#before even knowing how I use the book in practice not just in theory

[marsdql]

Hiii can I be 🪽 anon? And as for the req, this can wait no worries!! But can you write choir singer and painist reader x riki, where reader feels pressured by her family and heavily stressed w expectations, and she’s near the brink of death w her mom trying to plan every sec of her life and he just comforts her.?

Ofc you can!! I was so scared that the anon thing wasn’t going to work so I’m literally jumping rn >< also amazing emoji choice I love sm hehehe — emoji anons

I wrote this all in one sitting(of like …5 hours) so I hope it’s not too choppy… it’s like 3/4 proofread tho, I got lazy

You’re a melody no one hears the right way anymore.

It’s not just the constant rehearsals, the church choir practices, the piano lessons that run long, the recitals booked before your fingers have healed. It’s the silence in between. The hollow echo of your name when your mom calls you from across the room with another printed schedule in hand. The way her voice sharpens whenever you slow down. As if rest is betrayal.

You’ve learned how to survive it: nodding when expected, saying “yes, ma’am” like a reflex, tucking the exhaustion behind polite smiles, behind perfectly timed notes. You’ve learned to disappear into sheet music and calendar blocks. Everything is planned. Practiced. Polished.

And you’re completely rotting inside.

The final blow comes one Thursday. It starts with an early rehearsal before school—5:45 a.m., barely awake, lungs stiff from the cold. Then a double-period theory exam. Then choir, then private lesson, then a rushed, half-eaten dinner between vocal coaching and a video recording session your mom insisted you squeeze in before midnight. Because “every second matters.”

You don’t even remember how you got home. But now you’re in your bedroom. Alone. Finally.

The door clicks shut. And the moment it does, your legs give out.

You crumble to the floor beside your bed, still in your uniform. Bag dropped halfway across the room. Everything hurts: your chest, your throat, your hands, your brain. You’re shaking. You’re not sure if it’s from cold or exhaustion or panic. Probably all three.

And the thing is—you don’t even cry at first.

You just sit there, head against the side of the bedframe, staring at the blank space on the ceiling where your practice calendar used to hang before you tore it down last week. You thought it would help. It didn’t.

You feel… nothing. And that’s worse than pain.

Then your phone buzzes.

It’s Riki.

nikki manaj [9:01 PM]: “You okay?”

nikki manaj [9:01 PM]: “I had a weird feeling. Did your mom pile it on again?”

You type. You delete. You type again.

You [9:05 PM]: “can u come over. please.”

You hit send before you can second-guess it.

Riki shows up less than fifteen minutes later. You don’t know what you look like when you open the door, but it must be bad because he doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you, jaw tensing slightly.

You’re still in your skirt, blouse wrinkled, neck tight, your cardigan slung over one arm like you couldn’t be bothered to hang it up. You’re barefoot. You feel like a ghost of yourself.

He doesn’t ask if he should come in. He just does. Quietly. Carefully.The door clicks shut again. You flinch at the sound. “Where is she?” he asks, voice low.

“Out,” you say. “Late dinner with a board member. Won’t be back for a few hours.”

He nods. Walks into your room. Sits on your bed.

You sink down beside him. Not touching. Not speaking. Just breathing.

Until you can’t.

It comes all at once—the sob--one strangled breath, then another, and then you’re folded over yourself, hand pressed against your mouth like you’re afraid the sound of your own crying will wake the walls. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. You haven’t cried like this in years. Not out loud. Not in front of anyone.

But you do now, infront of him.

You fall forward, and Riki’s arms catch you like he expected it.

“Hey—hey. I’ve got you,” he whispers, arms wrapping around your body, pulling you into his chest. You can’t stop crying. You don’t even try. Your tears soak into his sweatshirt, into your palms, into the skin between your fingers. “It’s okay,” he says, again and again. “You’re okay.”

You’re not okay. But you don’t tell him that, because right now, he’s the only safe thing in the whole damn world. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t say “calm down” or “don’t cry.” He just holds you. Rubs your back. Rests his chin on your head. Breathes for you when you forget how to. Tells you in the softest, surest voice: “You don’t have to hold it together for anyone right now.”

You cry so hard your throat burns.

When the worst of it ebbs—when your tears taper into silent heaves, when your hands stop clawing at the fabric of his sleeve—you realize you’ve collapsed sideways on the bed, half on top of him. And he hasn’t moved an inch.

You pull back slightly, eyes swollen, mouth parted like you might say something. But all you can do is whisper: “I’m so tired.” He brushes a thumb under your eye. “I know.”

“She’s planning everything. Every hour. She says it’s for my future but I don’t—I don’t think I’m gonna make it to next month if I keep living like this.”

“You don’t have to.”

You blink, confused. He says it again. “You don’t have to keep living like this. Not for her. Not for anyone.” You shake your head. “But if I stop—what was it for? What was all of it for?”

“For you,” he says simply. “It was supposed to be for you. But somewhere along the way… she made it hers.”

You press your hands into your eyes. “And now I can’t breathe,” you choke out. “Even music feels like a punishment. I can’t even sit at the piano without wanting to scream.”

“You don’t have to earn rest,” he says. “You don’t have to earn being loved.” that last part makes you cry again—but softer, slower. As if those words are melting all the ice in your lungs.

You stay like that for a long time. Laying in the hush of your bedroom, tangled in the warmth of someone who sees you as a person first. Not a project. Not a product. Just you.

Eventually, he speaks again, quieter now.

“Do you remember the first time I heard you play?” he asks. “It wasn’t even the full song. You were sight-reading some Bach fugue in the music room. You didn’t see me. And I stood there and thought—holy shit, she’s real. Not just talented. Real.” You don’t say anything, but your lips twitch into something close to a smile.

He leans his head against yours. “Even if you never played another note, I’d still think you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met.” You let out a breath that sounds like relief.

“Would you still like me if I gave it all up?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. “I’d like you even more.”

You don’t kiss him then—but you want to. Instead, you fall asleep on his shoulder. And it’s not a dramatic collapse—just the slow, gravity-soaked kind of rest your body’s been begging for. You didn’t mean to. You’re not even sure when your eyes slipped shut. But at some point, the weight of everything gave out, and so did you.

Riki never moved.

His hand stayed on your arm, his shoulder stayed steady beneath your cheek, and the only thing that shifted was his breathing—slower, deeper. Like your body told his that it was finally safe to rest. Together.

When you stir awake, the room is dim, lit only by the soft gold glow of your desk lamp. Your limbs feel like they’ve sunk into the mattress, and your heart’s still heavy but not unbearable.

Riki’s awake.

He’s still sitting next to you, scrolling quietly through something on his phone, your fingers loosely tangled in his free hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He notices you moving and sets his phone down immediately.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, like anything louder might shatter you. You blink slowly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“I know,” he says. Then, softer: “You needed it.”

