#routine passives

[dungeonmalcontent]

Routine Passives

New 5e Homebrew doc on DMsGuild for $2.50

Technically speaking, your character has a passive skill check for each of their skills. There isn't room to keep track of all of these passives on your character sheet, and keeping track of them on a virtual sheet or other digital tool is still a pain. Moreover, the usefulness of passive ability scores beyond passive perception (the most commonly used passive score) is incredibly minimal—so why bother having those passives at all?

This document attempts to find a use for passive skill checks beyond passive perception checks. In summary, the optional rules in this document change normal passive skill checks into specific routine passive skill checks. These routine passives are the things that a character does over and over again—checking for traps, reading the titles on a bookshelf for hints, observing NPC reactions, etc. Having routine passives means you are limited to what passive checks you can make, but your passive checks become more impactful. They aren't limited to the base skills either; routine passives can be any of the base skills OR any tool, language, or instrument. There are caveats and limitations, and not all routine passive skill choices are good choices for every game.

In addition to rules for routine passive scores, this document includes optional rules for additional skills. These skills include customizable lore skills, luck, honor, and breath. These optional skills can work independently of routine passives but shine when used together.

Lastly, modified character sheet pages are provided for players that wish to use routine passives or any of the optional skills. These character sheet pages are downloadable PDFs, including printer-friendly and form-fillable documents.

[silvermoon424]

i'm so tired.

[fingertipsmp3]

Going to play the sims high, will report back

[salsflore]

GFHHGJ... texted my classmate for help with something and shes already being so irritating!!! and i can’t bring myself to look forward to tomorrow

[realestateinvesting001]

How to Choose the Best Investment Strategy for Growth: A Simple Guide 💰📈

Hey there, financial dreamers it’s Nada Azzouzi ! 🌟 If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the world of investing, don’t worry—you’re not alone! 😌 In today’s blog, I’ll break down how to choose the best investment strategy for growing your wealth. I’ll share some simple, practical tips to help you make smart decisions, no matter where you are in your financial journey. Let’s dive in! 🏊‍♀️ 1️⃣ Know…

[richgothskeleton]

Actually just need to burn over my calorie goal every day.

I'm eating way less, waaay less and I know I can keep it up.

[redflannelsheets]

.

[calebslittlecrow]

Expecting To Wake Up In Your CR

Okay, granted, not everyone has this problem - but a lot of people carry around this little assumption and expectation to wake up in their current reality again. No matter what they do. You've got your script ready. Your method is comfy and your chosen subliminal slaps. You feel ready and everything is in place. But deep down? Deep down you prepare yourself for your alarm in the morning. Prepare yourself for the same room, the same body, the same boring reality trot. It's like saying to the universe "Surprise me!", but also slipping in a quiet note saying "Please don't. Just copy yesterday". It's not new knowledge that your subconscious is running the show behind the scenes. But what we sometimes forget is that our subconscious picks its believes from us... from our habits, patterns, the things we repeat over and over again, even the ones we are not fully aware of. And since most of us are raised in a world that values logic, linear thinking, the "you only live once" mentality, it's no surprise some of us struggle with seeing any other reality as "just as real". Not your fault, it's just conditioning doing its work. Shifting goes basically against everything you have been taught to expect, so it can feel hard to rewire that believe on the go. You are a bit like a Roomba - just doing your little routines, bumping into some unexpected furniture on your usual way, programmed by years and years of subconscious patterns and habits. Cute, but kinda confused a lot. Doesn't mean you are broken, just shows you are human. What you can do is trying to catch that thought, the expectation of waking up here, before it starts to settle in again. Don't just say "I hope I shift". Hope is passive. Try something like: "I believe it's possible to shift" "I expect to shift" "My CR isn't the default. My DR can be the default too." You subconscious learns best from repetition, dominant believes and a sense of familiarity. So start feeding it those things, instead of doubt disguised as fickle believe. Once you start treating your DR as absolutely inevitable, it becomes harder for your brain to argue with that over time. You're not failing, just learning. And every single time you turn those pesky little thoughts in more productive ones, you are rewiring your believes. That's not small, that is huge! That is taking your power back from just letting things happen. You are basically standing in the doorway to your DR, you just need to find your way to step into it.

[shaiyasstuff]

side effects may include: marriage, blushing, and one shirtless husband. | zayne

synopsis : You never planned on getting married straight out of college—especially not to a broody, absurdly attractive cardiac surgeon with the emotional range of a paperweight. But one wine-infused chocolate, a half-unbuttoned shirt, and an accidental kiss later, you’re rethinking everything.

content : arranged marriage!au, pure fluff, comedy, writer on crack

The letter in your hand crumples with the weight of betrayal as you wave it in front of your mother’s face like a white flag soaked in passive-aggression. “What is this?”

She barely glances up from her tea. “Your marriage agreement,” she says, taking a sip as if she hadn’t just casually handed your freedom over like a lunchbox.

“Why didn’t I know about this?!” you exclaim, arms flailing like you’re directing traffic in a thunderstorm.

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed,” she replies smoothly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Which, apparently, to her, it is.

“Mom, I literally just graduated,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face.

She raises a perfectly plucked brow. “I married your father before I even finished.”

You let out another groan, louder this time, before collapsing face-first onto the designer couch like a Victorian heroine with a Wi-Fi addiction.

It probably doesn’t help that your family owns one of the biggest tech companies in the country.

Wealthy, yes.

Emotionally prepared for an arranged marriage? Absolutely not.

“I don’t even know the guy!” you practically shout, sounding one emotional notch away from launching yourself into a soap opera.

“I do,” your mother says, flipping open her book like this conversation is just background noise. “He’s a very charming young man.”

You grab the nearest pillow and dramatically smother yourself with it. “I’m not doing it,” you declare, voice muffled and full of angst.

“It’s already been decided.”

You fling the pillow aside like it personally betrayed you. “No!”

Somewhere in the distance, a rich person’s violinist probably sighed in sympathy.

“You can’t make me do this!” you cry, pointing an accusatory finger at her like you’re about to cast a spell of teenage rebellion.

“You will move into the new house in a week. Pack your things,” she replies, turning the page of her book without even looking at you, as if she’s ordering takeout instead of destroying your life.

You gape at her. “I’m not going to prison, Mom. I’m just trying to live my mediocre post-grad life in peace!”

She sips her tea. “And now you’ll do it as a married woman. Congratulations.”

You consider packing alright—packing your bags and running to a country where arranged marriages are considered ancient history.

Except, here you were—one week, three tantrums, and a very dramatic attempt to fake your own death later—standing in front of your husband.

Tall. Towering. Probably sculpted by ancient gods who had nothing better to do.

In your new marital home.

You blink up at him, still hoping this was an elaborate prank and Ashton Kutcher was going to leap out from behind a curtain with a camera crew.

No such luck.

Your new husband just stood there, looking like he stepped out of a magazine and into your worst-case scenario.

“I’m Zayne,” he says calmly, like you’re meeting at a networking event and not at the start of your forced domestic partnership.

You stare. Tall, brooding, buttoned-up like he’s allergic to joy.

Of course his name is Zayne—the kind of name that comes with a tragic backstory and an impressive skincare routine.

A shudder runs through you.

You’re married to that?

Somewhere in the background, the universe probably gave you a thumbs-up and whispered, “Good luck, sweetheart.”

You gulp, trying to summon the dignity your pajama-clad soul clearly lacks. “I’m Y/N.”

