

I’m so GOT7 coded rn. Here I go again interpreting birth charts for my own silly pleasure. Take it with a pinch of salt, ahgases. The way this sat in my drafts for over a year yet only took about an hour to finish. I refused to change the pics for the next comeback so here ya go.

Mark || Venus: Leo, Mars: Libra || Turn On: Praise (Receiving)

He’s twinning with Yeosang in that he just wants to hear he’s making you feel good. Like seriously, let him know when he’s hitting the right spot or tell him no one else is as good as he is. Might also dish it right back because he has that kinda vibe. Can be broody if he feels like you’re not matching his level of intensity as far as the relationship goes, which can be cured with some praise and appreciation.

Jaebeom || Venus: Capricorn, Mars: Capricorn || Kink: Cockwarming

They say stability and trustworthiness are sexy, and Jay B took that personally. He wants to impress you with his endless cool and mature vibes, so when you’re tired of boys, he can be your man. He’s a romantic, so you can expect loads of sweet, traditional gestures. Okay, but what about the Jay B who sang Switch It Up? Read the lyrics. He told us what he likes. So bold. Somewhat traditional, with a bit of spice here and there. After seeing him read mild tame thirst tweets, I truly believe he’d hesitate to try kinky things like choking or spanking, like he just wants to be inside you and hold you close. The promise of the intimacy alone is enough to have him dragging you to bed.

Jackson || Venus: Aries, Mars: Pisces || Kink: Daddy 

If you know me even a little bit you knew this was coming. My GAWD the amount of love and care that seeps from this man’s pores is fucking amazing. He lives to care for and spoil you like no other, wanting to make sure you have everything you could ever need or want. And that translates to his bedroom. Help? This freaky ball of energy is gonna wear you tf out. He legit doesn’t give a fuck how many times you’ve cum, he needs more. Will strive to leave you hoarse from calling him daddy just because he loves to hear you say it. I could write a fucking essay on this istg.

Jinyoung || Venus: Scorpio, Mars: Cancer || Kink: Bondage

Another hill I’ll die on. A king in the streets and a control freak in the sheets. Just the thought of tying you down to his bed is enough to get him going. Loves to tease and torture you until you’re begging to be let go or fucked hard. Wanna be a brat? Face down and ass up with your arms secured behind your back. Being inside you is just a bonus at that point. Go ahead and struggle, it’s cute to him. You’ll be crying with relief when he finally gets inside you.

Youngjae || Venus: Leo, Mars: Leo || Turn On: Collaring (Receiving)

“Mars in Leo natives enjoy sex more than most”--say less. So Jae’s freaky af and I will hear none of this pure cinnamon roll slander. Honestly he’s probably as bad as Jay B. So what does this bub like? A collar. Hear me out. Collaring is one of the freakiest things you can do to someone while also showing them how much you care/love them. He just wants to be yours--mind, body, and soul. In return, you get his unconditional love and unwavering loyalty. He doesn’t mind you taking the lead in bed because he trusts you and your judgment. You touching/pulling on his collar makes all the blood in his body rush down south and it doesn’t take long for him to start begging you to ride him.

BamBam || Venus: Taurus, Mars: Virgo || Turn On: Nipple Play (Giving)

After deeming him a boobie lover, I can’t help but see him as a motor boatin’ son of a bitch. Lives to put his face near your chest and play with it. In bed you can bet he’ll be kissing and biting on your nips until you beg him to stop. Once you start that up, he’s eager to get inside of you just to continue doing it so he can feel you squeeze the life outta his dick.

Yugyeom || Venus: Capricorn, Mars: Capricorn || Kink: Thigh Riding

Lemme be Captain Obvious for a few seconds. You belong on his thigh. He knows it. You know it. So why aren’t you on it? While he loves any form of teasing you, watching you get all worked up to the point of ruining his pants is an experience he can’t live without. It’s lowkey fascinating that it feels that good for you and he barely has to do anything other than force you to keep moving once you reach that peak. His favorite part is watching your cute little face scrunch up as you shiver in his arms. Then he’ll tease you about it while pulling your legs around his waist and unzipping his pants...

[riddlesrizzler]

Charlotte's Web

summary: You have been my friend, replied Charlotte. That in itself is a tremendous thing. characters: mattheo riddle. shy! ravenclaw! reader. mentions of slytherin boys. warnings: mentions of a previous hookup word count: 2.8k

Mattheo Riddle was not a reader.

At least, not until you.

Now, he found himself lingering in the library far more than he ever had before-haunting its aisles like a restless ghost, drawn again and again to the one place he used to avoid. He wasn’t sure when the shift had happened. It had started with The Great Gatsby, sure. But somewhere between flipping its final page and catching your startled smile in the courtyard, something else had taken root.

A curiosity. A pull. A want.

And then came the question-the one he hadn’t even meant to ask until it was already tumbling from his lips.

“What else should I read?”

You had blinked at him, wide-eyed, as though he’d asked you to recite ancient runes backward in Latin. For a second, he thought you might just bolt again.

“You… want a recommendation?” you said slowly, like you weren’t entirely convinced you’d heard him right.

Mattheo smirked, amused by your hesitation. “Yeah. Or do you just hoard all the good books for yourself?”

Your frown was faint, more confusion than offense, but you narrowed your eyes like you were trying to figure out if he was serious. And then, without a word, you turned, pulled a book from the stack beside you, and shoved it into his hands.

To Kill a Mockingbird.

He blinked at the cover, lips twitching. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t flinch. You just shrugged, your voice calm, almost daring. “You liked Gatsby. I think you’ll like this.”

And with that, you walked away-leaving him standing there in the middle of the library, staring down at a Muggle book about morality, racism, and childhood.

He almost laughed.

But then… he read it.

—

Three days later, he dropped the book onto the table in front of you with a solid thunk, startling you mid-sentence of your book. A triumphant gleam danced in his eyes as he slid into the seat across from you.

“Atticus Finch is a legend,” he declared, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

Your head lifted slowly, brows raised. “You finished it?”

Mattheo shrugged, playing it cool. “Didn’t have much else to do.”

A lie, of course. He had essays to write, spells to practice, Slytherin meetings to attend. But none of them held his attention the way those pages had.

The way you did.

You eyed him carefully, like you were still trying to decide if he was being serious. Then your gaze dipped to the book and back up again. “And?”

He grinned. “Scout’s hilarious. But that town? Merlin. I wanted to hex every adult in it.”

That made you laugh-soft and surprised, like it had slipped out before you could stop it. You tilted your head, that familiar spark lighting behind your eyes. “Oh, really? And why is that?”

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Because they were all so deep in their own delusions, they couldn’t see what was right in front of them. Acting like justice was some unreachable dream instead of just… doing the right thing.”

You gave a slow, thoughtful nod, your smile fading into something more sincere. “That’s the point, Mattheo.”

He lifted a brow. “That people are blind idiots?”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

And for a moment-just a moment-there was a stillness between you. Not the awkward kind, but something warmer. Something unspoken. It hung in the air like the scent of old pages and ink, delicate and full of possibility.

He watched you, really watched you, and realized something else entirely.

When you weren’t shrinking from his gaze, when you weren’t buried behind the fortress of your books and quiet deflections-you were brilliant. Witty. Sharp in the way a blade is sharp when you least expect it. Your observations were quick, your insights subtle. You laughed at things no one else noticed.

And Mattheo… he wanted to know what else made you laugh.

—

So, the next day, he found you again.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Each time, he returned a book. Each time, he asked for another. At first, you’d looked at him like he was playing some elaborate joke. But the more he showed up-sometimes with dog-eared pages and underlined quotes—the more your suspicion began to soften.

You started recommending books with less hesitation.

You started talking more.

Not just about the stories, but about everything-your thoughts, your frustrations, the things that made you ache and dream and wonder. And when you laughed, really laughed, it cracked something open inside him he didn’t even know was locked.

You were a storm disguised as silence.

And Mattheo-who never used to care for pages or plotlines or protagonists-found himself craving your words like spells. Like oxygen.

He wasn’t reading to impress you anymore.

He was reading because through those stories, he was finally getting to know you.

And he liked what he found.

-

Mattheo had claimed he had never been inside a Ravenclaw dorm before.