You shift onto your side to face him, still curled up. His thumb strokes along your knuckles—absentminded, like he’s thinking. Then he says, “You scared me earlier.”

You don’t look away, but your breath stutters.

“I didn’t want to tell you then,” he continues. “You were already falling apart, and you didn’t need guilt on top of everything. But… yeah. I’ve seen you tired before. Upset. Burnt out. But that—what happened tonight—that was different. That wasn’t just pressure. That was you breaking.”

You close your eyes. It feels like an admission to even hear him say it out loud. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” you whisper, shyly turning your face away.

“I’m not mad,” he says immediately. “I’m not—I’m not blaming you for any of this. I just… I wish I’d noticed sooner. I wish you didn’t have to hide it from me.”

There’s a long silence.

And then, almost too quietly, you say: “It’s because I didn’t want to seem weak. Like I couldn’t handle it. Like I was letting her down.” His thumb pauses against your skin. Then resumes. “You’re not weak for needing rest. You’re not weak for breaking. You’re just human,” he says. “And I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re allowed to choose something softer than survival.”

You finally let yourself look at him fully, and what you find there nearly undoes you all over again.

Not pity. Not panic.

Just… love.? Care. Fierce, unshakable belief in you. You blink away the sting in your eyes, but it’s a different kind of emotion this time. “I think if you hadn’t shown up tonight,” you murmur, “I might’ve broken all the way. Like… irreparably.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t say that. You’re here. You’re still here. That’s what matters.” You nod, sniff once, breathe. “Yeah." He’s quiet for a second. Then he grins, small and shy, “You snore when you cry yourself to sleep, by the way.”

You laugh through your nose, pressing your face into the blanket. “Shut up.”

“I thought it was cute,” he says, trying not to smile too wide.

You glance at him sideways. “You stayed the whole time?”

“Course I did.” His voice softens. “You needed someone to just… sit in the quiet with you. Not fix it. Not ask questions. Just stay. I’ll always do that for you.” You pause. Your heart stumbles a little. And then, carefully, like stepping into a song you’ve never sung before, you reach out. your fingers rest against his cheek. Cool. Steady.

He leans into the touch like it’s the first thing he’s wanted all night.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. “Me too.”

You smile a little, sad and real, “But I want to try,” you add. “To start doing this my way. Even if it’s messy. Even if she hates it. Even if I lose everything I’ve worked for.”

“You won’t,” he says. “You’ll lose the things that weren’t really yours to begin with. The stuff she built for you, not with you. But what’s yours? That’ll stay.”

You’re quiet for a second. Then, very softly: “Can you help me remember who I am when I’m not trying to impress her?.

Riki doesn’t flinch, as if he already expected you to say that and had anned hsi response years before, “I already do,” he says. “You’re the girl who sings under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening. Who taps rhythms on the wall when she’s thinking. Who plays with her eyes closed because she knows how it feels, not just how it looks.”

You look down, your face heating.

“You’re also the girl who made me feel like I wasn’t just another face in the crowd,” he adds. “And who somehow, even while falling apart, still said ‘please’ when she asked me to come over.”

You laugh, soft and surprised. “I’m polite even in crisis, apparently.”

“Exactly. Can’t teach that.”

You shake your head. He’s smiling now, but it’s a small one. The kind that holds your sadness like it’s precious. Then he adds, “Also… you’re mine. You’re the girl I care about. Who I love.”

You freeze and he looks straight at you.

“I didn’t say it to trap you,” he says quickly. “Or to fix anything. You don’t have to say it back. But I needed you to know. Because even if everything else falls apart, even if you decide to give up music tomorrow, even if your mom disowns you or burns your whole binder full of choir scores, I’ll still be here. I’ll still love you.

You press your forehead to his. The air between you stutters.

“I love you,” you whisper.

It feels like a confession,, l,ike a prayer.

His breath catches.

Then he pulls you in again—arms firm around your waist, face buried in the crook of your neck. And this time, when your chest aches, it’s from something good.

You stay like that for a long time. Two kids trying to learn how to breathe again. Not for someone else. Not because it’s scheduled. Just because it’s real.

The next morning, your mom returns home before you wake. She knocks once, asks if you’re ready to practice. When you don’t answer right away, she rattles off a few upcoming deadlines.

But you’re still lying in bed.

Riki’s long gone—he kissed your temple before sneaking out at sunrise. But the warmth he left behind? Still there. You hold it to your chest like a secret.

You sit up. You don’t rush. You don’t run.

And when you finally open your bedroom door, you say:

“I’m taking the day off.”

Your mom turns. Blinks. you don’t give her time to reply. You walk to the kitchen. Make yourself breakfast. For once, she doesn’t follow you.

It’s not over. You know that. But you’ve started something that can’t be undone.

Later that day, you text Riki:

“you still love me if I skip rehearsal again today?”

He replies instantly.

“yes. especially then.”

You smile at your phone like it’s holding the whole world.

Weeks pass.

You start writing music again—little pieces, unfinished melodies, voice memos that don’t have to be shared with anyone. You start skipping meetings. Cancel a few lessons. You even turn off your phone sometimes

Your mother doesn’t understand, but she backs off more than you expect.

One day, you leave your choir binder on the kitchen table and walk out the door with nothing but a small keyboard and a thermos of tea. You sit by the river. You write something raw and wordless.

And Riki shows up halfway through, leans over your shoulder, listens in silence.

When you finish playing, he leans down, kisses the side of your head, and whispers.

“There you are.”

And you believe him. Because this time, you really do feel yourself here.

[oldmanyellsatclouds]

I started a commonplace book in I think 2020? And then didn’t actually use it much because of how poor my executive functioning has been. I’m trying to get back into it now, despite the still poor executive functioning.

I’m bringing this up now because my commonplace book is a hilariously apt example of the principle I mentioned in my table of contents artwork (can’t remember the specific wording so I’m paraphrasing myself here): why do you immediately fail after deciding the parameters for success? (Poorly paraphrased… )

The fact that it’s phrased as a question makes sense in the specific context of the artwork but sounds a bit weird out of context when treating it as a principle. The idea isn’t that I actually have an answer for why, just that it’s a notable trend where, when trying to set up a structure or rules by which to do something/live, I’ll immediate fail/break structure/abandon the rules. Like new year’s resolution diets.

Back to the perfect illustration of this principle in my commonplace. If you’re into commonplacing, you’ll know that it’s basically just a collection/reference book of quotes and information that’s interesting and important to you, specifically, but an important part of it is figuring out a system to organize that information so you’re able to refer back to the information you collect. When you’re writing things down by hand in a bound notebook like I am, it’s kind of hard to physically organize your notes unless you have multiple books or separate the book in sections (which requires you to guess at how much space each topic will require). I didn’t want to do that, so at that point index pages, table of contents, and visual organizing principles become important.