He nods. Nods. No handshake, no smile, no “Nice to meet you, fellow victim of our parents’ power trip.”

And then—he just turns and walks away.

Walks. Away.

You’re left standing there, blinking like a Wi-Fi signal trying to reconnect.

Married. To a man who treats introductions like optional software updates.

—•

“This is what Mom called charming?” you grumble, side-eyeing the empty hallway like it personally offended you.

You replay the interaction in your head—“I’m Zayne”—and resist the urge to punch a pillow just to feel something.

Naturally, you do what any responsible adult in a forced marriage would do.

You begin a full-scale reconnaissance mission.

Operation? Figure Out Who the Heck I Married.

You start with the basics—tracking his schedule, observing his comings and goings like an underpaid spy in a bad rom-com.

The man has the consistency of a German train schedule, the emotional availability of a stone wall, and the mystery level of a locked diary in a teenager’s room.

You have no idea what he does for work. He leaves in crisp suits and comes home even more pressed. He talks to no one. He reads thick books with no covers. You’ve yet to catch him watching a single cat video.

So, naturally, you conclude he must be a rich heir. Or a prince. Or some exiled monarch trying to lay low until his kingdom is restored.

It helps that he’s unfairly attractive—black hair that falls just right, piercing eyes that could probably see through walls, and a jawline that could cut glass.

Yep. Definitely a prince.

A very emotionally constipated, tragically handsome prince.

“I know you’re there,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered—of course he does, because apparently your espionage skills rank somewhere between amateur squirrel and nosy neighbor.

He doesn’t even look up from his book at first. Just turns a page calmly, as if catching his new wife spying on him is an everyday occurrence.

Then, slowly, he tilts his head and meets your eyes.

Oh no.

That look is lethal—cool, unreadable, and annoyingly attractive. He sets the book down with a soft thud and takes off his glasses like he’s about to lecture you, interrogate you, or casually ruin your life with a single sentence.

“Come in,” he says, and somehow it sounds less like an invitation and more like a challenge.

You briefly consider fleeing the country.

But your legs move anyway.

You let out an awkward laugh, the kind that sounds more like a hiccup caught mid-lie. “I was just… trying to see what you do.”

Zayne arches a brow, amused. “And lurking behind walls was the most effective method?”

You shrug, stepping inside, the door clicking softly shut behind you. “I considered asking. But you don’t exactly give off ‘share your feelings over coffee’ vibes.”

He leans back slightly in his chair, arms folding as he studies you—like you’re a puzzle he didn’t ask for but now can’t resist solving. “And what have you learned from your mission?”

“That you read a lot of intimidating books and might secretly be a prince,” you mutter, eyeing the hardcover he’d set down. “Or an assassin with excellent taste in eyewear.”

That earns you the ghost of a smile. Barely there—but it softens something in his expression.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” he says, and somehow, that doesn’t help.

You step closer, cautiously. “So… what do you do?”

Zayne tilts his head slightly. “Why? Interested now?”

“Trying to decide if I should be impressed… or mildly concerned for my safety.”

He chuckles under his breath—quiet and low, like he’s not used to laughing, but might want to try. “Maybe both.”

And for a moment, just a flicker, the air between you shifts. Less awkward, more curious. Like two strangers on the edge of something not quite comfortable, but not cold either.

“Well,” you say, fiddling with a stray thread on your sleeve, “I figured if I’m going to be married to a mystery man, I should at least get to know the mystery.”

Zayne watches you for a beat longer, then gestures to the seat across from him.

“Then stay,” he says. “Ask your questions properly this time.”

And you do.

You sit down across from him, suddenly hyper-aware of how your knees almost brush beneath the table.

His gaze is steady—too steady—and you gulp like you’ve just asked for his hand in courtship instead of mild information.

“So… what do you do?” you ask, trying to sound casual. It comes out more like a nervous frog asking a favor.

Zayne doesn’t answer right away. He leans back slightly, arms still folded, one brow lifting like he’s debating how much to reveal—or maybe just how much fun he’ll have watching you squirm.

“I’m a cardiac surgeon,” he finally says, voice low and even.

You blink.

“I—what?”

“I operate on hearts,” he says, like he’s talking about changing a lightbulb.

You stare at him. This whole time you thought he was brooding over world domination or writing dark poetry about rain. Heart surgeon was not on your bingo card.

“Wait, seriously? Like… actual hearts? With… scalpels?”

He tilts his head, clearly amused. “Is there another kind?”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wow. I was prepared for ‘billionaire with a tragic past,’ not Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I assure you, there’s still a tragic past,” he deadpans, and for a second you’re not sure if he’s joking.

He doesn’t elaborate—but something in his eyes flickers. Quiet. Guarded.

You lean back, blinking slowly. “Okay… that’s kind of hot.”

That gets him. His lips twitch, just a little. “Are you flirting with your husband?”

You pretend to examine the ceiling. “I’m just saying, it makes the whole mysterious-silent-guy thing slightly more tolerable.”

He lets out a soft laugh—barely audible, but it’s real.

And suddenly, sitting across from him doesn’t feel so heavy.

He stands up suddenly, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape against the floor. You jolt slightly, halfway through processing his laugh, and blink up at him.

His expression has shifted—still calm, but there’s something else now. A hint of gravity in the way he looks at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, catching you off guard. “For the suddenness of all this.”

You sit up straighter, unsure what to say. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged the whole arranged-marriage-against-your-will situation out loud.

Before you can respond, he steps closer, extending a hand—not forceful, just open. “Let me show you why.”

Your heart skips. “Why what?”

“Why our parents thought this could work,” he says, and for the first time, there’s no teasing in his tone—just sincerity. Gentle, but certain.

You stare at his hand. His fingers are long, precise. A surgeon’s hands. Hands that fix hearts.

And here he was, offering them to you.

So, slowly, hesitantly, you place your hand in his.

And just like that, something shifts again. Less awkward. A little warmer. A little more real.

He guides you out to his car—a sleek, polished thing that looks like it probably knows more about taxes than you do. He opens the passenger door for you, which is either chivalrous or unsettling, you’re not sure yet.

You slide in, still trying to wrap your head around this whole situation, when he leans in unexpectedly close—and reaches across you.

Your breath catches.

Then—click—he fastens your seatbelt.

You blink at him, flustered. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. It was clinical. Efficient. Like buckling you in was a task on his daily checklist.

Still, your brain short-circuits a little.

“Thanks,” you mumble, confused by how something so unromantic could still make your stomach flutter.

He simply shuts the door and rounds the front of the car, settling into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a hundred times.

You glance over. “So… where are we going?”

He shifts the gear with practiced ease, eyes on the road. “To see my parents.”

You freeze. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“As in—meeting the in-laws now?”

Zayne glances at you, completely calm. “You’re my wife. It’s only natural.”

You groan quietly into your palms. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

At your dramatic groan, Zayne gives the faintest hint of a smile—so subtle you almost miss it. Just the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like your misery is a quiet source of amusement to him.

You narrow your eyes. “Was that a smile?”

“I don’t recall,” he says, cool as ever.

You huff and turn your gaze out the window, resigned to what you assume will be an awkward, overly formal afternoon in a mansion filled with judgmental in-laws and porcelain teacups.

But twenty minutes later, when the car slows to a stop, your sarcasm dies in your throat.

Because this isn’t a mansion.

It’s a cemetery.