But in fact, he had only ever stepped into the tower once-during a hazy, alcohol-fueled night that had ended with him sneaking up the spiral staircase for a quick hookup with someone from a previous party. He’d barely remembered the details of that night, only that the dorm had smelled like freshly brewed tea and ink, and that the dim glow of candles flickered against the towering shelves filled with what seemed like endless books. It had all felt so… soft, so detached from the sharpness and precision of his own house.

But now, as he stepped over the threshold into your dorm, it was different. This time, there was no rushing, no need to keep his guard up. This time, it was just him and you. And as his eyes adjusted to the soft lighting and the comforting scent of parchment and ink, he realized it was exactly how he should have imagined it.

Books. Everywhere.

They were stacked in every corner, lining the walls in neat rows of shelves that reached up toward the vaulted ceiling. Some books were pristine, their covers unmarred by time, while others were worn, the edges of the pages dog-eared and the spines cracked from being read over and over again. You had even left a few books open, as if you were reading multiple at once-a habit Mattheo instantly recognized as uniquely you. He smirked at the sight. Of course you were.

His gaze followed you as you flitted about, completely at ease in your space. It was clear you had found your sanctuary here, among the pages of all these stories, in a place where the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

You turned to him, your eyes shining with excitement, and gestured toward the shelves. “Alright, now you get to see all of them.”

Before he could say anything, you were already moving, pulling a book from its place with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged. You flipped through the pages, your fingers tracing the edges with such a quiet reverence that Mattheo found himself watching you more intently than the books you were pulling from the shelves.

“This one,” you said, holding up a novel with a deep blue cover. “I read it when I was eleven, and it made me want to read everything.”

He chuckled softly, a teasing glint in his eye. "Let me guess-you read it in one night, didn’t you?"

You shot him a look, but there was no annoyance in it. “Of course I did.”

He laughed, and his chest tightened at the sight of you smiling at the small, shared moment. There was something so undeniably you about it-the way you gave yourself completely to your passions, the way you lit up when you talked about what you loved.

Without missing a beat, you reached for another book, your fingers grazing its spine with a tenderness that made Mattheo’s heart beat just a little faster. “This one,” you said, your voice softer now, “I found in a second-hand shop in Diagon Alley. It had someone else’s notes in the margins, and it made me feel like I was having a conversation with a stranger.”

The way you said it-like the book had touched something deep inside you-left him quiet, his eyes lingering on your face as you drifted from shelf to shelf, pulling out one novel after another and sharing the stories behind each. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even move much, letting the sound of your voice fill the space between them, the low murmur of your words wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

This was you, he thought, watching you in your element. Not the girl who ran away every time he tried to talk to her, but the one who was open, honest, and alive with something far more vibrant than he’d ever given you credit for. And just like that, he realized something-he wasn’t just fascinated by you anymore. He was in awe of you.

You finished a story about a book he hadn’t even heard of, and Mattheo found himself standing there, completely still, caught in the quiet magic of the moment.

He wanted to kiss you. Wanted to pull you close and feel the warmth of your smile pressed against his lips.

But instead, he cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the present. “Alright,” he said, the smirk returning to his lips, but it was softer now. “What’s the favorite?”

You hesitated for half a second before walking toward a shelf higher up. With a smooth, practiced motion, you slid a well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice from its place, holding it in front of you like a treasure. The spine was creased, the cover faded in places, and there was a distinct line of wear along the corners.

Mattheo arched a brow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Really?”

You glared at him, but there was affection in it. “It’s perfect,” you said, hugging the book to your chest like a secret you couldn’t wait to share. “It’s about wit and misunderstandings and expectations-and realizing you were completely wrong about someone.”

His smirk softened, the playful teasing giving way to something more thoughtful. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.”

He made a mental note right then and there-he’d be reading that next.

But before he could say anything more, you were already pulling another book off the shelf. You handed it to him with an almost secretive smile.

“This one’s for you,” you said, her voice gentle but firm.

Mattheo glanced down at the cover, raising an eyebrow at the title. Charlotte’s Web. His frown deepened. “This looks like a children’s book.”

You simply smiled, a knowing look in your eyes. “Just read it.”

Something in the way you said it made Mattheo pause. There was no humor, no teasing in your voice. You genuinely believed he needed to read it-and suddenly, he found himself wanting to, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

So, without a word, he tucked the book under his arm.

And in that moment, he knew something was changing between them. This wasn’t just about impressing you anymore, or about reading books to bridge the gap between who he was and who you were. No, now he wanted to know what made you tick. What made you laugh, what made you think, what made you open up the way you had in this room full of stories.

And that, he realized, was far more important than any book could ever be.

-

Usually, Mattheo Riddle did not read books for fun.

He rarely read anything that wasn’t strictly necessary. He skimmed his required textbooks with barely any interest, memorizing just enough to scrape through his exams. Books were a means to an end-nothing more. They weren’t a part of his world, not in the way they were a part of yours. They didn’t offer him any kind of escape, or warmth, or comfort. That was, until you came along. Until you gave him a glimpse into your world and, without realizing it, let him in.

Now, as he sat in the Slytherin common room, Charlotte’s Web rested in his lap, its pages fragile beneath his fingers. The warm, flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the words, giving the book an almost magical glow. He had every intention of reading it in peace, the silence of the room settling around him like a soft blanket.

He was determined to get through a few chapters before bed-just enough so he could return it to you tomorrow and maybe-just maybe-casually bring it up in conversation. Not that he wanted an excuse to talk to you. That would be absurd.

But before he could get lost in the pages, the familiar voices of Theo and Enzo broke the stillness.

“You’re actually doing it,” Theo said, his voice dripping with mock disbelief as he dropped into the armchair across from Mattheo. His arms were crossed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re reading a children’s book.”

Enzo, sprawling lazily beside him, chuckled lowly. “No, no, he’s reading a children’s book for a girl.”

Mattheo groaned, sinking deeper into the couch as if trying to escape the inevitable teasing. “Would you two shut up?”

Theo snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, mate. This is you we’re talking about. Mattheo Riddle. The same guy who doesn’t even bring a quill to class, and now you’re voluntarily reading?” His voice was incredulous, as if the idea was utterly preposterous.

“It’s not voluntary,” Mattheo muttered, flipping to the next page with more force than necessary. His fingers were too tense, the paper creasing under his touch. “It’s just a book.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow, nudging Theo with a knowing grin. “Sure it is. We all know it’s love.”

Mattheo couldn’t help the scowl that twisted across his face as he grabbed a pillow from the couch and hurled it toward them. Enzo dodged it easily, his laughter ringing through the room.

“I’m not in love,” Mattheo muttered, though the words felt hollow even as they left his mouth. He couldn’t shake the heat rising to his face.

Theo smirked, unfazed. “Sure, you’re not. And I’m the bloody Minister of Magic.”

Mattheo ignored them, letting their laughter drift into the background as he focused on the book in his lap. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t read before, of course-he just never wanted to. But reading this book, now, with the dim light flickering against the pages, it felt… different. Like something more was at stake than simply turning pages.

As he tried to sink back into the narrative, a small detail caught his eye. It wasn’t the words on the page that made him pause-it was the ink that marked them. A section of text had been lightly highlighted, the ink barely visible against the thin, yellowed paper. And then, in the margins, were two simple words in your neat, slanted handwriting:

For Mattheo.

His heart stuttered in his chest, a sudden tightness gripping his throat. His fingers, almost by instinct, tightened around the book, pulling it closer to his face. Slowly, carefully, he reread the passage you had marked:

“Why did you do all this for me?” he asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.”

"You have been my friend," replied Charlotte. "That in itself is a tremendous thing.”

The words felt heavier than they should have, resonating in a way Mattheo didn’t entirely understand. His stomach flipped, unease and something else-something warm-stirring within him.

You had left this for him.

You had thought of him, enough to mark this passage for him, to make sure he saw it.

And suddenly, it hit him with the force of a bludger: You weren’t scared of him anymore.

You weren’t running anymore. You weren’t turning away when he got too close. Somewhere between library conversations and book recommendations, somewhere in the quiet moments they had shared, you had let him in.

And Merlin help him, he had no idea what to do with that.

He read the passage again. And again. His thumb gently brushed the ink on the page as if he could somehow make sense of it, of you.

Theo and Enzo were still laughing, still throwing jabs at him, but Mattheo wasn’t listening anymore. Their voices faded into a dull hum, the only sound in the room now the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. His thoughts were consumed with the weight of the words in front of him, the careful precision of your handwriting, the feeling that was slowly unfolding in his chest like something too beautiful, too delicate to touch.