So at the very start of my commonplace book I decided my key organizing principles. I’d write quotes (the majority of the text in the book) in green, my words (comments, paraphrasing, organizational headers etc.) in purple, and underline and make key information pop with red.

I would have table of contents at the beginning, organized by category, like an index.

(eg: topic A: p. 1-10, 23-27, 45/ Topic B: p. 11-17, 28-31, 55-67 / Etc.)

Then I would have a bibliography at the end, which is just listing the articles (or other media) collected in the book in order of appearance

So what did I do, immediately after writing down these principles? I wrote the second page all in red instead of green, and I wrote (right under “in order of appearance”) the bibliographical information of the second article I included in my book.

It’s just an absolute picture perfect example of setting up parameters and immediately stomping all over them. Not on purpose mind you. Anyways…. I guess that’s one way to unconsciously fight my perfectionist tendencies. Nothing like making glaring mistakes right off the bat to make you less afraid of making mistakes going forward.

This has probably been a long and tedious read if anyone did bother to read, but I find it hilarious.

[cuzxai]

hold me under - sfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: basically S1 EP18 pool scene but VERY different circumstances

The case had been brutal—twelve days of desert heat, dead ends and staring at evidence boards until your eyes blurred. By the end, everyone was short-tempered and strung out. So when Hotch muttered something about “taking a few days off before heading back to Quantico” and Rossi offered up an Airbnb he “just happened to have points for,” the team had already started packing before Hotch even finished his sentence.

You don’t usually like to admit when you’re exhausted, but this time? You were wrecked. So the sight of the house—a sleek, modern thing carved into the California hills, all stone and glass and warm, flickering patio lights—hits you like a goddamn blessing.

“Okay, this is what I’m talking about,” Emily whistles, rolling her suitcase up the walkway. “Rossi, if this is what ‘retirement prep’ looks like then I volunteer to help you practice.”

“I’m practicing with whiskey and not being shot at,” he says. “The house is a bonus.”

Garcia is already filming with her phone, narrating like she’s on HGTV, and Morgan is arguing with JJ about who gets the room with the balcony. You wander inside, kicking your shoes off at the door. The floors are smooth wood, cool under your feet. The open kitchen gleams. The living room is sunken, with oversized couches and a fireplace you’re sure no one will use. The back doors open onto a deck that looks like a dream: soft white lights strung between posts, lounge chairs everywhere, an infinity-edge pool glowing soft blue under the darkening sky. You’re in the bathroom and out of your jeans in ten seconds flat, stripping down to your bikini and diving in with a laugh that feels like exhale.

For once, no blood, no briefing rooms. Just the sound of Emily’s music echoing off stone and water. You float, weightless, arms outstretched. Somewhere behind you, a screen door creaks open. And like fucking clockwork—Spencer Reid’s voice cuts through.

“I read a study once that found that water has a measurable psychological effect on the brain. Seeing it, being near it—it increases serotonin production and reduces cortisol. It’s called the Blue Mind theory.”

You smile with your eyes closed. “Are you telling me I’m scientifically happier right now?”

His voice gets closer. “Technically, yes.”

You open your eyes and squint toward the sound. Spencer stands barefoot on the edge of the deck, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his button-down rolled at the elbows. The light catches the curve of his jaw. He’s watching you, book tucked under his arm, like he’s thinking about joining you but doesn’t know how. “Come in,” you call, playful. “Doctor’s orders.”

He blinks. “I didn’t mean—”

“Spencer,” you cut him off with a grin. “Have you ever done something spontaneous?”

“I—I think so?”

“You think so.” You paddle closer, resting your arms on the edge of the pool. “Get in.”

His mouth opens. Closes. You watch him fluster—eyes darting to your shoulder, your collarbone, the drops of water sliding down your chest and then skyrocket right back to your face, red to the roots. He clears his throat. “I—I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

You smirk. “Skinny dipping won’t hurt a soul.”

His eyes go huge and for a second, he actually looks like he might step out of his comfort zone and into the water. But then of course Derek comes crashing out of the house behind him, cracking a beer. “Reid! You actually thinking about swimming? Told you come pick your room man.” Spencer stiffens. You push back from the ledge with a small sigh. Another time, maybe later. You’re still dripping when you drop your bag in the last room at the end of the hall. No one claimed it, probably because it doesn’t have a balcony or a view. You don’t care. It’s private, sheets are soft and it’s right across from Spencer’s. You don’t plan that, obviously. That would be insane.

“Nice ink.” You twist to find Emily in the doorway, eyes locked on your back. You forgot you were still in your bikini top—the one that leaves the black inked linework of a bird across your shoulder blades on full display.

“That new?” she asks, stepping in and dropping onto your bed.

You shrug. “Around 4 months ago.”

“It’s hot.”

“Thank you, Em. I know you have some, too.”

“Just one,” she states with a grin. “It’s small.”

You pull on a T-shirt, ruffling your damp hair. Emily’s watching you with that look—half mischief, half knowing. “What,” you ask.

“You and Reid.”

You snort. “There is no ‘me and Reid.’”

“Right,” she says slowly. “Except for the part where you’ve been roomed together on the last four cases, you always steal his fries, always sit next to him on the jet, always actually listening whenever he goes on a tangent about something nobody knows about and get that look whenever he talks about statistics like it’s foreplay.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

Emily raises a brow.

“…Okay,” you admit, flopping down beside her. “I might have a tiny thing for him.”

“Babe,” she says, laughing, “it’s not tiny and it’s not one-sided.”

You turn your head. “What?”

“Please. He practically short-circuits every time you touch him. Did you see his face when you came out of the pool? I thought he was gonna combust.”

You smile then frown slightly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not his type.”

Emily rolls onto her side, eyes narrowing. “You’re exactly what he needs.”

Later Garcia and Rossi are mixing margaritas like they’re on spring break. JJ and Morgan are talking about God knows what. Hotch is trying not to smile at something Emily just whispered. Spencer’s nose is in a book again but he’s not turning the page. He’s watching you. You know he is. You pretend not to notice. Let him look. Your towel’s wrapped loose around your waist. Your bikini top’s still damp. You toss your head back laughing at something Morgan says and watch Spencer flinch like the sound hit him in the ribs. Emily catches your eye across the patio.

The night had dulled to a hush. The pool glowed soft blue under string lights that hung like sleepy fireflies overhead. You sat alone at the edge, legs dangling into the water, hair still wet from earlier, bathing suit clinging lightly to your skin. Inside, the rest of the team had long since drifted upstairs—one by one, tapping out with yawns and stretches and wine-heavy smiles. The party had burned hot and fast. Late arrival, early exhaustion. Travel days were like that. But you stayed. Alone. Content in the hum of silence, in the warmth of the night on your skin, in the little flickering waves dancing around your calves.