Your eyes flick to him, your voice suddenly small. “Zayne…?”

He cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, his expression unreadable again.

“You said you wanted to know why,” he says, gently. “So I’m showing you.”

And just like that, your earlier words—your groaning, your dramatics, your little internal jokes—feel like they belong to someone else entirely.

Zayne steps out of the car without another word, and you follow, suddenly quiet, your footsteps softer on the gravel. The wind tugs at your sleeves as he leads you up a small hill, the world around you hushed, respectful.

The trees part at the crest, revealing an open clearing.

Two gravestones stand side by side, worn but well-kept, the grass around them neatly trimmed. Fresh flowers rest at their bases—white lilies, carefully arranged.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Zayne slows as he approaches, his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn’t say anything right away, just looks at them for a long moment. When he does speak, his voice is low, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“These are my parents.”

Your chest tightens.

You glance at him—his posture still straight, still composed, but there’s something softer now. Something heavy that doesn’t show in his face, but in the silence he carries around it.

“They passed away when I was in my first year of med school,” he says, eyes fixed on the stones. “I visit them every week. I always bring lilies—my mother liked them.”

You stand there beside him, uncertain at first, then quietly fold your arms, the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders.

“I didn’t know,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, and for once, there’s no edge in his voice. Just truth.

And suddenly, you understand what he meant earlier. Why he said he wanted to show you. Why he apologized.

Because this marriage wasn’t just sudden—it was the first thing in a long time he hadn’t had to face alone.

“My parents made an agreement with yours,” Zayne says, his voice steady as he turns to face you.

There’s no accusation in his tone, no bitterness. Just quiet honesty.

“So in a way,” he continues, meeting your eyes, “we’re both stuck in this predicament. Not just you.”

The word predicament almost makes you laugh—because that’s exactly what it is. A polite, miserable mess you’ve both been handed like a family heirloom no one wanted.

But the way he says it… it’s not cold. It’s not detached.

It’s shared.

For the first time, you see the man behind the silence. Not just the polished stranger with perfect posture and unreadable expressions—but someone who lost his family, who carried grief with clinical grace, who walked into this marriage just as unprepared as you.

You lower your gaze, toeing the earth gently beneath your shoe. “Guess that makes us reluctant allies.”

“Something like that,” he murmurs.

Then, after a pause, he adds, “But I don’t intend to stay strangers with you forever. Not if we’re in this together.”

You feel something small and strange crack open in your chest.

Hope. Maybe. Or just the beginning of something real.

After the quiet moments of prayer—hands clasped, heads bowed, the wind weaving through the stillness—you and Zayne make your way back down the hill in silence. It’s not uncomfortable this time. Just… thoughtful. Like something unspoken has shifted between you.

The ride home is calm, the late afternoon sun casting soft light through the windshield. You glance over at him, watching the way his fingers rest lightly on the steering wheel, the way his profile is bathed in gold.

You hesitate, then ask, voice gentle, “How do you feel about this marriage?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The road stretches ahead, lined with trees and fading light, and you think maybe he won’t answer at all.

But then, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips—small, but unmistakable.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road. “Now that I’ve met you.”

You blink.

It’s not grand or poetic. It’s not a love confession or sweeping gesture. But something about the way he says it—so simple, so sure—makes your heart trip a little in your chest.

You turn back to the window, trying to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

And for the first time, the silence between you feels like something full, not empty.

—•

When you reach home, Zayne unlocks the door with quiet efficiency and steps inside like he’s been doing it for years—even though technically, it’s your first week as reluctant roommates.

He shrugs off his coat and heads straight for the kitchen.

You trail behind him, curious. “What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” he says, already reaching for the kettle.

You arch a brow. “Seriously… did you go to husband-training-school or something?”

He glances at you over his shoulder, eyes just a touch amused. “Is that a thing?”

“It should be,” you say, hopping up onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “You open doors, buckle seatbelts, visit your parents’ graves with fresh flowers, and now you make tea? Either you’re weirdly good at this or you’ve been raised by a very intense etiquette instructor.”

Zayne smirks—an actual smirk this time, not the half-ghost of one. “My mother believed in manners. My father believed in precision.”

You nod sagely. “Ah, so you were raised by royalty.”

He sets two mugs on the counter, then adds, “And I believe in not poisoning my wife with bad tea on day seven of our arranged marriage.”

You lift your hands. “Low bar, but I appreciate it.”

He chuckles quietly as he pours the water, and you watch him, a strange sort of warmth settling in your chest.

Turns out, “reluctant husband” looks a lot like “softly competent tea-making mystery man” when no one’s looking.

You watch him as he carefully stirs the tea, trying to look casual, though there’s an edge to your curiosity. “So, have you got a girlfriend? Before all this…?”

The question hangs in the air, a little awkward, but you can’t help yourself. You’re still trying to figure out who he is outside of this whole marriage thing. You need to know what kind of life he led before it all changed.

Zayne doesn’t answer immediately, his movements slowing for just a moment as if he’s considering the question carefully. His eyes flick to you, then back to the steaming mugs.

“No,” he says after a beat, the word simple but loaded. “I didn’t. Too busy, I suppose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Too busy for dating? I find that hard to believe.”

He lets out a quiet breath, placing the spoon down with the kind of deliberation that makes you think there’s more behind it. “It’s not that I didn’t have time. I was just… focused on other things.”

“Like saving lives?” you tease, leaning on the counter.

He glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment before he gives a small nod. “Exactly. I never made time for anything else.”

You hum thoughtfully, but there’s something in his voice that makes you stop. Focused on other things. You wonder if that was his way of avoiding other things. Or maybe he just never let anyone close enough.

You catch his gaze again, and this time, there’s a flicker—an unspoken something in the way he holds it. You can’t quite place it, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, just slightly.

“Well, now you’ve got me,” you say, trying to keep the tone light. “I guess that makes two of us.”

Zayne’s lips curl into the faintest smile. “Indeed.”

That night, you change into something nice—half-expecting a stiff, high-end restaurant with white tablecloths, six forks, and judgmental lighting.

But when Zayne pulls the car up to a quiet little corner bistro tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, you blink in surprise.

It’s not fancy. No valet, no sparkling chandeliers, no menus written in French.

It’s… cozy.

Warm lights glow from inside, casting golden puddles on the sidewalk. Through the windows, you spot mismatched chairs, little potted plants on the tables, and the soft flicker of candlelight.

Someone’s playing gentle jazz on a guitar in the corner, and the air smells like garlic and fresh bread.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you murmur as he opens the car door for you.

He raises a brow. “Disappointed?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. Actually… I like it.”

He doesn’t smile, not really—but there’s a flicker in his eyes, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for.

Inside, you’re seated at a small table by the window. The waiter greets Zayne like he’s been here before, which surprises you even more. You hadn’t pegged him as the “quiet Italian bistro” type. More like “emotionally distant, espresso-fueled loner.”

But here he is. Ordering your meal with quiet confidence, asking if you want sparkling or still water like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And somehow, it feels normal.

As you sip your wine and let the warmth of the room settle around you, you realize this whole evening—isn’t part of some obligation or checklist.

He brought you here because he wanted to.

And that realization sits quietly between you, more intimate than candlelight.

“What did you study?” Zayne asks, his tone casual but deliberate.

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your water glass—not because the question itself is startling, but because he asked it. He, who rarely volunteers anything beyond necessity, is choosing to ask you something personal. Choosing to know you.