He closed the book, the weight of it in his hands suddenly heavy with meaning. He brushed his thumb over the ink once more, feeling the curve of your letters under his skin.

For the first time in his life, Mattheo Riddle wanted to be someone worthy of the way you saw him.

And as he sat there, heart pounding, the room spinning just slightly around him, he realized something else:

Maybe, just maybe, he already was.

[marifilue]

Affectionate

Oneshot: Having a cold fever with Logan as your bf

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Tags: Fluffs

Word count: 656

You will never understand people who prefer winter over sunny, warm summers. You could write a whole goddamn essay on why summer is so superior.

Cold weather has always been a menace to you. Your horrible body temperature regulation doesn’t even try to help. The endless snow has made your nose runny, paired with a fever, headache, and a sore throat for good measure.

You wish your mutation let you set things on fire or something—just to feel warm. Or maybe, just maybe, you could be like Logan, your boyfriend who can’t get sick thanks to his regenerative healing ability. Sure, moving things with your mind is a pretty cool mutation, but at this moment, it’s completely useless.

You’re curled up in your shared bedroom with Logan, heavy blankets piled on top of you. You’re trying so hard to focus on the pages of the book in your hand, but the words blur together. Breathing through your nose is impossible, so you’re stuck using your mouth, leaving your throat painfully dry and sore.

A click at the door shifts your attention.

“Hey, baby,” Logan says softly as he steps into the bedroom. Reluctantly, you close your book and set it aside on the nightstand.

“Hey,” you respond, your hoarse, sickly voice sounding so unlike your usual self.

Logan wastes no time unbuttoning his flannel leaving his white tank top on, tossing it onto the floor, followed by his jeans. Now, he’s left in just his boxers. You’ve had plenty of talks with him about this—no outside clothes on the bed—and he’s finally reached the point where he listens. Somehow, boxers are more tolerable.

“How are ya feelin’?” he asks, crawling toward the edge of the bed.

“Not gettin’ better. Stay away, Lo. I’m disgusting.” You clutch the blanket tightly, attempting to create a barrier between you two as he moves closer.

Logan frowns. “You’re delusional,” he says simply, effortlessly pulling the blanket away. His hazel eyes meet yours as you feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“What if you catch the cold?” you ask, genuine concern in your voice as you look up at him.

“You realize who you’re talkin’ to?” he teases, raising a brow.

You flush with embarrassment, momentarily forgetting his ability. “Right. I forgot,” you admit with a weak chuckle. “Still, I’m disgusting.” You clutch at the blanket again, but it doesn’t budge under Logan’s weight.

“You’re not. Never will be.” His voice is soft yet firm as he leans in, closing the distance between you. His lips meet yours, and you feel the faint tingle of his beard brushing against your skin.

He kisses you once, twice, then a third time before pulling away slowly. “How’s your headache?”

“Terrible,” you say, exaggerating a frown. “You should really sleep on the couch tonight. I’m gonna be insufferable.” You sniff, struggling to breathe properly.

Logan presses his lips to your forehead. “Not a chance, toots,” he says, already climbing into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms. You lie weakly on your side as he wraps himself around you, his warm breath brushing against the hollow of your neck before he places a chaste kiss there.

“Logan…” you murmur, your breathing heavy, exhaustion evident in your voice. He kisses the spot again, then gently sucks at your skin.

His lips linger for a moment before stopping, sensing your fatigue. His hand rests on your stomach, drawing soft circles before moving up to your temple.

“This okay?” he whispers, his voice low and soothing. You hum in response and nod. He brings his middle finger up to join his index, massaging your temple with slow, deliberate movements.

After a while, his hand returns to your stomach, holding you close. Your eyes grow heavy, the sound of his heartbeat in the background lulling you to sleep.

For a fleeting moment, you swear his heartbeat aligns with yours, just like how the moon aligns with the earth that night.

[jadeshifting]

— A STUDENT’S GUIDE TO HOGWARTS CLASSES

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

FOR EVERY CLASS . always sit where you can see (or avoid) the professor’s mood swings. bring a spare quill, and for Merlin’s sake, read all instructions on the board

★⋆. ASTRONOMY

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR SINESTRA . she’s chill if you stay quiet. don’t interrupt her passionate stargazing rants, or she’ll assign extra homework on constellations literally no one’s ever heard of

HOMEWORK . star charts and essays on planetary motion. tedious but straightforward—accuracy is everything.

TIPS TO EXCEL . memorize constellations and learn how to cast Lumos just dim enough so that you don’t blind everyone during late-night pitch black lessons

EXTRA CREDIT . spot and track a rare celestial event, like a comet. (bonus points if you can pronounce its Latin name to Sinestra without choking)

AVOID MISHAPS . never mix up Mars and Mercury on your chart—you’ll be doomed in astronomy and divination

★⋆. CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR HAGRID . show genuine interest in his creatures, even if they look like they could eat you (because they definitely could)

HOMEWORK . research magical creature habits and write about their care. watch out—he loves long essays (he can basically make students write books about his favorite subject for him)

TIPS TO EXCEL . always wear dragonhide gloves and boots that cover your ankles. treat the creatures and Hagrid with respect—he’ll notice

EXTRA CREDIT . help feed or clean up after the creatures during your free periods or after class. it’s messy, but he appreciates it immeasurably

AVOID MISHAPS . never, ever call a Blast-Ended Skrewt “gross” within his earshot

★⋆. CHARMS

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR FLITWICK . he’s sweet but sharp. pay attention, or you’ll be called on mid-yawn to demonstrate something tricky.

HOMEWORK . practice spells at home. if your wandwork looks like you’re conducting a dance recital, you’re doing it wrong.

TIPS TO EXCEL . focus on precise wand movements and pronunciation—no “swish and flick” means no charm

EXTRA CREDIT . perform an original charm in class and explain how you invented it (hint: slap a name on something flashy, and ramble about how Flitwick’s class gave you the “tools to do it”)

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t use charms on your classmates (no matter how obnoxious they are) unless you want detention for “unsanctioned spellcasting”

★⋆. DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS

DEALING WITH THE PROFESSOR . varies wildly year to year. if they’re twitchy, don’t ask questions. if they’re confident, challenge them slightly—they love it

HOMEWORK . spell practice, theoretical essays on defensive strategies, and (sometimes) practical exams.

TIPS TO EXCEL . master shield charms early—Protego is your bread and butter. always watch your back in “surprise” practical tests (the surprise could be a curse aimed at your back)

EXTRA CREDIT . propose new defense tactics for obscure threats like Lethifolds or hinkypunks, it shows interest in the less ‘cool’ aspects of the dark arts

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t hex yourself in class while demonstrating a jinx. you won’t get in trouble. but it’s embarrassing.

★⋆. DIVINATION

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY . just nod and act fascinated. she’s happier when you look like you believe her

HOMEWORK . dream journals, tea-leaf sketches, and guesses at what the stars are “telling” you.

TIPS TO EXCEL . make up dramatic predictions that sound poetic. extra marks for impending doom towards a classmate

EXTRA CREDIT . spot a “true vision” (or just pretend you did). a fainting act doesn’t hurt

AVOID MISHAPS . never laugh at her predictions, even if they sound ridiculous—she’ll doom you for life (and you never know what fate holds)

★⋆. HERBOLOGY

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR SPROUT . show some love for plants, and she’ll adore you. don’t sass her or underestimate how dangerous some herbs are

HOMEWORK . care guides for magical plants, essays on uses for their parts, and detailed sketches

TIPS TO EXCEL . be gentle with the plants, even the ones with attitudes. also, if you’re prone to daydreaming, please keep a note of which vines bite

EXTRA CREDIT . cultivate a rare magical plant and present its uses in class (good luck)

AVOID MISHAPS . always wear gloves when handling anything spiky, slimy, or screaming

★⋆. HISTORY OF MAGIC

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR BINS . he doesn’t even care if you’re awake, but it helps if you look like you’re taking notes

HOMEWORK . endless essays on goblin rebellions, giant wars, and other events you’ll most definitely forget by next term

TIPS TO EXCEL . use mnemonic devices to remember key dates. start essays early—he grades on length

EXTRA CREDIT . find obscure historical details to add to essays. mentioning “primary sources” makes you look smart, and Binns doesn’t typically look into it further

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t doodle in your notes too obviously—he might drone on even more if he catches you

★⋆. POTIONS

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR SNAPE . know your ingredients and don’t speak unless spoken to. follow his instructions perfectly and try to look invisible. or he’ll eviscerate you

HOMEWORK . brewing practice and essays on potion theory. if you mess up the potion, he’ll expect twice the length in your essay

TIPS TO EXCEL . re-chop your ingredients before class, and try to do other prep work. Snape hates inefficiency

EXTRA CREDIT . create a new potion under his supervision. (warning: he will make you test it.)