“Didn’t think anyone would still be out here,” came a voice. Quiet. Familiar.

You turned. Spencer stood just past the patio door, barefoot, book in one hand, other tucked nervously into the pocket of his sleep pants. His curls were slightly messy—bedhead already threatening and his Henley clung delicately to his thin frame. Lit from behind, he looked softer than usual. Less clinical. Less BAU. More him.

You smiled, easy. “Didn’t think you would be.”

He shrugged and stepped closer, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. “It’s quieter now.”

“Exactly why I stayed.”

Spencer settled onto a lounge chair near you, long legs folding awkwardly beneath him. “I’m not great with… noise.”

You kicked gently at the water, ripples spreading out. “I am but only when it’s not pretending to be something it isn’t. Loud silence is worse.”

He glanced up from his book, brow furrowing in that thoughtful way he did when he was processing you. “What does that mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the water, the stars, the long reflection of string lights over the pool like stretched pearls. “I think people misunderstand me a lot,” you finally said. “They hear my voice or see my tattoos or the way I talk and they think I’m a certain kind of girl.”

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave you. His book remained untouched. “I’m loud,” you continued. “I flirt. I drink. I’m not ‘quietly mysterious’ or… composed like JJ or Emily. I get messy. I feel things too big. People think that means I’m not serious. Or not smart. Or that I couldn’t possibly be worth—” You stopped yourself. Laughed under your breath. “Anyway.”

His voice was low. “They’re wrong.”

You looked up. His expression was open, gentle in the way only he could be. No judgment. Just understanding, deep and vast and devastating. “They’ve always been wrong about me, too,” he added. “I talked too much. Or not enough. I knew too many things but none of the right ones. I didn’t know how to be normal.”

You tilted your head. “You ever wish you were?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “Not when I’m around people who actually see me.”

Your stomach flipped. You didn’t look away. “Do I?”

Spencer blinked. His lips parted, and for a heartbeat you swore he might say something dangerous. Then he quietly said, “You do.”

A silence settled. Not awkward. Not anymore. Just charged. You rolled your shoulders back. “Still haven’t seen you in the pool.”

He looked down at the water like it had personally offended him. “I’m not a great swimmer.”

“It’s not about swimming,” you teased. “It’s about experiencing.”

“Experiencing…?”

You kicked water at him. “Fun, Spence. Wet, spontaneous fun.”

He made a face. “That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed, standing slowly. The water dripped off your thighs, gliding over the glint of your belly button ring and the ink on your back. You swam to the center of the pool and flipped to float on your back, face to the stars. “You’re missing out,” you called, voice echoing in the quiet.

“I don’t have a suit,” he replied.

“I mean I barely do, mine is lingerie-adjacent at best.”

He paused, “I… noticed.”

You almost choked. “Dr. Reid. Did you just flirt with me?”

“I don’t—I wasn’t. I just—” He made a strangled sound. “It was an observation.”

You swam closer to the edge. He sat with his book on his lap now, red-faced, pretending to read. He looked so painfully kissable like that—knees tucked up, fingers curling the edge of the page, doing everything in his power to pretend he wasn’t watching your every move. You pulled yourself up a little, resting your arms on the edge, chin propped on your forearms. Water trickled down your cheeks. “Okay, well. You don’t have to get in. But will you help me out?”

He looked instantly concerned. “Did you hurt something?”

You grinned. “Just need a hand.”

He stood quickly, the book falling to the chair. His fingers reached out, tentative. And when he bent down to grab your hands you yanked. The splash was spectacular. He hit the water with a shout, arms flailing, legs scrambling. You backed away just in time to avoid the full brunt of the wave, but not enough to miss the way his shirt clung instantly to his chest, dark and dripping. He surfaced, gasping. “You pulled me in!”

You grinned. “You needed it.”

Spencer wiped his face, sputtering—but then he laughed. Really laughed. And it was beautiful. Sharp and unguarded and boyish in a way that made your chest ache. “You’re—” he started, but didn’t finish. Just floated for a second, blinking at you. And then something shifted. His laughter faded. His eyes fell to your mouth. You stood just inches away now. Chest to chest. Water slick between you. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. You leaned in. And kissed him. At first he froze. Not out of resistance but like someone who had dreamed of a moment so long he didn’t know what to do once it arrived. But then his hands were on you—shaky, reverent, sliding up your arms, then your neck. His mouth opened under yours, tentative at first, then hungry. Your fingers dove into his hair, soaking wet and soft as silk. He moaned and kissed you deeper, backing up until his spine hit the pool wall. Your body followed. Fit against him like you’d been carved to. He wasn’t smooth. He wasn’t practiced. He was real. All mouth and breath and aching honesty, hands gripping your waist like he thought you might vanish. You kissed him harder and let yourself melt against him. Let him have you here and now, just like this.

[moonselune]

omg i need to see the eye color changing prompt with the boys!!!

awh helllllllls yeah

Gale:

Gale’s voice carried the rhythmic cadence of a practiced scholar — smooth, articulate, and rich with detail. He paced before the hearth of your shared study space in camp, gesturing animatedly with one hand while the other cradled a thick tome, opened to a page saturated with arcane runes and marginalia. He was speaking passionately — something about the unstable ley lines just outside Baldur’s Gate and how they might affect elemental casting in prolonged combat.

You sat across from him on a low bench, chin propped lazily in one hand, eyes locked on him with the veneer of attention.

“—so if the ambient weave reacts to a surge in primal energy, the spell will require more control, not less,” he was saying, glancing up from the book. “Which is why discipline is paramount. Concentration is—are you even listening, my dear?”

Your eyes — the telltale, ever-changing windows into your moods — had shifted from a neutral silver to a dull, uninspired grey. It was subtle at first, but Gale caught it immediately, narrowing his eyes in a mock-stern frown. The boredom radiating from your expression was almost theatrical.

“You’re bored,” he accused, exasperated but amused. “Honestly, I thought this was one of my more engaging lectures.”

“I am listening,” you defended, voice tinged with a smile. “I just happen to think your pacing is more hypnotic than the weave right now.”

Gale gave you a look. The kind that professors likely reserved for unruly apprentices. “Then concentrate. This is fundamental magical theory.”

The moment he said it — that particular tone of strictness in his voice — you felt the flutter. A warmth in your chest, a faint quiver in your throat. And Gale saw it too: the faint flicker of pink flaring behind your irises, brief but unmistakable against the grey.

He paused.

“Oh,” he said slowly, one brow lifting as the corner of his mouth curved into the beginnings of a knowing smirk. “Oh, I see what’s happening.”

Your posture straightened instinctively, a touch of defensiveness already creeping into your voice. “What?”