And that… that makes your chest feel oddly warm.

“Uhm,” you say, blinking out of your surprise. “I majored in Economics.”

He nods, his gaze steady. “I assume it’s to help your parents, then?”

You smile faintly, setting your glass down. “Yeah. I mean, I was never really pushed into it, but it felt like the logical thing to do. Legacy and all that.”

He hums, clearly understanding. “Pressure has a way of wearing itself like a choice.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “That was poetic.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true.”

And you find yourself smiling—not the awkward, forced kind you used to wear around him, but a quiet, genuine one.

“Did you always want to be a surgeon?” you ask in return.

He considers for a moment, then says, “No. I wanted to be an architect when I was younger.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I liked building things,” he says, eyes flicking to you with a faint glimmer of amusement. “But life had other plans.”

And just like that, you realize you’re not dining with a stranger anymore.

You’re slowly, carefully, getting to know your husband.

You narrow your eyes at him, lips twitching as you lean back in your chair. “You wouldn’t have made a good architect,” you say, your tone teasing.

Zayne glances up from his plate, one brow arching in mock offense. “Oh? And why’s that?”

You shrug, swirling your water like it’s a wine glass. “Too serious. You’d probably design buildings with no windows. Just perfectly symmetrical, intimidating concrete blocks where joy goes to die.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I happen to like symmetry.”

“Exactly,” you grin. “You’d build dystopian fortresses and call them modern masterpieces.”

He leans forward slightly, voice lower, a touch playful. “And what would you build? Something inefficient with fairy lights and personality?”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “Yes. And they’d be beloved.”

Zayne smiles, really smiles this time—and for a second, you forget the marriage was arranged. Because god damn, he looks good when he smiles.

—•

Zayne drives you home after dinner, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between you. The city lights blur softly past the windows, and you catch yourself smiling—again.

Not because of the food.

Not because of the warm, candlelit atmosphere.

But because he smiled at you.

Not a smirk, not a polite twitch of the lips—an actual, honest-to-goodness smile.

And it was for you.

You lean your head against the window, trying to play it cool, but your heart’s doing backflips like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.

Who knew one smile from a broody cardiac surgeon could make you feel like you were in a coming-of-age movie?

When he pulls up to the house and parks, he doesn’t rush out or unbuckle your seatbelt like earlier. He just sits for a moment, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, glancing at you through the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” you say softly, turning to him. “For dinner. And… for today.”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “You’re welcome.”

You linger a second longer than necessary, then reach for the door handle.

But before you can step out, he adds quietly, “I’m glad you came.”

Your breath catches, but you manage a soft smile.

“Me too.”

And as you walk up to the front door together, side by side, you realize something strange and terrifying and kind of wonderful:

You might actually be starting to like your husband.

—•

You’re halfway through your bedtime routine—hair tied up, comfy shirt on, emotionally bracing yourself for your nightly existential crisis—when you hear his voice from the living room.

“Y/N. Come sit with me.”

You freeze in the hallway like a startled cat.

Your brain short-circuits.

Come sit with me.

On the couch.

In the living room.

You peek around the corner, and there he is—Zayne, in his neatly rolled-up sleeves, glasses off, looking painfully relaxed and devastatingly unfair with one arm resting along the back of the couch like this is some indie romance movie and not your actual, real-life arranged marriage.

You fight the very real urge to scream.

Because—hello?? Attractive, emotionally reserved doctor asking you to sit beside him in dim lighting?

No. Absolutely not. Husband or not, this is a threat to your mental health and emotional stability.

Still, your feet move traitorously toward him.

You sit at the very edge of the couch, posture stiff, like you’re preparing to be interviewed, not casually sitting with your husband.

He glances at you, amused. “You look tense.”

“I am tense,” you mutter, clutching a throw pillow like it’s a life raft. “This feels like a trap.”

Zayne chuckles under his breath, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “You’re overthinking.”

“You’re underthinking. Have you seen yourself right now?”

He doesn’t answer—just reaches for the remote and switches on a movie.

And you sit there, slowly melting into the couch, wildly aware of how close he is, and wondering how on earth you’re supposed to survive a husband who smiles at you one moment and invites you to sit with him the next like it’s nothing.

It is very much something.

You shoot up from the couch like you’ve just remembered you left the stove on. “I’m gonna go… look for snacks,” you say, your voice a touch too high-pitched to be innocent.

Zayne turns his head slightly, probably about to say something—maybe to offer help or point out where the cookies are—but you don’t wait. You flee the room with the grace and urgency of someone definitely not running from their feelings.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you disappear down the hallway, you swear you see it.

A smirk.

That little—

Nope. You’re not thinking about that. You are not spiraling over one stupid, stupid smirk.

You fling open the pantry door with more drama than necessary and scan the shelves like a raccoon on a mission. And then… there it is.

A not-so-suspicious box of chocolate. Sitting there. Unlabeled. Untouched. Almost like it was waiting for you.

Naturally, the logical thing to do is take it.

You snatch it like a gremlin, muttering to yourself, “If this is his secret stash, he shouldn’t have left it where I could find it.”

Because if you’re going to emotionally unravel over a handsome surgeon who asks you to sit with him, you might as well do it with sugar.

You shuffle back into the living room, trying not to look suspicious even though you’re literally holding the loot in both hands.

Zayne glances at the box, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

Without a word, you plop down next to him again—this time slightly closer, because apparently you’re a danger to yourself—and open the lid. You pick one out, hesitate, then hold it out to him.

He looks at it, then at you.

And takes it.

Just like that—without hesitation, without question—like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to offer him something sweet and for him to accept it.

He pops it in his mouth, casual, like he didn’t just cause your heart to skip a full beat.

You stare at him. “You didn’t even ask what it was.”

He shrugs. “I trust your judgment.”

Great. Now you’re emotionally compromised and flustered.

You quickly shove a chocolate into your own mouth before you say something like “Why are you so attractive when you chew?”

This marriage is going to ruin you.

As the chocolate melts on your tongue, rich and smooth, you frown slightly. There’s something… extra about the flavor. A little too warm. A little too bold.

You squint at the box, lifting it closer to inspect the label. The fancy script mocks you as your eyes land on the fine print.

“Hey, these are infused with—”

You stop mid-sentence, turning to Zayne.

He’s flushed.

Not dramatically—but enough. His ears are a little pink, the tips of his cheeks tinged with color, and he suddenly seems very interested in the pattern on the coffee table.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, holding up the box like a smoking gun. “They’re infused with wine.”

He clears his throat. “Just a little.”

“Zayne.”

“I forgot,” he mutters, and now he won’t meet your eyes.

You blink at him, then at the chocolate, then back at him.

And then you burst into laughter.

“Are you—are you buzzed from one piece of wine chocolate?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real heat. “I’m not buzzed.”

“You’re flushed.”

“I run warm.”

You clutch your stomach, giggling. “Oh, this is so going in the mental scrapbook.”

He shakes his head, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

And suddenly, the couch doesn’t feel so intimidating. The air between you is warm—not from the chocolate or the wine, but from the quiet, ridiculous comfort of two strangers slowly, awkwardly becoming something more.

But fate, in all its twisted sense of humor, decided to laugh directly in your face.

Because as it turns out, Zayne does not do well with alcohol.

At all.

One wine-infused chocolate later, and he’s leaning back into the couch, flushed like he’s been running laps, and visibly warmer—literally and metaphorically.