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t ever blame Snape or his instructions if something explodes. just accept it and clean up quietly

★⋆. TRANSFIGURATION

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL . she’s strict but fair. do your work well, and she’ll respect you; slack off, and she’ll make you wish you hadn’t

HOMEWORK . spell diagrams, written explanations, and frequent wandwork practice

TIPS TO EXCEL . precision and focus are key. get creative, but don’t try anything too wild without permission

EXTRA CREDIT . demonstrate a flawless human-to-animal transfiguration (with her approval)

AVOID MISHAPS . never let your transfigured objects escape—chasing a hopping teacup through the halls is not fun, and you’ll never hear the end of it

★⋆. ARITHMANCY

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR VECTOR . she’s sharp and no-nonsense, but she’s got a soft spot for students who genuinely try. don’t show up without your charts; she’ll notice

HOMEWORK . endless numerical equations and analysis of magical patterns. expect to translate runes into numbers and vice versa

TIPS TO EXCEL . understand how numbers relate to magic—this isn’t just math, it’s magic theory in disguise. double-check your work; one wrong digit can tank your entire assignment

EXTRA CREDIT . present a new numerological correlation, like how the number “7” might affect potion brewing. bonus if it’s creative but realistic

AVOID MISHAPS . never guess at a solution—Professor Vector will spot laziness in seconds. keep your workspace neat, or the equations will haunt you

★⋆. ANCIENT RUNES

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR BABBLING . she’s patient and incredibly smart, but don’t come to class unprepared. misreading a rune will make her launch into a lecture about “respecting the symbols.”

HOMEWORK . translate ancient texts, decipher rune sequences, and write essays on magical etymology. sometimes includes carving your own runes for practice.

TIPS TO EXCEL . memorize the rune meanings and their magical properties—flashcards help. pay attention to detail; even a tiny line can change the meaning of a rune

EXTRA CREDIT . create your own rune sequence that produces a magical effect and explain its purpose. creative runework always gets top marks

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t mix up Nordic and Celtic runes—they have very different contexts, and Professor Babbling will lecture you for days

★⋆. MUGGLE STUDIES

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR BURBAGE . she’s enthusiastic and loves students who ask questions, even obvious ones. if you show respect for Muggle ingenuity, you’re golden

HOMEWORK . research papers on Muggle inventions and their impact, as well as practical exercises like identifying Muggle objects

TIPS TO EXCEL . don’t overthink it—Muggles live without magic, but they’re surprisingly clever. show curiosity and avoid using the word “primitive”

EXTRA CREDIT . present a Muggle artifact and explain how it works. bonus points if you demonstrate something functional, like a can opener or a bicycle pump

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t call electricity “the Muggle version of Lumos” unless you want a 10-minute tangent about how they’re completely different

★⋆. FLYING

DEALING WITH MADAM HOOCH . she’s strict but fair; listen to her instructions, and she’ll let you have some fun. mess around, and you’ll be grounded faster than you can say “Quidditch”

HOMEWORK . practicing broom control outside of class and writing essays about famous flyers or the mechanics of flight

TIPS TO EXCEL . focus on balance and broom grip—this isn’t about speed (yet). always stretch before class; cramps mid-air are embarrassing and painful

EXTRA CREDIT . show off advanced flying techniques, like tight turns or broom dives (but only if you’re really confident). bonus for clean landings

AVOID MISHAPS . never try to show off in front of the first-years—wobbling on a loop-the-loop is not a good look. keep your broom maintained; a splintered handle spells disaster.

[ there you have it—follow this guide, and you’ll not only pass these classes with flying colors, but you might even look like you know what you’re doing while you’re at it, and maybe you’ll avoid getting hexed by Snape. we’ll see ]

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[fenrelmercar]

Woobification of Solas.

This is a fandom critical post. Proceed at your own risk.

Let me start this piece off by saying that this post is not meant to target a specific demographic of the fandom. If you feel targeted, that’s on you. 

In this essay, I want to talk about the infantilization, woobification, or just good plain headcanoning the bad out of Solas. Mostly it comes down to a few of the most regurgitated lines of thinking: he is a spirit of wisdom despite everything he does or has done and he is just confused and perverted from his natural state, Solas is his true self while Fen’Harel or The Dread Wolf are just select masks he wears. The sentiment is so strong that at points it comes down to disregarding or ‘uncanoning’ the entire storyline of The Veilguard because in the minds of individuals that follow this school of thought it does injustice to the character of Solas they have created in their minds. In their minds, it is bad writing to show Solas being a prideful, treacherous liar. 

Because the man, who led rebellion for centuries using dubious means, using creatures he claims to respect as if they are expandable, killing his closest confidant because he dared to oppose him outright somehow is a paragon of virtue that is just bent out of shape by his misguided loyalty. All the atrocities he has committed through thousands of years he had a physical form comes down to him being manipulated and emotionally abused by his former closest friend Mythal and later by grief and anger of losing her. Slapping the label of emotional distress and trauma on a perpetrator of … well, quite literally, war crimes, does make them more palatable, but it does not mean it should be seen as a normal practice. The acts Solas commits during the war with Titans, his rebellion against the Evanuris, and later on in current day Thedas are being construed as desperate actions of a broken man, wisdom twisted from his purpose and left to fend for himself, despite his self-induced isolation. So let me ask you this: how many acts of desperation does it take to realize that they are becoming choices? 

Yes, he was manipulated through their shared emotional bonds by Mythal. Yes, he was coerced to leave his spirit form in favor of a physical body. Then Mythal used his wisdom as a weapon, warping him against his own beliefs, making him participate in the war in ways he did not wish to. Yes, he was pushed by Evanuris’ cruelty to rebel and then lost what he perceived as his only friend to their arrogant ways and later had to live through her death by their hands. He was broken to the point he could not see a way out and doomed the entire way of Elven existence just to win the fight against the cruel and the unjust. Yes, he is a man who lost his people and his version of the world due to his own actions. He is a traumatized, sad, lonely man, who has predetermined himself to the path from which he cannot see a way back. And yet, many of the steps he took along the way cannot be downplayed as acts of a spirit of Wisdom that was bent out of shape by grief and desperation. Destroying the Titans and leaving their children orphaned is seen as an act of devotion and unconditional love towards his manipulator, Mythal. But as the world’s best detective, Jake Peralta has once said: “Cool motive. Still a murder.”

And now we arrive at the most beloved sentiment. Solas is his true self. Fen’Harel is just a mask. Oh, boy.

Everyone says that they hate one-dimensional characters until they are served a multifaceted one on the platter. Then they get to declawing and defanging them, ripping their personality apart into this and that, robbing them of parts of them that make them whole, and when that is not enough, they take on dulling off any edges they might find too abrasive. Assassination of the character is just the beginning; the remains have to be sanitized and scrubbed off any wrongdoing whatsoever, so supporting them doesn’t seem like a moral failing on fandom’s part. 

Cutting Solas and Fen’Harel apart as if they are some conjoined twins, where Fen’Harel is the evil one, is stripping Solas of things that are inherent parts of his character for the sake of feeling more comfortable with his actions. Solas is kind, caring, and wise. Fen’Harel is prideful, scheming, and treacherous. These two sides of him are now separated by their representation in the Inquisition and Veilguard. In Inquisition, he is Solas - a thoughtful mage obsessed with dreams, a soft-spoken man keen on sharing his knowledge. Except for the part where he doesn’t see current Thedosians as real people. Where everyone is tranquil in his eyes and thus, lesser. People, who he is willing to sacrifice to achieve his goals. The thoughtful things he said by the end of the road to the Inquisitor he supposedly cared for:

“I will do what I must, but there is no benefit in allowing harm to come to innocents before it's necessary.”

“I will save the Elven people, even if it means this world must die.”

“As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time... the world of the elves.”