“That look in your eye,” he murmured, setting the book down on the table with exaggerated care. “It wasn't boredom at all. Well, perhaps partially. But that pink… was that infatuation?” He leaned closer, peering at your eyes like a jeweler inspecting a particularly revealing gemstone. “No—lust. You like it when I lecture you.”

You rolled your eyes — they flashed briefly to yellow (alerted), then right back to that traitorous pink.

“I like your voice,” you said.

“Mmhmm. And you like when I use it to tell you what to do.”

He was insufferably smug now, folding his arms as he loomed closer, absolutely relishing the turn in the conversation. “You’re blushing,” he added with glee, even though your eyes were doing far more talking than your face. “Tell me — when I told you to concentrate just now, what exactly did you picture?”

You made a vague attempt at playing it cool. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Gale crouched beside your seat, fingers brushing lightly against your knee.

“Should I start assigning homework?” he purred. “Mark up your spellwork with red ink? Give you grades?”

You snorted, but the laughter caught in your throat as your eyes brightened — pure, unashamed pink now.

“I knew it,” he said triumphantly, grinning like a cat with cream. “Well. I suppose next time you feign boredom during a lesson, I’ll know exactly what’s going on in that mischievous mind of yours.”

You leaned in, your smile sharp. “Just be careful, Gale. If you're going to play the teacher, don’t be surprised when the student misbehaves.”

His breath hitched slightly, the air between you thick with suggestion. Then Gale exhaled, shaking his head in fond disbelief. “Gods, I adore you.”

And for a heartbeat, your eyes went a soft, glowing pink — no flicker, no confusion. Just love.

Astarion:

The Absolute camp was a mess of crude barricades, filth, and torch-lit patrols. You, Astarion, and the others had been sneaking around for what felt like hours—avoiding goblin guards and looking for a way through without drawing attention.

Everything had been going smoothly. Until it wasn’t.

There was a wet squelch. A startled yelp. Then a crash followed by the unmistakable, gut-turning slop of something unpleasant.

You froze behind a half-rotted cart, peeking over to see Astarion flailing in a pit—no, a worg pen, by the smell of it—and coated in brownish muck that left very little to the imagination.

He scrambled to his feet, hands held out stiffly, his usual elegance obliterated by whatever vile substance now clung to him.

"Oh gods—what is this?! What is this?!" he wailed, slipping again and catching himself on the side of the pen. His fingers came away coated. He gagged.

Lae'zel grimaced. Shadowheart muttered something about karma. You stifled a laugh behind your hand.

Once the coast was clear, the group regrouped outside the pen. Astarion stumbled toward you, arms out as if begging for a hug—or maybe a cleansing ritual.

"This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me," he said, his voice rising to a near-hysterical pitch. "Do you know what I’ve just wallowed in?! And of course it would be me who falls into the pit of literal shit—worg shit, no less!"

You coughed, covering your mouth. Not because of the smell—though that certainly didn’t help—but because you were biting back laughter so hard your ribs hurt.

But your eyes betrayed you.

Bright yellow.

Alert. Amused.

Astarion stopped mid-rant.

He narrowed his eyes, peering at you with dramatic offense. "Are your eyes—are you—laughing?"

"What? No!" you said quickly. "No, of course not!"

He pointed, scandalized. "They’re yellow."

"They always go yellow when I’m… thinking fast!" you lied, though your smile was now twitching at the corners of your mouth. "Just processing."

"Processing?! Processing what—the depth of my suffering?!"

You opened your mouth to try again, but just then, a breeze blew through the camp. Astarion turned slightly, and the full scent hit you. Acrid, musky, overwhelmingly earthy.

Your stomach turned.

Your eyes flashed green.

His jaw dropped. He took a slow step back, as if you'd slapped him.

"Green?! Green?!" he screeched, hands flailing. "You’re disgusted by me now?!"

"No! I mean, not you—just… the, uh, situation!"

"You can’t lie to me! You’re literally incapable of hiding it! I fall into one revolting cesspit and suddenly I’m some sort of tragic, stinking creature of the night?"

"Astarion, come on—"

"I had style. I had dignity!"

"You still do!" you insisted, chuckling now. You couldn’t stop yourself.

"Then why are your eyes screaming ‘get away from me, foul beast’?!"

You stepped forward, trying to soothe him, still biting back laughter. "Because my eyes are dramatic. Just like you."

He blinked. Then, slowly—reluctantly—a smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Well. I suppose we do have that in common."

"You want a hug or a bath first?"

Astarion sniffed himself, face crumpling in horror. "Absolutely the bath. And you are helping. And scrubbing. All of it."

"Not until you stop smelling like a goblin’s outhouse."

He narrowed his eyes. "Now they’re green and yellow."

"Welcome to the complex range of human emotion."

He huffed, turned dramatically on his heel—and immediately slipped a little in something squelchy. He caught himself with a hiss. You burst into open laughter.

"How dare you," he called over his shoulder, voice full of mock betrayal. "You’ll pay for this. With buckets of rosewater and scented oils."

"Anything to make this memory bearable?"

"Anything to make me forget the texture," he said, shuddering.

You just laughed harder. And your eyes kept glowing yellow. And just a bit green. And maybe—just maybe—a flicker of pink when he scowled and muttered something about how he "used to be beautiful."

Wyll:

"You always try to fix things on your own. Like you don’t need anyone."

Wyll’s voice wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t raised. But it landed—gentle, yes, but direct in a way that cut past armor. You blinked, caught off guard by how much it stung. There was no malice in him. Just observation. Frustration, maybe. Concern. But it still lodged itself deep in your chest like a splinter of something too true, too raw.

You looked away, pretending to adjust your sleeve, buying yourself a moment. A prickle worked its way up your throat, the kind that wasn’t quite tears but lived in the same neighborhood. You didn't say anything, but your eyes betrayed you—as they always did.

The pale silver shimmer that had been there moments ago dulled and darkened into a quiet, deep blue.

Wyll saw it instantly. Of course he did. His expression fell in slow motion, like watching a man drop a sword he never meant to draw.

"No," he said softly, stepping closer. "No, gods, I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to upset you."

You shook your head quickly, smiling with a practiced ease that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Wyll, it’s okay. Honestly. I know you didn’t."

"But I did." He looked down at his hands, as if surprised they hadn’t somehow physically harmed you. “I see it. You’re hurting.

"It’s not a big deal," you insisted, trying to wave it away with a light laugh. "You’re not wrong anyway. I do tend to take everything on myself. It’s a fair observation."

"You’re doing it again," Wyll said, his voice quieter now, like he was afraid any louder and the moment would shatter. "Playing it down. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going, voice colored with that particular strain of guilt only someone with a good heart could wear.

"I hate that I put that look in your eyes. I hate that I spoke without thinking how it might feel to you."