You glance over just in time to see him tug at the top button of his shirt.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Your brain short-circuits.

You grip the edge of the sofa like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Do not scream. Do not make a sound. You are strong. You are composed. You are—

He exhales, fingers working at the last button near his collarbone, exposing smooth skin and that maddeningly perfect line of his throat.

“I feel… warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You don’t respond. Because you can’t.

You’re too busy having an internal meltdown.

This is not a movie. This is real life.

Real life where your emotionally-reserved, wine-chocolate-flushed husband is currently undoing his shirt on your shared couch like he doesn’t know what it’s doing to your sanity.

You bite your tongue and stare straight ahead.

This marriage is a trap.

This couch is cursed.

And Zayne, evidently, is dangerous in more ways than one.

You try—truly try—to focus on the TV.

You fixate on the screen like it holds the meaning of life, repeating in your head. Not looking. Not thinking. Muscles aren’t real. Buttons are lies. Stay strong.

But then—

You feel it.

A hand around your wrist. Warm. Firm.

You barely have time to register it before you’re turned toward him—face-to-face with all of him.

Half-unbuttoned shirt. Lean muscles. Broad chest. Collarbone on full display like it paid rent to be there. His eyes, slightly glazed but locked onto yours with an intensity that could melt furniture.

Your breath hitches. “Z-Zayne!”

Your voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched. Like a cartoon character caught in a romantic ambush.

His hand doesn’t let go.

Neither does his gaze.

“You’re really red,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, as if you’re the one being strange in this situation.

“I’m red?!” you squeak, trying very hard not to look down. Or up. Or anywhere.

He leans just the tiniest bit closer, and his voice drops, slow and low. “Are you feeling warm too?”

You make a noise. Not a word. Just a sound. Because your brain has left the building and taken all coherent thought with it.

This couch is no longer a piece of furniture.

It’s a battlefield.

His grip on your wrist softens, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb brushes lightly—absently—against your skin as he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your entire existence.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he slurs softly, “You’re really… pretty… you know that?”

Your soul momentarily evacuates your body.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

“You are,” he says, a little slower, a little sleepier, his words curling lazily like they’re wrapped in velvet. “Your face is nice. Your eyes do this… sparkle thing. Like the stars. But not, cliché stars. Like… classy stars.”

You open your mouth to reply, but absolutely nothing intelligent comes out.

Because here is your emotionally closed-off husband—tipsy from a single chocolate, shirt halfway undone, staring at you like you hung the moon and casually comparing your eyes to classy stars.

This has officially become too much.

You grab the throw pillow beside you and bury your face in it with a muffled, “Zayne, you’re drunk.”

He hums, leaning back slightly, satisfied like he’s just confessed something profound.

“I’m married to a pretty girl,” he mumbles, like it’s the best realization he’s had all day.

And you? You are one slurred compliment away from combusting.

You reach out without thinking, hand aiming straight for his cheek—half to ground yourself, half because you want to see if he’s real and not just a hallucination brought on by wine chocolate and emotional confusion.

But before your fingers make contact, he catches your wrist again.

Gently. Firmly.

And then—he tugs.

You let out a surprised gasp as you stumble forward, barely catching yourself with your free hand against his chest. He’s solid. Warm. Way too warm.

Your heart skips, then trips, then sprints like it’s running late for something.

You barely have time to react before he looks up at you—eyes soft, dazed, and entirely sincere—and asks:

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s not breathy or desperate. Not bold or teasing.

He says it like a gentleman asking for a dance. Like he’s asking your permission to step into something delicate. Something real.

Your breath catches. The world stills. The TV hums in the background, forgotten.

You’re close enough to see the way his lashes rest against flushed skin, close enough to feel his breath brush against your lips.

And now, you have a choice to make.

Because despite the chaos, the circumstance, the wine-infused madness of it all—Zayne just asked you so politely to kiss you.

And god help you…

You kind of want him to.

You open your mouth to reply—maybe to say yes, maybe to question your sanity—but the words never make it out.

Because his lips are already on yours.

Gentle. Soft. Careful, like he’s still half-expecting you to pull away. Like he knows he’s toeing a fragile line and doesn’t want to break it.

Your eyes flutter shut as instinct takes over, and the world tilts slightly.

You can barely taste the chocolate on his lips, a hint of sweetness tangled with something warmer, something that makes your heart thrum unevenly in your chest.

Your mind goes fuzzy. Not from the kiss itself, but from the feeling that comes with it—the quiet kind. The kind that settles in your chest like a secret you hadn’t realized you were keeping.

He doesn’t rush it.

His hand stays on your wrist, thumb brushing softly along your skin, as if even now he’s asking—Is this okay? Are you sure?

And you are.

Somewhere between wine-infused chocolates, teasing banter, and the way he said Can I kiss you? like it meant everything—you became sure.

And so you kiss him back.

Somehow—somehow—you’re still suspended there, caught in that precarious space between balance and disaster, one hand on his chest, the other still held by his.

And then his hands slide to your waist.

Slow. Sure. Steady.

He holds you like he’s anchoring you—like if he let go, you might float away.

And that’s when the kiss deepens.

No more polite hesitation, no more softness at the edges. It’s still gentle, yes—but there’s more now. More pressure. More heat. More intention.

Your fingers curl against his shirt, and it takes every last ounce of self-control not to start undoing the buttons he didn’t already conquer earlier. Because God, you can feel the strength in him—lean muscle under your palm, warmth radiating like it was meant for you, and he’s kissing you like he’s waited a long time to do it.

You gasp softly against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like a secret.

Your mind is a whirlwind. Logic? Gone. Restraint? Dangling by a thread.

You are this close to losing all common sense and just undressing him right here on the couch like your sanity isn’t hanging on by a single, wine-infused thread.

But then he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

And he whispers, barely audible, “You taste sweet.”

You’re going to combust.

This man is going to ruin you.

The world blurs at the edges, warm and hazy like honeyed sunlight through half-closed curtains. His breath still ghosts against your lips, his hands still resting on your waist like they belong there, like you belong there.

You feel weightless. Drunk, not on wine or chocolate, but on him—the warmth of his skin, the way he kissed you like it was something sacred, the way he looked at you like you were something more than a stranger handed to him by fate.

Everything is soft. Glowing. Surreal.

Too perfect.

And then—

Blink.

The warmth fades. The light shifts.

You’re no longer on the couch.

You’re standing, stiff, in a room full of flowers and polished silence, your fingers cold at your sides.

Zayne stands across from you, buttoned-up, composed, unreadable. No wine in his system. No flushed cheeks. No trace of that kiss.

Just a man you’ve never met.

And the moment of your arranged introduction.

Your breath catches, and for a second, you don’t know what’s real.

But you do know one thing.

Whatever just happened—dream, vision, or cruel trick of the mind—it’s already begun.

masterlist

[brucedefender4eva]

After the fourth night in a row where one of his kids directly disobeys his orders and gets hurt even more

Bruce is just done

Burnt out, drained, weary; whatever the fuck you want to call it at this point

He’s been working on himself a lot lately. And at this point in all his relationships, he understands that taking away their alter-ego and benching them will only backfire on him.