And then he mutilated them. Yes, he did it to save their life. But the Inquisitor had no choice in the matter. What if my Inquisitor would have rather died than lost their arm? Doesn’t matter, because our thoughtful, kind apostate knows better. A kind apostate who sacrificed his world to avenge Mythal, but then by the time of the Inquisition killed her all over again. For power, of all things. And then he stripped the dignity of the one who carried what remained of Mythal through ages by depicting her as an elf, proving once again that he does not see current Thedosians, humans, as real. 

The most egregious crime of Solas’ portrayal in Veilguard seems to be painting him as a liar. Because in the Inquisition he didn’t lie. He just avoided telling the truth. He shaded it in a comfortable tale that no one would question. He spun the narrative. Solas made himself appear as an apostate mage who has gained all his knowledge from the Fade. He crumbled just enough truth without revealing his hand. Or simply said he was lying by omission. Luckily to him, no one would ever ask a random mage if, by chance, they are the infamous Fen’Harel, so he doesn’t need to lie outright. 

And what did he do in Veilguard while not being his true self and wearing that mask of Fen’Harel, that degree of separation from his true, kind self and the trickster god? He spun the narrative. He said just enough truth to be believed. He was deceitful. Solas can be caught saying one outright lie—“I abhor blood magic.” Oh, wait. He can be caught lying exactly one time in Inquisition too—if you confront him about missing court intrigue. So much for a completely different man in Veilguard. 

Fen’Harel as a mask is such a beloved statement that it disregards thousands of years of his life. “I was Solas first. Fen'harel came later, an insult I took as a badge of pride.” A badge of pride Felassan used to flock followers to his side. Badge of pride he wore all through his rebellion. The one he tried to reclaim once meeting Dalish of the current day Thedas. One he used to amass following during the events of Trespasser. How many millennia can a person willingly wear a mask and not have it be a part of who they are?

And then we end up here, where somehow the portrayal of Solas in certain parts of fandom becomes an eerily similar story to that of Portrait of Dorian Grey. We have this beautiful, virtuous man, who’s telling you the most fascinating stories of the Fade, lulling you with his kind voice and beautiful eyes. One who was manipulated, traumatized, desperate, and pushed to act against his good nature. One who would tear down the Veil to restore what was lost and make the world right again. An idealist, working towards his goal. Damned be the sacrifices it requires. Because being hurt in some minds absolves people of guilt. Some agree with his goals and damn his ugly side to the attic. The one who manipulated, one who deceived and killed. One who has the blood of countless lives on his hands. One has to exist for the other to reach that goal. One who is just as much part of his true self as the other. 

Solas is Fen’Harel. Fen’Harel is Solas. One could not exist without the other. And to love someone truly, we must accept the good, the bad, and the ugly. Because to be loved is to be seen fully. Loving a villain is not a moral failing. And yes, he is a villain. Doing something horrible for the sake of something good is still, at the core, doing something horrible. 

Love him because of the awful things he did and in spite of them.

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 1

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension

summary: you never expected your literature professor to be young, sharp-tongued, and devastatingly captivating - but professor eilish is all that and more. between tense lectures, stolen glances, and secrets that linger after class, you find yourself tangled in a dangerous game of curiosity and control. how long can you keep it professional when the air between you burns with something more?

masterlist

————————————————————————————

the hallway smelled like coffee and printer ink. lockers lined the walls even though no one really used them, and the sound of someone's sneakers squeaking across the linoleum echoed faintly. it was too early for anything to feel real, and liora was still half-dreaming when she pushed open the classroom door.

the light was soft inside, filtered through high windows that caught the morning haze. students filled the back rows first—classic. liora drifted somewhere near the middle, dropped her canvas bag beside the chair, and sank into the seat like she'd been holding her breath all morning.

she barely glanced at the front of the room at first, too busy unzipping her hoodie and smoothing out her notebook. then a voice—low, even, and almost too smooth—cut through the sleepy chatter.

"morning, everyone."

liora looked up.

and froze.

the woman at the front of the class wasn't what she expected. not even close.

tall, loose-fitted shirt hanging just right, her dark hair pulled back under a knit beanie like she hadn't tried at all and still managed to look—cool. cool in a way that made your chest tighten. her eyes, pale and unreadable, swept the room with a kind of calm confidence that didn't ask for attention but got it anyway.

professor o'connell.

liora didn't breathe until billie looked away.

billie set her laptop down on the desk and clicked something open on the screen. the soft tap of keys echoed, then stopped. she glanced up.

"so," she said, voice light but clear, "i'm professor o'connell. billie's fine, too, if that's more comfortable. i teach this course in creative composition and lyrical analysis—basically, it's english lit, but with more music and fewer essays you'll want to set on fire."

a few people chuckled, sleep still hanging off their voices. liora's stomach twisted. she didn't laugh, but her mouth tugged at the corner like it wanted to.

billie's eyes drifted back to the roster on her screen.

"let me just get a sense of who's here," she murmured, then started reading names.

"elliot abram?"

"here."

"cassidy baines?"

"present."

"liora... rai?"

"i'm here"

billie nodded slowly, her gaze lingering just a moment too long. "beautiful name," she said, like it meant something. "thank you."

liora stared down at her notebook. the top of the page blurred slightly before she forced herself to breathe again.

billie continued reading names, but the heat in liora's cheeks didn't go away. her full name never rolled off anyone's tongue like that—never without hesitation, never with intention.

when roll was done, billie leaned against the desk, her arms folded. "okay. i don't like icebreakers. they're awkward and fake and you all secretly hate them."

a few students laughed—this time, liora included.

"but i do want to know who you are. not in the cheesy way. in the why-are-you-here way."

she pushed her hair behind one ear and nodded toward the board.

"your first assignment's simple. it's not graded. i just want you to write a page about this question—what does music say that words can't?"

the room quieted.

billie continued, soft and serious now. "i don't care if you've never written anything in your life. this isn't about being good. it's about being honest."

someone raised their hand in the back. "can we write lyrics?"

"you can write in blood, for all i care," billie said, and a few students laughed again. "just don't be boring. if you're boring, i'll know."

her eyes flicked back to liora—quick, but unmistakable.

liora swallowed.

the lecture started slow.

not boring, just... soft. like billie was setting a mood more than teaching. she talked about metaphor, about musical phrasing as narrative structure, about the way a repeated lyric could punch harder than a paragraph. her voice never rushed, never cracked. she didn't fidget, didn't pace. she just leaned her hip against the desk, fingers tracing the edge of her water bottle like she was thinking out loud to a room full of ghosts.

liora watched her the way someone might watch a fire—entranced without realizing it.

she was used to professors being either stiff or overcompensating. too many tried too hard to prove they had authority. billie didn't do that. she just was. and it did something to the room. made everyone quieter. made the air feel heavier.

"there's something music can do," billie said, tapping the board with a dry erase marker, "that essays can't. it cuts through memory. not around it. through it. the right song doesn't remind you of a moment—it puts you in it. like time travel, but with better lighting."

liora didn't write that down, but she knew she'd remember it anyway.

the girl next to her had started doodling in the margins of her notebook. someone behind her was chewing gum too loudly. the boy by the window kept checking his phone. but liora didn't move. her pencil rested against the page, unmoving.

billie walked to the board and wrote:

"when language fails, music answers."

the chalk squeaked slightly. her handwriting was slanted, imperfect. under the lights, the ink on her exposed wrist caught liora's eye—lyrics tattooed in a fine line script she couldn't read from this far away.

"that's the quote we'll work from next week," billie said. "write it down. argue with it. prove it wrong if you want. just don't ignore it."

liora lowered her gaze. her fingers gripped the pencil. write it down, billie said. like it was just another sentence. like it didn't already live inside her ribs.

billie glanced toward the back row where a group of boys had started whispering. one of them smirked and said something too low for liora to hear, but she caught enough—something about billie's age, the word hot, the phrase bet she's not even a real professor.

billie didn't flinch. she let the silence stretch. then she walked slowly back to her desk, closed her laptop, and looked out across the room.

"if anyone's confused about whether i belong here," she said evenly, "you're welcome to drop this class. i promise your refund window is still open."

quiet.

no one moved.

liora felt something tighten in her chest. not pity. not admiration, either. something in between. like respect, but more personal. she hated the way billie had to defend herself for being young. for being her.

billie's gaze swept the room again, slower this time.

when it landed on liora, it didn't move away.

chairs scraped against tile as the clock hit the hour. papers rustled, bags zipped. the usual chaos of everyone rushing to leave—except for liora.

she moved slower. not on purpose, but something in her refused to follow the current. she tucked her notebook carefully into her bag, slung it over one shoulder, then pretended to fumble with the zipper a second longer than necessary.

billie was still at her desk, sliding her laptop into a worn leather sleeve, fingers moving with practiced ease. her head was tilted slightly, earbuds resting around her neck, a lazy kind of calm on her face that made it impossible to look away.

most of the room had cleared when billie glanced up—and caught her.