Your smile tugged at the corners again, shaky but real this time. He was being ridiculous. Kind. So Wyll. And somehow that made it worse—not in a painful way, but in the way where kindness becomes a mirror, and you can’t avoid your own hurt even when you want to.

You crossed your arms loosely, trying to make yourself look smaller without seeming like you were withdrawing. "It just caught me off guard, that’s all. It’s not about you. I’m fine."

"But you’re not. You’re blue." He pointed toward your eyes, voice a blend of exasperation and heartbreak. “That shade of blue—I've only seen it a handful of times. It’s the one where I know I’ve truly put my foot in it."

You tried not to laugh, pressing your lips together. He leaned in closer, eyes narrowing with melodramatic gravity. “It’s the ‘Wyll Ravengard is a damned fool and now must suffer the weight of his own words for eternity’ shade.”

You lost it. A laugh cracked through your chest—soft at first, then full-bodied, shoulders shaking slightly. You damned him for knowing just how to undo you.

"Wyll," you gasped through the grin, "you’re making this so much worse."

"Good!" he cried, throwing the back of his hand to his forehead. “I deserve it! Let the punishment commence! Let me wallow in shame and regret.”

"You’re turning my minor emotional blip into a Volo tragedy," you said, still laughing.

Wyll clutched his heart with both hands, eyes wide. "Minor? My love, your eyes were a thunderstorm of sorrow. A tempest in cerulean!"

"Okay, that’s a stretch—"

"A tempest, I say!"

He leaned forward again, trying to peek into your eyes for any lingering traces of blue. They had lightened already, more silver now, with a faint blush of pink rising along the edges.

He noticed. Of course he did. His voice softened immediately. “There it is,” he said, his smile warm and sincere. “A little pink. Thank the gods.”

"Great. Now you’re tracking my feelings like they’re weather patterns."

"They are,” he said with a small smile. “And I never want to be caught without shelter again."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed. He reached out and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing just beneath your eye as if he could soothe the color away with a touch.

“I’ll be more careful,” he murmured. “With how I speak to you. What I assume. I never want to see that shade again. Not because of me.”

Your heart twisted with warmth—and guilt—and affection all tangled together.

"I am fine," you whispered. "Truly. I just felt something for a second, and then it passed. You didn’t do anything wrong."

Wyll smiled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

"Still," he murmured, lips against your skin, "I’ll write a sonnet about it. Title it An Apology in Blue. It’ll be very dramatic. Everyone will weep."

You snorted, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him close.

"If you rhyme 'sorry' with 'morning glory' again, I swear—"

"Perish the thought, my beloved!" he grinned, eyes sparkling. "I’ve grown as a poet."

"And a partner."

He leaned his forehead to yours. "Because of you."

Your eyes were pink now. Bright. Full. And finally, finally, he let himself smile like he’d been forgiven. Because he had.

Halsin:

It had been a long day winding through the lower quarters of Baldur’s Gate — the kind of day that hung heavy with the scent of soot, warm bread, and the salt tang drifting in from the harbor. You had wandered down narrow alleys and under creaking balconies, brushing past silk-draped merchants and fishmongers with salt on their fingers. The city buzzed, sprawling and alive, a contrast to the stillness of the woods you’d grown used to. You were used to movement, noise — but not this. Not her.

You turned the corner, trailing just slightly behind Halsin, when a voice rang out with too much familiarity and far too much warmth.

“Well,” she drawled, arms crossed as she leaned against the archway of a tavern, "if it isn’t the bear himself."

Halsin froze. You could see the recognition bloom in him before he even turned to face her, his spine straightening like a struck chord. A slow smile crept over his face — not the kind he gave to just anyone, but one softened with nostalgia, with old laughter and shared memories.

“Neryssa,” he said, and your stomach sank.

She was tall, dressed in leathers that had clearly seen battle, her hair woven into a braid that gleamed in the sunlight. She looked like the kind of woman who had once kissed Halsin in the rain, or fought beside him bare-shouldered and bloodstained. She looked like someone who still thought she had a piece of him — and worse, maybe she did.

They stepped into each other’s space like it was the most natural thing in the world. She clapped a hand to his shoulder, and he chuckled — low and fond, like a memory made flesh.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, her voice teasing.

“You have,” Halsin replied, his tone rich and warm, eyes roving her figure with a familiarity that tightened your jaw.

You were still. Perfectly still. Like a statue carved into the shadow of a stall. Your arms hung loosely at your sides, your mouth curled into an expression of mild amusement. You watched with cool detachment — or so you hoped.

But your eyes betrayed you.

The dull silver of your usual neutrality bled away almost instantly, overtaken by a red so deep it bordered on violent. It shimmered like heat across metal, too bright, too stark — the color of betrayal and fury barely kept in check. And beneath it, a bitter, nauseated green twisted at the edges of your irises — not at Neryssa, no, but at Halsin. At his oblivious smile. At the way his voice dipped when he said her name. At how he still looked at her like she was a poem he’d once written.

And worst of all — he didn’t even notice.

Halsin kept talking — about old campaigns, the time they’d held the line at Deepmere, how she’d once saved his life with a spear through the ribs. His voice was animated, golden with nostalgia. And you — you stood just a few paces away, nodding, smiling, burning from the inside out.

It wasn’t until Astarion wandered up beside you, eyes glinting with mischief and absolutely no mercy, that anything shifted.

“Well,” he said, too casually, “you are quite the stormcloud today.”

You blinked.

“Excuse me?” you said, your voice level, measured.

He tilted his head, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his lip. “I’m just saying… if looks could kill, poor Halsin would be mulch by now.”

Halsin finally turned to look at you. And for the first time, really looked.

His words caught in his throat as his eyes met yours. Not the calm silver he was used to. Not the flicker of pink he adored seeing when he kissed you. But a violent, molten red threaded through with something darker, something ancient. A kind of wrath he’d never seen before — not from you.

He opened his mouth.

You raised a hand, a placating smile still glued to your lips. “Don’t,” you said gently. “I’m fine.”

He stared at you a moment longer.

Then slowly, he turned back to Neryssa and bid her farewell — a few kind words, a lingering smile, and then you were walking, his long strides silent beside you, and the air between you crackled with what had gone unspoken.

Later, much later, when the fire at camp had burned low and the others had turned in, Halsin found you standing beneath a tree, alone. You didn’t look at him. Not at first.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, voice rough with something almost ashamed. “I didn’t even realize I had.”

You let the silence stretch. The wind whispered through the leaves above, and an owl hooted in the far distance — the world so perfectly serene, it made your seething contrast even more unbearable.

“I know,” you said at last. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped forward cautiously, as if unsure if he was still welcome in your space. “She was part of my past. But she’s not my present. That’s you.”