So he doesn’t do anything

He mentally throws his hands up in defeat and just… does whatever they wants to diffuse the situation

Dick is expecting another yelling match to commence the moment they get back to the cave. In fact, he went out tonight deliberately trying to get to this moment. He brought cough drops for the aftermath to soothe his throat from all the yelling. He knows it isn’t healthy, but he just needs to let out some steam

Instead of their usual routine, Bruce gets out of the Batmobile and doesn’t even look at Dick. You can’t say his posture is… relaxed… but it isn’t wound up tightly like it usually is when one of his children gets hurt

Bruce goes over to the Batcomputer and starts typing down what happened on patrol that night while Dick does his best not to put any pressure on his possibly broken leg

After a few minutes of silence, Bruce sighs and turns back to Duck with a raised eyebrow, his face passively blank

“What?”

Dick shifts and winces as his entire leg throbs painfully. “A-aren’t you gonna call Alfred?” Dick responded back petulantly, keeping his voice low in hopes Bruce wouldn’t hear him then get annoyed and finally show some emotion

“Your arm isn’t broken, is it? Use it.” Bruce said simply before turning back around and continuing to type.

Dick felt anger bubble up in his chest, but it felt stupid to try and start a fight when Bruce obviously wouldn’t engage.

Dick storms off in a huff, at least he tries. He makes it a few steps before deciding to sit down and call Alfred.

“Love you,” Bruce calls back to him without turning around, causing Dick to stick up both of his middle fingers in retaliation.

Or with Jason, he’ll pick his battles and accept whatever happens afterwards

Jason’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Extremely reminiscent of when he first came to the Manor

He had shot someone on patrol. Could he have used his rubber bullets instead of his real ones? Yes. Did he lie to Bruce and say that he didn’t have real bullets in him? Also yes

But fuck Bruce and all the rules he has

Now it was completely silent as they rode home in the Batmobile.

Jason checked over his gun for the fourth time before carefully tucking it back in her holster.

“You’re seriously not gonna say anything, old man?” Jason griped. Usually, this would be the catalyst for a large-scale argument, but there was nothing. Not even an eye roll for Jason's old man comment.

“What’s the point? Not like you’ll listen anyway.” Bruce shrugged, ignoring Jason's angry scoff as he stopped the Batmobile. “Here, your safe house.”

Jason blinked at Bruce, looking at him incredulously. “Are you fucking serious? You’re dropping me off at my safe house? Not gonna allow me in the cave anymore?” Jason snarled, not even thinking to question how Bruce knew where his super secret safe house was.

“You said, and I quote, ‘never wanna set foot in this fuck ass cave another day of my undead life’.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, at least it sounded like he did. Hard to tell with the cowl.

“Fuck you!” Jason decidedly does not pout as he gets out of the car and starts storming up to his door.

Bruce rolls down the windows and shouts out a quick ‘love you’ before speeding off into the night.

He won't enable it, but he's not gonna go out of his way to stop them if he's tried once before

Tim’s sitting down at the Batcomputer, mulling over a case that Bruce said to drop several times or at least put a pause in it, cause it's taking its toll on the young detective

When Bruce walks downstairs, Tim’s expecting a confrontation since Bruce had told him to go to sleep at least four times already

But nope

When Bruce noticed Tim looking at him, he simply gave him a greeting grunt before shuffling through his own stack of papers

“I know you said to go to bed, but I’m almost done! I swear!” Tim pressed his back firmly against the swivel chair, waiting…

“Mhmm…” Bruce hummed, barely listening. “Sleep, don’t sleep. Whatever.” Bruce takes another sip of his tea before placing it beside Tim, grabbing a folder full of paper, and pressing a kiss to Tim’s forehead. “Have fun, love you.”

Damian’s angry at him for something perfectly normal to be angry about, whether it’s regular teen stuff or vigilante stuff? Agree with him

While he’s threatening to stay a week at Dick’s place or even the Kent farm, Bruce is packing a bag for him

He nods and hums along absentmindedly as Damian rants that he can’t stand being in the Manor. Nothing he hasn’t heard a million times before from his children and other non-children

“What are you doing?” Damian questioned, finally stopping his rant to actually pay attention to what his father’s doing

“You said you needed a break from me, right?” Bruce grinned, actually okay with the house being quiet for a few days. “You’ve been dying to hang out with Jon more, go on.”

Jon, who was listening in just like his father always is, was already floating outside with the biggest and brightest smile on his face

“Have fun, kiddos. Love you!” Bruce called out, ignoring Damian’s sputtering as he shut the manor door behind him

[moon-ttokki-x]

protective!maknae line skz x maknae!9th member reader

pairing: protective!ot8!skz x maknae!9th member reader

summary: how skz would be protective of their maknae (that's you!)

genre: idol!au, 9th member!au, maknae line being super sweet and supportive, mentions of acne, scars, uhh spiders? bugs in general, seungmin villain era, felix is passive aggressive (there's a valid reason i promise)

a/n: divider by @mikeykuns . also taglist is open for anyone who wants to join !

skz masterlist | hyung line

Han who watches out of the corner of his eye as your stylist sits you down in your usual chair before the show, and begins sticking stickers all over your face. When you bat their hand away, they tell you it's because of your scars and acne that's been happening recently, and Han can't fight the sudden, unexpected anger that rises up inside of his chest as he watches you sink down into the chair and go silent. Definitely gets up and puts a few of the same stickers on his own face so as not to draw attention to yours, and gently peels off a few of them on your face, telling you that you look stunning whether there are blemishes on your face or not. Spends the rest of pre-concert prep sticking stickers onto the members' butts to try and cheer you up (it works).

Felix who goes live after you received hate for your outfit at their latest concert, passive-aggressively mentioning the event and glaring through the camera. Comments flood the screen but he couldn't care less; he just doesn't see the point of hating on someone so unnecessarily for something that wasn't even their fault. Doesn't look up as you appear at the door, silently watching him chide the 'Stays' who threw hateful comments at you as you left the venue after the performance. Bravely sticks up for you despite the many repercussions it could have, and lets you sit under his desk while he changes the subject, talking to Stay through the camera about various other things. Strokes your hair and lets you rest your head on his knee, relishing his comforting warmth.

Seungmin who talks far more than usual during a certain episode of a variety show; he's watching you being pushed towards a small container, with some sort of spider or bug inside. You've mentioned to him before that that sort of thing really freaks you out, and he can see the visible distress on your face as you're forced to pick the insect up, flinching and tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Tries to draw the hosts' attention away from you so you can put the unpleasant insect down, and messes about and knocks things over to keep them occupied while you collect yourself. And, if he's feeling particularly mean (which he is) the hosts might find themselves dealing with a few creepy crawlies in their dressing room later. But it's nothing to do with him, he didn't do anything.... (yes he did).

Jeongin who quickly covers you during a performance when your voice cracks or goes unstable, not even looking at you so people don't catch onto the mistake. Even adds a few notes onto the song to draw attention away from you, and winks at you as he slides into his position for the second part of the routine, effortlessly covering the part you've missed due to the slip-up. He knows how it feels, to feel like you ruined a performance for the whole group, so he sticks with you after the show as well, holding your hand, and talking to you constantly and quietly to keep your mind off of the mistake. Even messes about with his hyungs to make you laugh (though he's terrified of what Minho might do to him later), but it's worth it to see you smile, always.

a/n: yayy second part . just keeping you guys fed <3 keep an eye out for the second part of 'stupidly perfect' (chan x reader)!

ttokki's taglist: @emilywhyyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @batty-barty-crouchjr @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585

send a dm, comment under the taglist post, or send an ask to be added !