"you good?"

liora blinked. "oh—yeah. i just..." she hesitated, then stepped forward. "i had a question. about the assignment."

billie nodded once and leaned her elbow on the desk, fully facing her. "shoot."

liora hated how loud her heart sounded. she tried to ignore it.

"when you said we could write in any form... did you mean, like, lyrics? or poetry? or just... freewriting?"

"any form," billie said. "i meant it."

her voice was gentler now. less classroom, more personal. and now that they were this close—no rows of desks, no audience—liora could see the pale freckles scattered across her cheeks, the faint smudge of eyeliner just barely under her lashes. her eyes weren't just blue. they were gray, soft and stormy, with something behind them liora couldn't name.

"so if it's a poem that doesn't really make sense," liora said slowly, "that's still okay?"

billie tilted her head. "does it make you feel something?"

liora nodded before she could stop herself. "yeah."

"then it makes sense."

the words settled between them like warmth. not cheesy, not condescending—just simple. true.

liora looked down, letting her fingers curl around the strap of her bag.

"what do you usually write?" billie asked.

liora hesitated, then answered honestly. "stuff i never show anyone."

billie smiled—just barely. "those are usually the best kind."

she stepped around the desk then, close enough that liora caught the faint scent of something warm and clean—like sandalwood and fresh laundry. she reached for a printed syllabus on the edge of the table and handed it to her.

their fingers touched. just for a second. but it was enough to send a pulse through liora's spine.

"just in case you didn't grab one," billie said, casual again, but her voice had dipped lower. "i keep forgetting people actually read these."

liora took it with both hands, as if it were heavier than paper.

"thanks," she murmured.

billie gave a nod, slow and deliberate. "see you thursday, rai."

the way she said her name made liora's stomach flip. it wasn't just the pronunciation. it was the intention. like she wanted to say it again. like she liked saying it.

liora turned and walked out, heart pounding behind her ribs like it was trying to outrun her.

————————————————————————————

[gothmamas]

rural medicine pt 2

summary: you settle in, and robby realizes just how much he loves that damn dog. or maybe it's an excuse to get your number.

word count: 4k

warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowkey pining, slow burn ish, writer is clearly struggling, not proofread, age gap (reader is early to mid twenties), no use of y/n, robby being an awkward old man, bad writing

a/n: i'm sorry this took so long yall i'm a perfectionist and also i've been playing a lot of cod again love my bf price lol! thank u for all the nice comments and the tag requests. also i thought this was gonna be a lot longer than it is pls forgive me

If it weren’t for Winn Dixie, you would have changed your mind and taken your truck up instead of hiking for over three hours. The sun beats down on your exposed skin, sweat beading at the top of your forehead in an attempt to cool you down- with all of your belongings weighing you down on top of that. It also doesn’t help that you’re not particularly used to this much walking. Your freshman year had been filled with hours and hours of sitting at lectures, studying, writing essays, or just having back to back existential crises at your small desk. Your shitty posture comes back to bite you in the form of soreness and stiffness in your shoulders. But by god, Winnie, (as you’ve decided to affectionately nickname her-) is loving and living her best life right now. The way she runs around and jumps all over squirrels tells you that she would have probably made a mess out of your leather seats if you took the easy way up, anyway.

The other downside to this decision is that you’ll have to hike all the way back down the trail in a few weeks to replenish your groceries and basic necessities. Other, more popular or remote parks usually have some kind of delivery service for their fire towers, but the forest here is underfunded and generally neglected by government officials who think that small communities aren’t worth splurging on. This means in addition to using your days off to head into town and pick up the food yourself, you’ll also have to pay for your groceries out of your own pocket. You find comfort in the fact that hiking back down is much easier than going up.

To distract yourself from the hot sun seeping into your clothes and the thick material of your backpack, you think about Robby. Replay your interaction with him over and over in your head. You’ve always been an emotional fool, a hopeless romantic with a heart that can’t thrive unless you’re ripping it out of your chest and giving it to someone who doesn’t deserve it. Especially if it’s to your own detriment in the long run. But there’s something about him that you can’t get out of your head, like a cheap plastic bowl melted on top of an electric stove’s spring coils. Sticky, hot, and irreversible. You think maybe it’s the way the silver flecks in his beard catch in the mid morning sunlight. Or the way his voice comes out in a low, gravelly rumble, a scraping sigh that hints to a deep sadness lingering just below the surface. It brings out your desire to fix, you think. The need to scoop somebody up and save them, to pretend you’re saving yourself. You know he’s probably significantly older than you. But you’d always had a soft spot for that. For old, sad men who call you ‘darlin’ ’, or, ‘baby’, or your personal favorite, ‘sweetheart’. You imagine what he would sound like saying that to you as you toss sticks for Winnie to retrieve up ahead of you. At least you’re entertained for now. 

The sun is still high in the sky when your trip comes to an end, and you try to steer your train of thought into a more productive mindset. Move in, clean up, get familiar with the radio and the Osborne Firefinder table in the middle of your room. You should practice with that at least a little bit before your first radio in tomorrow, even though you highly doubt you’ll get a smoke spotting so early in the season. But you need to be prepared anyways. Bad things happen because you don’t know how to handle them in the first place.

As a treat, you allow yourself to dwell on Robby for a moment longer. He’d mentioned something about an update, so you dig out your mini polaroid camera to commemorate the end of your journey. Crouching down a little, you capture a shot of a properly tired out Winnie, now sleepy and sprawled out on the lush grass like she’d just finished a marathon. You give the photocard a few shakes before tucking it into the breast pocket of your flannel. 

It takes a while to lug everything upstairs, and even longer to set everything up to your liking- everything needs to be just so. Winnie seems content to just nap in the sun while you work, her huge paws twitching in the air every so often.

Robby is almost entirely forgotten by now as you finish and flop onto your new bed, the fitted sheet warmed by the patches of late afternoon sunlight that shine through your windowed walls. Reaching up, you prop one of the panes open slightly, and the cool summer wind hits your face. Somewhere below, Winnie regains her energy and begins running around chasing nothing. Or maybe it’s just something you can’t see. You’re just glad you’re not in her way this time.

As you savor this moment, you feel like you never want to leave again. A kind of peace you’d never felt before settles slowly and surely in your chest, like it doesn’t have to do anything special to convince you to stay. The feeling speaks for itself, and it stays with you when you pass out on your unmade bed. The firefinder can wait until tomorrow, you decide.

Your first morning radio report is awkward and uncoordinated, mainly because the woman you report to is more talkative than you expected. Not unprofessional enough to jam up radio traffic, but enough to make you feel caught off guard and out of your element. You fumble over your words, but she exudes an almost motherly energy through the speaker that soothes any fear of judgement. You forget to ask for her name nearly every time you report to her. 

Seasonal conference calls and weather reports come to you easily. Calculating humidity, wind speed and temperature is like breathing. By the middle of the week, you check the horizon for smoke every twenty minutes like you’ve been doing it your whole life. 

Winnie settles in easily, too. She accompanies you when you hand wash your clothes, waits patiently when you prepare her breakfast before your own, and puts her whole body weight on your legs when you crawl into bed after a long day. Like Robby said, your cell service is shitty. There’s wifi, but it’s spotty and unreliable at best. You only use your laptop for reports and the occasional web call while reading and journaling quickly become your best friends. Over the span of a few days, the weather begins to settle and cool down considerably. The temperature is now settled at a baseline of around sixty five to seventy degrees. 

You can tell spring wants to make one more quick comeback as the humidity rises further, and the clouds look heavier and darker day by day. It’ll probably rain early next week, and with your groceries running dangerously low, the best time to head back into town will have to be tomorrow, on your day off. Technically, your days off aren’t really days off. Legally, they are. But you do your job like you’re getting paid for it anyway.