“She didn’t make me angry,” you said, finally looking at him. “You did.”

Your voice didn’t tremble. It was too steady. Too cold. It was the kind of voice that came after the storm, when the damage had already been done and the water was still rising.

“I stood there listening to you speak to her like she still had a claim to you,” you continued, eyes flashing red again — not quite as violently, but still enough to make him flinch. “You made me feel… like I was watching someone I love forget me in real time.”

Halsin groaned softly and dragged both hands over his face. “Gods, I am so sorry,” he whispered, anguish in every syllable. “I was thoughtless. I didn’t mean it that way, but of course that doesn’t matter. I never wanted to make you feel small. Or less than. And the fact that I did—” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know how to make it right. But tell me. Please tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

He looked utterly devastated.

You let your arms fall slowly, tension easing in minute degrees. Your eyes, still simmering with anger, began to dull into something softer — steel grey, maybe. Not forgiveness, but the absence of pure fury. A temporary truce.

“You could start,” you said quietly, “by never speaking to an ex like that again in front of me. Or at all, if you can help it.”

“Done,” he said instantly.

“And maybe,” you added, after a pause, “remember that I am not so invulnerable as I look.”

He took another step closer, carefully, until your hands were nearly brushing.

“You are the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he said softly, reverently. “But I will never mistake your strength for invulnerability again.”

Finally, you sighed — long, quiet, bone-deep — and let yourself lean forward, pressing your brow gently against his chest. He let out a breath of his own, one that sounded like pure relief, and wrapped his arms around you with careful reverence.

“I’m still mad at you,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said.

“We're sleeping with clothes on tonight.”

“I deserve that.”

You let him hold you anyway. Not because everything was fine — but because he was trying. Because he had looked you in the eyes and seen you. And for now, that was enough.

I originally wrote 'you are sleeping outside the tent tonight' for halsin but realised he would like that lmao. Hope you guys enjoyed this! -Seluney xox

[hhhwnr]

ꨄInk-stained affection — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/mutual pinning word count: 1,1k

pairing: post prison!Spencer Reid x sunshine!reader

warnings: brief mentions of prison.

summary: Some things are easier to write than say. Especially when he has forgotten how to say anything at all. But you were patient—and paper listens just as well as you do.

author’s note: post prison!Spence is my beloved. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It started with a journal — not as some grand romantic gesture, but something quieter, simpler, something that didn’t demand too much. After prison, words weren’t easy for Spencer, not in the way they used to be. He still talked, of course, still rambled sometimes about quantum theory or 18th-century handwriting, but even those rambles were slower now, more deliberate, like each word had to be checked and weighed before leaving his mouth. Conversation felt like walking across a rope bridge in the wind — possible, but uncertain — and some days, no matter how much he wanted to connect, the space between thoughts and speech felt too wide to cross. So you didn’t ask him to talk. You just left a blank notebook on the edge of his desk one afternoon, nothing fancy, just a soft-covered journal with a post-it on top that read: In case speaking feels too loud today. You didn’t expect him to use it, but two days later it reappeared on your chair, opened to a page written in small, careful handwriting: Do you want to get coffee after work? That was all. But it was enough.

Over time, the journal stopped being just a bridge and became a home for the quiet parts of your connection—the kind of things too soft or too strange to say out loud. You took turns without rules, slipping it into desk drawers or messenger bags like a secret waiting to be found. Sometimes it was practical—grocery lists, book club notes, flight times for a shared case. Other times it was tender: a pressed flower from a walk you’d taken apart but thought of each other during; a doodle of his cardigan draped over your chair with a tiny “missing you” written in the pocket; a smudged coffee ring beside a scribbled line of poetry neither of you could quite finish. It was a slow, careful accumulation of small things—anecdotes, quotes, quiet thoughts in the margins. You looked tired today, but beautiful still. I thought of you when I saw a crow with a limp. This passage reminded me of the way you fidget with your sleeves. The kind of notes you don’t say aloud in case they sound too big or too honest, but that, written down, felt just right.

Spencer stared at the open page for a long time before writing anything. The journal sat between his hands like it always did—familiar, worn at the corners, faintly smelling of lavender and ink. He tapped the pen against the edge of the paper, like the rhythm could pull the words out of him. He’d written so much in this journal—facts and fragments and safe little glimpses of affection—but this felt different. This felt like crossing some invisible line he wasn’t sure he could uncross.

Still, he wrote.

You were humming in the elevator today. I didn’t know the tune, but it stayed with me all day. I think that’s what love does sometimes—slips in without a sound, nestles between your ribs, and makes a home there before you’ve even noticed.

I used to think of you when I was still inside. Not often at first. Just… little things. Your voice in meetings. The way you held a pen. How you always had a hair tie on your wrist, even when your hair was up. I think I was clinging to whatever felt normal, whatever reminded me that the world was still going even if I wasn’t really in it. But somewhere in those small, quiet thoughts, you became a kind of comfort. A light that wasn’t too bright, but steady. Familiar. You were one of the few things I let myself keep.

And now, here you are. Reading my bad handwriting, correcting my book quotes, drawing ridiculous doodles in the margins like it’s your full-time job. And I still don’t always have the words when I need them. Even when I talk, it’s slower now. Softer. I second-guess things I never used to. But you never make me feel like I have to perform. You listen like it’s second nature. Like I’m worth listening to. And that… that does something to a person.

So I guess I’m writing it here, because I still don’t trust my voice not to tremble: I am in love with you. Tell me in ink.

The next morning, he brought you coffee—your favorite, made exactly how you liked it, which he somehow always remembered even when he forgot to eat lunch or where he last put his keys. He didn’t say much, just set the mug beside your hand and lingered there a moment longer than usual. The notebook followed, placed gently on top of the folder you’d been reviewing, its familiar spine worn soft. He didn’t look at you when he left it there—just gave a quiet little tap against the cover with two fingers and mumbled something about paperwork. But his ears were pink, and you could swear he smiled when your hand brushed his knuckles in thanks.

He didn’t expect it back so soon.

But there it was, sitting neatly on his desk that afternoon like it had been waiting for him all along. The cover still smelled faintly like your hand cream—coconut and something citrusy—and there was a tiny yellow post-it stuck to the front, a smiling sun doodled in the corner. He opened to the next blank page and found your familiar handwriting, looping and full of warmth.

Spence, I read your note three times. Not because I didn’t believe it—but because I wanted to feel it over and over again. You don’t know what it means to me that you let me into your heart like that.

I think I’ve loved you in small ways for a while now—like how I always look for your face first in a crowded room, or how I find myself smiling when I see your name on my phone. It didn’t hit me all at once. It was like the warmth of the sun sneaking through a window on a cold day—soft, unexpected, and completely impossible to ignore.