[phoenixrisingastro]

Astro Observations III

The 8th house doesn’t just hold secrets—it’s where your soul confronts the shadows it’s tried to bury for lifetimes.

Venus in the 8th house doesn’t just want love—they want the kind of connection that burns, scars, and transforms you.

Moon-Pluto aspects in synastry will either leave you feeling like you’ve found your soulmate—or like you’ve just opened Pandora’s box. There’s no middle ground.

Mars in Aries people don’t start fights—they finish them.

Saturn transits through the 4th house will make you feel like home is the one place you’ll never find peace—until you rebuild it from the ground up.

Neptune in the 7th house natally often attracts relationships that feel like a dream but leave you questioning what’s real.

Venus in Capricorn might seem distant, but their love is like fine wine—it only gets better with time.

The 12th house isn’t just about isolation—it’s where you confront the parts of yourself you’ve tried to ignore. Synastry here? It’s like two souls meeting in the dark, stripped of all pretense.

Jupiter in the 5th house people are so generous with their joy that they can light up a room just by walking into it.

Venus square Uranus in synastry feels like love at first sight—and chaos at second.

Pluto in the 1st house natives don’t enter a room—they command it. Their energy is undeniable, and people either love or fear them (or both).

Saturn square Venus in synastry feels like a test from the universe. The love is there, but the timing rarely is.

The North Node in the 10th house people are born to shine—but not until they’ve clawed their way to the top.

Mars in Libra might seem passive, but don’t let that fool you—they’re just picking their battles. When they do fight, it’s for keeps.

The 6th house isn’t just about daily routines—it’s where you find your soul’s purpose through service and hard work.

Mercury retrograde in the natal chart doesn’t mean you can’t communicate—it means your voice is meant to be reflective, deliberate, and deeply impactful.

Mars opposite Pluto in synastry feels like two people locked in an endless battle of wills—and sometimes, the only way to win is to walk away.

The 11th house shows the people you want to surround yourself with, but it’s the 5th house that shows the ones you’ll actually fall for.

Venus in Gemini placements will tell you they’re “just seeing where it goes” while secretly planning every detail of your future together.

The 2nd house isn’t just about money—it’s about what you value, how you feel worthy, and the things you’ll cling to when life falls apart.

Lilith in the 1st house people have a presence that can’t be ignored. They challenge societal norms just by existing.

Sun square Neptune in a natal chart often feels like living in a fog—you’re searching for identity but constantly questioning if it’s real.

Jupiter in the 12th house feels like divine protection. Even in your darkest moments, something always seems to pull you back into the light.

The 7th house ruler in the 8th house often brings relationships that challenge you to confront your fears, desires, and deepest insecurities.

Synastry with heavy 8th house overlays isn’t “just a phase.” Those connections burn into your soul and leave marks you’ll feel long after they’re gone.

Moon trine Uranus in synastry feels like emotional freedom—you give each other space to breathe while still feeling completely connected.

The 5th house isn’t just about fun and romance—it’s where your soul comes alive. Whatever planets you have here show where your heart truly shines.

South Node synastry feels like a love story you’ve lived before. It’s familiar, comforting, and often impossible to let go of—even when you should.

Pluto conjunct the IC in the natal chart often speaks of a childhood shaped by power struggles, secrecy, or transformation.

Mars in Pisces in synastry can be one of the most passionate placements—but also one of the most confusing. Is it love, lust, or a dream you can’t wake up from?

Chiron in the 1st house natives often feel like their very existence is a wound, but their journey is about learning to turn that pain into power.

Venus opposite Mars in synastry creates undeniable chemistry—but it’s the kind that feels like a rollercoaster you can’t get off of.

Uranus transits to the 7th house shake up your relationships so completely that you may not recognize your love life when it’s over.

Mercury in the 12th house often struggles to speak their truth out loud—but their inner world is filled with thoughts too profound for words.

Saturn conjunct the Moon in a natal chart often speaks of an emotionally challenging childhood, but it also creates someone who is unbreakably strong.

The 3rd house ruler in the 9th house often creates people who feel like lifelong students of the world—they never stop seeking, exploring, or asking “why?”

Pluto square Venus in synastry can feel like being loved and destroyed at the same time. It’s the kind of connection you never fully recover from.

Neptune in the 5th house natives often express their creativity in ways that feel otherworldly, almost magical.

Jupiter trine the Sun in the natal chart radiates luck—it’s like having the universe on speed dial.

Synastry with heavy 12th house placements isn’t for the faint of heart—it forces you to confront parts of yourself you’ve buried, even if it hurts.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Another one (said to the tune of dj khaled)

What if/imagine...have you ever seen the tiktok/reel where the SO randomly knocks something out of the others hands and walks away? Ex. price is sitting on the couch looking at his phone and you just walk by and knock it out of his hands and keep going.

It's meant to be playful, not hurting or damaging any object. It's definitely a way to get someone's attention. 🤣

Another is right. I have such a list to get through I feel like I cannot stay organize lmao. I love a good prank. I love a good, non-malicious prank. I love pulling said prank on one (all) the 141. Hilarious. Amazing. Give me more. Thank you for dropping into my inbox with this little gem. <3

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): hijinks & shenanigans, pranks, flirting, suggestive themes, established relationship

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John relaxes on the sofa, cellphone in hand, fingers tapping away at the screen. He’s in his own world, either chatting away with someone or playing a silly little game.

What’s a bit of fun? A little disturbance in routine? You’re always teasing him in one way or another. This is just another opportunity.

With as much nonchalance as you can muster, you stroll past him and knock his phone out his hand. It’s not hard, or aggressive, more like a cat pushing something off the top shelf.

He clears his throat. “Right. If that’s how you want to behave, dove.”

John slowly stands, smoothing the front of his shirt in a causal gesture. It’s far too calm for him, which means you’re in trouble.

As you pause just inside the hall, you step behind the wall, using it as a defensive barrier. The only part of you that’s visible is the upper half of your body. You don’t dare speak as John’s head swivels in your direction. There isn’t anger or frustration, but a tiny smirk, hinting at amusement.

“You have my attention, love” he purrs. “Thought I was ignoring you?”

You swallow as he takes a step forward.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is perched in front of the television, gaming controller in his hands. It’s entirely likely that he’s on with Kyle, perhaps even Simon. He has his headset on, talking rapidly as his character moves around on the screen.

Even while on leave, he’s playing games that resemble what he does for a living.

“On the left. That’s it.”

He’s far too focused on the screen to notice that you’ve moved closer to him. You wait on purpose, watching for an opportune moment. Johnny’s gaze is razor-sharp, tongue slightly poking out of his mouth as the screen hordes all his concentration.

“I’m down.”

The screen shifts as his character is respawned. Just as he returns, you lean in and smack the controller out of his hands. It clatters to the floor. His character is promptly killed again. As it respawns, Johnny twists to glance at you.

“I’ll be back, mates,” he says just before removing his headset.

“You,” he says, the shock turning into mischievousness. “You naughty little thing.” Johnny launches himself at you, jumping over the back of the sofa like it’s no effort at all.

You take off, cackling.

“Come here,” he shouts. “Putting you over my knee.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

As you poke your head into the bathroom, you find Simon standing in front of the mirror. He notices you watching him but says nothing, going about his morning routine as he always does.

There’s an idea brewing in your head, a small torment, a little fun. The thing about Simon is that he’s sturdy and relatively passive about most things. He’s the stoic one. The calm one. Nothing phases him.