The morning you venture back out, you remember to tuck that picture of Winnie into the pocket of your jacket. You hope you can catch Robby on his day off today, though you’re not really sure what his work schedule even looks like. It’s a pretty small town, quiet too, so the emergency room there can’t be too busy, right? Maybe a grandmother tripping and falling, or a kid crashing their bike, but you can’t imagine that the hospital would be anywhere close to packed with people like it was at home. You briefly wonder why you’re even thinking so hard about this. You barely know the man. You also have no idea what kind of places he would even frequent. You’re not thinking too logically when it comes to him.

The hike back down with Winnie is a lot quicker than last time. You’re not weighed down by your belongings now, and you've managed to catch Winnie fresh from sleep so she’s not too geared up just yet. She’s still happy to trot alongside you, though. It’s a little gloomy today, and the heat hasn’t started climbing up yet, so that’s definitely an added plus. You reach the trailhead twenty minutes earlier than your original hike up.

The truck is parked right where you left it, and you give Winnie’s backside a little pat of encouragement before she hops in the front seat. The car ride is quiet, cool wind blowing into your face as Winnie naps right beside you. 

As you roll into town, she pokes her head out of the car window. Somewhere in the distance you hear kids yelling and laughing, and this seems to set off her morning energy burst. There’s no way she’ll behave inside the grocery store. Forget about the library. 

When you eventually park and let Winnie out, she immediately bounds toward the noise, her tail wagging about a million miles an hour. You trot behind her, and soon, a little clearing with a small group of about four kids playing comes into view. It looks like the area was once intended to be a park, but there’s nothing more than a few swings and what looks like a wooden rundown pirate ship play area. There’s a group of kids playing what looks like a tag game mixed in with a few hide and seek elements. There’s a mousey looking young man watching them, a bit younger than you. To say he looks run through is an understatement. There’s a few strands of damp brown hair stuck to his forehead, face flushed a bright red as he tries to catch his breath. Despite his clear need for a break, there’s a little girl whining for him to get up. She’s tugging at his arm, and he looks like he’s one second away from blowing a fuse. You have to admire his patience. Maybe you can help give him a little break. 

“Is she okay with you for a while?” You call out with a gesture to Winnie. He quickly recognizes the dog before giving you a weak thumbs up, slouching back against the bench and closing his eyes. You’re starting to think that maybe Winnie understands people more than you think, because she waits to charge into the fray until you give her the go ahead. You linger for a moment as the kids squeal and run away from her, kicking up dirt in the process. It’s kinda cute how locally infamous she is. 

As someone who buries himself in his work, especially to his own detriment, Robby doesn’t think of himself as a man who has time for keeping a pet. His emergency room  is filled with farmers who don’t care to show up until they’re actively dying, idiots who manage to almost cut their own foot off after accidentally stepping in bear traps they shouldn't even be setting up, and a lot of bluecollar workplace incidents. Don't even get him started on the handfuls of treatable diagnoses caught too late because early testing is too expensive for the median wage here, forget about health insurance altogether. As a result, he often gets yelled at almost every shift for things he can’t control and is still expected to keep on a calm, pleasant temperament for his student doctors.

 He feels awful whenever he leaves Winn Dixie out on the streets to go home every night, but the tiny trailer he bought to live closer to the hospital on busy weeks just wouldn’t suit her. He can’t coop her up like that. He’d tried once and came back home to the kitchenette absolutely ruined. It was a dark, dark night.  He cried a little.

So when a pretty new fire lookout hire rolls into town, he thinks he’s found the perfect candidate to dump her onto. He’s hiked up to the lookout a few times before during the fall, and each time Winnie absolutely loved it. He’d even made a few measly attempts at journaling up there while Winnie ran around like crazy, chasing nothing and yipping up a storm. His friend, Jack, had recommended it to him a few times previously, but he can never seem to articulate his emotions in a way that’s relaxing. He ends up finishing the activity more frustrated than he was before. 

  He hasn't seen Winnie in a couple weeks, which felt unusual for him. Every morning she'd trot up to his trailer with that happy little tail, expecting treats that he always gives. She does the same when he’s on a lunch break, and sometimes he’ll even find her curled up by the lawnchair out front when he comes home. He’s actually beginning to miss her, which he really hoped wouldn’t happen. His thoughts begin to steer over to the woman he’d pawned her off to. Had she really taken her with? She had to. She seemed reluctant, but she also looked particularly excited to have some company along with her. He’d even circled back around to watch her take Winnie to the store. Looking back, he feels a little bad about that. Maybe she just hasn’t had a break yet. Can fire lookouts even leave their towers at all? They need food, right? Or do they have that delivered? His heart clenches a little at the possibility of not being able to see his pretty puppy again until fall rolls around. Usually he’d take WInnie to the mid-summer fair to watch Jack win the sharpshooter contest for the seventh year in a row and hold up the prize like it was something new and groundbreaking. He’d feed her fair food that he’d triple checked was safe for dogs while Jack urged him to enter a contest next year because he thought it’d be fun if they were both town champions. Then, they’d go to the small petting corral for kids and hope that she didn’t try to herd the sheep again this year. He briefly considers hiking up to the tower to see for himself, but he thinks that the lookout girl might actually call the cops. He wouldn’t blame her.

He audibly sighs in the canned goods aisle as he mulls this all over, absentmindedly scratching at the scruff on his chin. Just need to grab a few more things and then go home to meal plan for the work week. Maybe tomorrow something will come up. 

“Oh, no way, hi!” You really hadn’t expected to bump into Robby at the grocery store- much less in the canned goods aisle. You’d figured he would be at work already, or having breakfast at home. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge you, though, squinting at the label on something with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a small pout of concentration. You try to ignore how endearing the sight is. He looks more disheveled than the last time you’d seen him, hair tousled like he’d just gotten up and couldn’t bother to brush it. He’s wearing the same flannel as last time, an old band tee underneath with a pair of worn jeans accompanying it. He must have the day off. He looks nice like this. Cozy. There’s a few moments of silence before you try again. He probably didn’t recognize you. Hopefully. “Robby, right?” When he hears his nickname, he startles. He’s squinting at you for a few long moments before a wave of realization washes over him, and he flashes you a polite smile. 

“Hey, there…” He trails off, looking at you expectantly before you finish his sentence for him. He repeats your name thoughtfully, seeming to file it away for later in the same manner that he files a can back onto the shelf. “Right. Sorry.”  He’s subtly looking you over now, observant eyes darting next to you like he’s looking for something- and you barely notice the slight furrow of his brow when he doesn’t find it. “So, how’s my girl doing?” Oh, yeah. You’re fucked. The words roll off of his tongue so naturally, and you almost forget what you’re even doing here for a few moments, but you blink out of it pretty fast. He tilts his head when you slip a hand in your breast pocket, producing the polaroid you’d been saving to show him. 

“She’s good. You were right, she loved the hike.” You offer up the polaroid to him, and he takes it with a gentle hand. He pushes his glasses up further on his nose to examine it, and his once reserved smile turns into a full blown grin. 

“You really tuckered her out!” He laughs, his gaze lingering on the photo before glancing back up to you. “...you mind if I keep this?” He asks, and you immediately nod with an eagerness that embarrasses you later.

“Oh, absolutely. I took it for you, anyway.” His smile softens at this, and he takes another long look before fishing his wallet out and carefully tucking it into one of the pockets. You suddenly feel awkward when a quiet falls over the two of you afterwards, and you can tell he’s feeling it too when he rubs the back of his neck. 

“How long are you two in town for?” He breaks the silence, and the genuine curiosity in his voice puts you at ease. Makes you feel less like you’re forcing him to talk to you. 

“Just today. Gotta get some groceries for the next couple weeks.” You reply, “Actually, since I have you here, I was wondering if you have a library or something like that here? You were right about the shitty service. Almost out of things to read.” He’d returned to the shelf to continue looking through a few tuna choices, but he nods along as you speak to let you know he’s still listening. Your tone is less stiff and awkward when you’re no longer under his gaze, thankfully. He nods again as he puts a couple tuna cans in his basket. There’s something about his demeanor you can’t place. His body language seems nonchalant and relaxed, but there’s a tightness in his shoulders, a tiny flush on the tips of his ears that alludes to excitement buzzing just underneath his skin. He seems almost shy, and it makes you wonder what he’s really thinking.

“Sure do,” He replies, his tone much lighter this time. “I can show you. After you get what you need.” He clears his throat. “If you have the time.” His shoulders relax marginally when you beam and agree to meet him outside after you’re finished up here.

The clouds are a little darker by the time you get out, and you hope that your previous weather prediction wasn’t too far off course. You have too many groceries piled up in your hands to put in the cab with Winnie inside. Maybe you should invest in a tarp. 

Robby’s leaning against the truck, arms folded over his chest. He’s staring off into the distance somewhere, and somehow in the time you’ve been gone he’d popped a toothpick in his mouth to roll back and forth between both sides of his mouth. He notices your reappearance when the shop bell gives a little ding, though. You can barely take a step towards your truck before he’s striding to your side, firmly easing some of the heavy paper bags into the crook of his arm. He does it way too easily, in a way that leaves no room for argument.

“That one?” He points to your red pickup, and you definitely don’t stare at the way his biceps flex when he takes the other few bags from your grasp. 

“Yeah, thank-” You’re cut off by children squealing and yelling somewhere in the near distance, little sneakers scuffing against the dirt. The noises get louder pretty quick, you can get a pretty clear view of what’s happening. It’s kind of scary. This time, Winnie’s the one being chased down, and the dude from earlier is following the group closely. He’s yelling something about not running into the road, and he looks just as exasperated as the last time you saw him. 

Robby’s eyes widen in alarm when he realizes Winnie’s barreling right at him, and he quickly dumps your groceries into the bed of your truck so they don’t end up all over the street. Winnie’s on him in seconds, knocking him down on the ground while the kids begin to complain about her running away from them. Robby’s glasses are practically licked off of his face in seconds, but it seems like this is the usual song and dance for the two pals. He’s cooing soft greetings to her as he gently eases her off of his chest, and you watch in amusement as the pup huffs like he’s being an inconvenience. Robby greets the stressed out dude with a nod, and you learn that his name is Dennis. An uncle and the youngest amongst his siblings.

“Should be studyin’,” He regards, shaking his head a little as he gives WInnie some firm pats on the back. “Tell her I said to lay off a bit.” Dennis only offers a nervous and some jumbled up excuses as he gathers up the kids, coaxing them into a slightly more calm state with the promise of lunch and a special snack if they’re good the rest of the way home.

With Winnie now in tow, Robby looks ten times more happy than before. On the way to the library, he’s listing some of his book recommendations and occasionally including Winnie in the conversation when she yips up at him. 

He asks you about yourself, too. Where you’re from, have you been to college yet, and how you like it here so far. He gives a nod of approval when you tell him about your environmental studies, though he does make an offhanded comment about how depressing he’s heard it can be. He’s right. You mention that you’d been living in Chicago, and he asks you all about it. There’s a casual eagerness about him, like he wants to know more, but he doesn’t want to push you too much. You think you’d spill your guts about anything and everything if he asked, but you know deep down that you’d be too afraid to get to know him too well. After all, you’re only here for the summer.

 “What about you? You from here?” You finally flip the conversation on him and he nods. 

“Yeah.” He shrugs, a wistful look in his eyes. You’re tempted to ask him if he’s at least traveled, but you also understand the desire to never leave home. It probably makes it harder, being a doctor. You imagine he’s gotten pretty close with the community as a whole over time in his career, and you know that feeling of nostalgia all too well.

“Well, it’s nice here. I can see why you’d stay.” He smiles at this, giving you a bashful shrug. 

You want to ask him more, to pick at his brain for hours and hours on end. But you’re at the library now, and you know you need to get back to your lookout tower to get your afternoon reports in.

“Wait.” You pause in front of the library doors, watching as he pulls out a rumpled receipt and a pen. Does he carry pens with him all the time? You’re quiet as he scribbles on it, and when he hands it over, you grin widely. It’s his number scribbled on the back, along with his book recommendations he’d mentioned earlier.

“In case the service up there decides to behave.” He gives you a cheesy ass wink, but then grimaces at himself afterwards. “Sorry.” You snort a little at his apology.

“Don’t be.” 

He looks at you for a long moment like he wants to say something else, but he seems to decide against it. Like he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. He could never, you think. But he's walking off with a wave before you can say much else.

You hope his book recommendations are just as good as his company.

part 1:

tags: @nerdgirljen @livingavilaloca @rainmg @cannonindeez

[bananapurincore]

In which you summon a demon at 12 in the morning because you're exhausted by your midterms and think it can help you out. What you didn't expect was:

1. For it to work

2. To summon something that tries to seduce you every 5 minutes

Cont

It's your senior year of college. You're graduating on time, in a handful of organzations doing honest work, 4.0 GPA, all's perfect. You may have zero concept of social life, but at the very least, you have that dream internship you've been pinning for since your sophomore year!

Your roommate, Cifera, (who is somehow never at the dorm, you've been rooming with her since freshman year and still have no idea where she spends most of her nights out) suggests in one of the rare times you're at the dorm at the same time to do something for your poor, miserable excuse of undergrad life before moving into poor, miserable post grad life.

"Really, it's honestly incredible! I've met hermits, and then I've met you." She gulps down her bowl of leftover milk, not bothered to add more cereal to it. "Little miss perfect seriously has nothing better to do than work, eat, and sleep?"

"We've been over this," you frown, readjusting your laptop for the umpteenth time since it wants to slide down your blanket so bad, "There's... only so many hours in a day and I can't afford for any of them to be used for partying."

"Who said anything about parties? Listen," Cifera drapes an arm over you, "My, dear, dear roomie. Do yourself a favor and do something crazy like jumping off the balcony into the school pool, or flirt with all your professors and see if you can form a harem—"

"Are you trying to get me expelled?"

"Orrrrr, since you're so concerned, summon a demon and get them to do all your work for you." She scratches at your laptop screen, in the midst of writing your currently 15 paged essay, "Trust me, it works. I've only ever had great results!"

You furrow your brows, "When would you... have done that?"

"Have fun with my suggestions. But, of course, you're welcome to think of something of your own." She doesn't offer to elaborate at all, disappearing into her room, and you're not sure you want to ask, either.

Still, as ridiculous as it sounds, the idea of not doing your work doesn't leave your mind. Your midterms are completely and thoroughly beating your ass, surely something else can help with your long essays, right?

You must've done the YouTube tutorial wrong at some point—you were obviously trying to summon a helpful, intelligent demon to bounce ideas from, why was this one so eager to try and take off your favorite pajama pants???

The demon (that you now regret inviting), known as Khaslana, did not share your pursuit of scholarly knowledge in the capacity you were needing, chest bare and wings ablazed (a miracle they did not knock everything in your room over). He only had one thing in mind:

"So... do you want me to take you sideways?..." Khaslana sighs dejectedly into his palm, sitting criss-cross on the floor, adjacent from you. "Or, y'know, I can come by later while you're asleep if that's more your thing. It's my prefered method, too, don't feel shy! You can tell me."

The blond finds one of your stray plushies that fell to the floor, holding it tightly to his chest. "But if you want to take it slow, that's cool too. By the way, this smells really good," he takes another sniff of your captive stuffed animal, "It's really cute, it suits you!"

More than anything, how did this actually work???? You were convinced nothing would happen. How were you supposed to know your roommate was totally serious about demons!!!

You summoned a demon into your room, that much was true, check, but you may (re:definitely) have missed the part where the video said it was meant for exclusively seeking asylum in freaky demons from some circle of hell and ohhhhh, he's an incubus. Of course! What does one even do in this situation. Who accidently summons a sex demon for help on assignments due at 11:59 PM???

Interestingly, he does not... appear like how you would assume succubi go about. He's very attractive, or so you believe, with his sharp eyes and hair, dusted with gold and fluffed to perfection, or his pretty and defined pecs that you're certain you could use as a pillow if you so desired...

...Nevermind. He fits the bill exactly.

If you were able to ignore the glowing cracks that lined his body or the jagged edges that emerged from his shoulders you think he'd be very easy to cuddle. He even has an easygoing smile that you wouldn't have expected from someone of his stature, you have the urge to tell him your every thought because you think he'll really listen.

"N-no, you misunderstand, you don't need to do any of that," you finally muster the courage to respond, "It's just... my midterms, they're all essays and they're driving me crazy." You soothe your temple, not wanting to think about it any longer than necessary. "I'm really sorry for bothering you, but do you think you could help? At all?"

You don't have a lot of faith. You're suprised he's even stayed this long after you had to swat him away for the first minute and explaining to him afterwards that you had no intentions at all to will him here.

"As long as it's not anything with a lot of history in it, I can try." He looks at your laptop, rather serious for someone who has no obligation to help you, "But when I'm done helping, then can I eat you out?"

You'll have to think about it. For sure.