Which is why it’s easy to gather up the courage to be a little naughty—to act out.

Simon retrieves his toothbrush and adds a dollop of mint toothpaste. Running it under the faucet for a brief second, he brings it to his mouth. As he brushes his teeth, you take a small step inside. Simon doesn’t react, just continues about his business.

When he goes to put the toothbrush back under the water, you reach out, snatching the toothbrush right out of his hand. You pop it into your mouth and begin brushing your teeth with it.

Simon freezes, and then slowly turns in your direction. You cock an eyebrow, daring him to say something.

He doesn’t. Simon opens a drawer and retrieves a brand-new toothbrush, completely unbothered.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle lifts his arm, remote pointed at the television. On days like this, it’s the perfect opportunity to be a little cheeky. Nothing stirs the pot like poking at Kyle’s buttons. It’s never in maliciousness. If anything, it’s to get what you want, which is Kyle’s attention. And he’s always happy to give it when you’re acting bratty.

As he ups the volume of the rugby game, you pass directly in front of him, snatching the remote, turning the television off, and tossing the remote onto the recliner nearby. Kyle blinks, arms still raised and pointed at the television as if he’s frozen in time.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Kyle’s labored sigh.

“You know,” he chuckles. “If you want my attention, love, just say so.”

You glance over your shoulder as you enter the hallway. Kyle has a languid, flirty expression on his face. The remote is ignored as he stands, hands already grasping his shirt, removing it from his body. Taut muscle is revealed, and a sudden heat blooms in your belly.

You certainly have all his attention now.

Kyle takes a step forward, discarding the shirt. “Thinking we need a little lesson on behavior, yeah?”

[machveil]

follow up from this post because it’s gnawing at my mind and making me insane

Roommate!Simon Riley that’s passive aggressive to your boyfriend when you leave the room. as soon as you’re off to use the washroom Simon is leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees as he look at the man. there’s idle chitchat - Simon hates small talk, but he won’t miss the chance to throw petty jabs at this guy

Roommate!Simon Riley that asks about his gym routine, how much he lifts and for how many reps. “Really, might ‘ave to come with you. We’ll work on gettin’ you to lift as much as I can.”, an empty offer, tone lighthearted but Simon’s words eat at your boyfriend a little. it shouldn’t bother him, he lifts a fair amount… it shouldn’t matter that your roommate subtly alluded to lifting more than him, right?

Roommate!Simon Riley that keeps the rest of the conversation light, glancing at you when you walk back into the room. and, oh, sweet little victory that it is, Simon doesn’t care if it was subconscious or not, but when you sit down next to him? he can’t help the smirk that tugs at his lips, side eyeing your boyfriend as he redirects his attention to you, “Where’s your date takin’ you, love?”

Roommate!Simon Riley that always refers to your boyfriends as dates, nothing more, nothing less. he silently flaunts the way he still calls you pet names, how easily they roll off his tongue and make you smile. maybe it’s in bad taste, but Simon knows this… relationship eugh probably won’t last, not when he wraps his arm around your shoulder and tucks you against his side - your boyfriend looking on

[trophybarbie]

one day one day one day!!! i will move out and never have to clean up after anybody's vomit that i FUCKING CAN'T STAND again

[thealchemistbae]

How to Make F*ck You Money Using Your 8th House💸

Let's talk about F you money...the kind of money that buys freedom, power, peace, and the ability to say "no" without guilt. The kind of money that screams main character energy. And guess what? Your 8th house holds the key.

The 8H in astrology rules over shared resources, passive income, investments, inheritance, $ex work, shadow work, transformation, power dynamics, and yes...BIG MONEY. Think generational wealth, not just what's in your checking account.

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

Step 1: What Sign is on Your 8th House Cusp?

This shows the vibe of how you handle money from others, investments, and power. Here's the tea:

Aries -> You get big money by taking bold risks, being first, and having a boss b*tch attitude. Crypto? Only if you're first. Entrepreneurship? Yes ma'am.

Taurus -> You attract wealth through luxury, patience, and beauty. Real estate, slow investments, sugar baby vibes. Rich auntie/uncle energy.

Gemini -> You get paid to talk, think, or write. Digital assets, intellectual property, courses, or content that keeps paying you forever.

Cancer -> Wealth from family, real estate, and emotional labor. Generational wealth, healing work, or investing in homey assets.

Leo -> Fame, visibility, and charisma = money. Your presence alone is profitable. Passive income through fans, royalties, and performance.

Virgo -> You monetize your skills, routines, and healing abilities. Systems, services, editing, health and wellness work, and digital products.

Libra -> You attract wealth through beauty, relationships, and luxury. Partnerships, sugar daddies, aesthetic businesses, or passive fashion income.

Scorpio -> Powerhouse. You were born for F you money. Wealth through mystery, sex work, investments, and deep transformation. You can flip pain into profit.

Sagittarius -> Money through teaching, publishing, and going global. Travel content, spiritual coaching, or international biz? Goldmine.

Capricorn -> You build wealth over time. Passive income from systems, institutions, or your own empire. Think CEO bag.

Aquarius -> You make money through innovation and being ahead of your time. Tech, astrology, community platforms. Viral = income.

Pisces: Dreamy dollars. You remake money in mysterious or spiritual ways. Art, music, dreams, healing, even OnlyFans.

Step 2: What Planets Are in Your 8th House? (Your Superpowers)

Each planet here tells you how you make that boss-level, passive, transformative money.

Sun: Your power and identity are tied to your ability to accumulate and manage wealth. You're meant to live off royalties or investments. Your legacy pays your bills.

Moon: You intuitively attract wealth. Cyclical income. You can profit from nurturing, healing, or female dominated spaces. Wealth may come through family or emotional work.

Mercury: You write, speak, or strategize your way to money. Stock tips, intellectual property, or sharing taboo knowledge. You make $$$ from secrets.

Venus: You're literally made to attract luxury and resources. Sugar baby potential, creative investments, passive income from beauty or love-based businesses.

Mars: You hustle for that money. Sex work, bold business moves, and aggressive investing can be major wins. You thrive in high stakes financial spaces.

Jupiter: F*ck you money is your birthright. You naturally expand and attract wealth often through spiritual wisdom, teaching, or blessings from others.

Saturn: You build wealth slowly, but it's unshakeable. Passive income through discipline, real estate, legacy building, or authority in your field.

Uranus: Sudden windfalls, viral moments, and unconventional income streams. You were born to break the rules and still get paid. Internet wealth = chef's kiss.

Neptune: Spiritual, artistic, or mystery money. Think music royalties, dreams turned into passive profit or even hidden/inherited wealth. Trust your intuition.

Pluto: You're a financial powerhouse. You attract wealth through transformation, shadow work, or high stakes environments. Sex, death, taxes? You run it.

North Node: Your destiny is to become wealthy through other people's money, deep transformation, or taboo topics. Follow the path of power.

South Node: You've already mastered wealth in a past life; now you're learning to share it or evolve past it. Don't cling to scarcity.

Chiron: You've been wounded by money, sex, or power...but healing these wounds makes you RICH. You can guide others through their darkness and get paid for it.

Your 8th house is your wealth witch zone. It's not your salary...it's what keeps the money coming while you sleep. Use your placements to tap into wealth that's bigger than you, tied to transformation, and often a lil taboo.

You don't just make F you money; you embody it.

Want a custom money astro reading? Slide in my DMs for prices.

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