And even if you’d never said it, I think I still would’ve kept writing to you. Because even before I loved you, I liked you so very much. And being liked by you in return? That’s already one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.

So… meet me after work? You can tell me in words this time. I’ll bring your favorite muffins. You bring that smile I like.

And there it was—at the bottom of the page, a soft lipstick mark, right where your signature might have gone.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his fingertips tracing the edge of the page like he could hold the feeling steady just a little longer.

He couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[sp1d3rzz]

PLS DO MORE PERVERT!MIDORIYA 🙏🙏

Pervert!Midoryia

pt.2

pt.1 here pt.3 here

WARNING !! : Pervy drawings and fantasized descriptions, and mention of a boner. Let me know if I missed anything.

Summary : Bullying Midoriya was meant for fun, purely to keep you entertained. That is until he begins to fantasize about your actions.

A/N : Thank u so much for the req anon (о´∀`о) Keep sending in requests my loves !

It's horrible of him, and he knows that. To obsess and fetish over the one thing in his life that keeps him on a constant edge. His bully.

When you first began to pick on Midoriya, he figures that he'll just keep a safe distance. He doesn't bother you, and you don't bother him.

But once it becomes a daily game of cat and mouse, he realizes there must really be no escape to this. And he especially realizes that when he begins to fantasize about all you do to him.

The way his name sounds coming out of your mouth gets him hot all over. Immediate goosebumps that become easily noticeable if you pay attention.

Or when you throw an insult at him to hurt his feelings and ruin his self esteem, but it only gives him a boner because he likes the feeling of you putting him where he belongs.

You don't even notice till the day you snag his journal.

"What's the deal with this notebook of yours, huh?" your arms reach over from behind him and snatch the burnt, rusted notebook. You can tell he's had this for awhile.

Caught off guard, he quick fwips! around to grab it back. "Wait! Don't-" his face falls when he sees the spine bend open as your eyes scan over a page.

His cheeks gets red to the point his freckles are barely visible, and he scrambles to stand from his seat and take back his journal.

Though you quickly stop him with a hand to his chest to push him back down. "So defensive." You huff with a shake of your head.

You flip through a couple more pages as Midoriya stares at you in horror. He really hopes you dont get to the one page, he'd die if anyone were to see it.

His heart is racing, and his hands are trembling, anxious to know what you might do. Maybe you'll throw his book away? Maybe slap him and tell the whole class about his dirty secret?

The world is against him, because as soon as he thinks that, he sees your grin curve into a face of disgust.

Your eyes widen as you now go over every page more carefully, taking your time to actually analyze it. And he swears he's going to dig his own grave if you continue.

But when you slowly close the journal, and clear your throat with a flushed face, he gets confused. Why aren't you mad at him?

"Dork.." you mumble before shoving the notebook into his face and walking away.

Your friends follow behind you, asking why you let him off so easy this time. Though a small, 'felt nice today' leaves your lips so they quit pestering you.

But what they don't know is how Midoriya has written pages and pages all filled with you and your information. From the sketches of you when you don't notice he's there, to anatomy practice of your naked body he had imagined.

The top to bottom pages filled with filthy theories on what you might taste like, how you prefer sex, and the toys you may use.

The most noticeable thing was a drawing of you at an angle behind his head. Mouth agape with eyes teary and stained with mascara. He had you on his lap, green hair tangled from your hand clenching it.

One things for sure, you'll never see that nerd the same again.

[diamonddeputy]

Why [DELTARUNE CHAPTER 4 SPOILERS] is an effective villain: a premature analysis

Y’all I’m literally posting this and then disappearing from the Internet for however long to avoid the spoiler brigade. I haven’t even finished Chapter 4 yet, there could be more I don’t even know. I just cannot sleep and am so wracked with autistic mania that I HAVE to get my thoughts in order or I will explode

Character creation and analysis have always been some of my greatest passions. I still have my Ceroba Ketsukane analysis sitting on the backburner, 24 pages and counting, that exists purely for my own enjoyment. Storytelling fundamentals are things I keep in mind for everything I consume, especially in the context of characters. That being said, known character development strategies can be attributed to Carol Holiday, and why she works SO WELL as a villain imo

Back when J.K. Rowling wasn’t a piece of shit, I watched an interesting video commenting on how Voldemort could have been made more effective as a villain. Which essentially compared him to Umbridge who usually provokes more vitriol within the community and pitched the idea of him casting some sort of life-altering spell on Hermione. I can’t remember the exact details, but it was something to the effect of memory alteration or brain function suppression, to take away the one thing that mattered most to her in life, which was her academic success and pursuit of knowledge, which we see her strive so passionately for throughout the whole series. And then the reader would have to watch her slog through life with no sense of purpose, a husk of her former self, and allow that rage to fester. He then tied this back to why Umbridge is remembered (ironically, less) fondly, because the slights she commits are targeted specifically on known flaws and vulnerabilities of the main characters

It’s something that I’ve carried with me since because it really does make sense if you stop and think about it. Being like 13 at the time I initially clicked on that video with more curiosity than anything because I thought he worked pretty effectively. But by the end I was like holy shit yeah that would’ve worked SO much better. And the more I think about it, the more it’s really on full display here

The reveal that Carol is a central antagonist made me feel things, sure, but the thing that REALLY got me was seeing her for the first time, even before we knew just how connected she was. When Susie commented on the temperature seeming to fall when she entered, I FELT that. Because the previous chapters made SUCH a big deal about NEVER letting us see her. She was always cooped up in her office with hordes of cronies blocking any entrances commenting on how busy she is, even when confronted with our teenaged protagonist wishing to report a serious danger that not even the police is taking seriously. Within our centralized view, that paints a cold, scheming picture right off the bat

We were given ample time to create a caricature in our minds, shaping itself to whatever bounds it would allow itself to stretch. This is a common practice seen in comic book theory, with the idea that a scene that takes place in a gutter (the space between panels, or in other words, not shown) is infinitely more shocking, gruesome, terrifying, whatever you want it to be than anything that could be shown. Because it allows the viewer to fill in the blanks for themselves, and the human mind has the tendency to jump to the very worst. So seeing her pale fur, sunken eyes, stony glare, frigid colour palette, just HIT because it reinforced EVERYTHING that had been festering in our minds for the past however long. For me, it’s barely even been a year. I can’t even begin to imagine those who have been holding it for upwards of six

We’re already starting off with a bang, but the fact she’s so mysterious is then just used to make the small things we DO learn about her even MORE effective. Noelle is scared to tell her she’s locked out of the house. She doesn’t keep keys of important documents anywhere but home. Rudy is spending what could be his last moments terrified of what will happen to Noelle after he isn’t there to “balance Carol out”, in his words. Noelle explains the feeling of seeking out things that scare her just so she can feel comforted. Speaking as someone else with a poor emotional relationship with her parents, the portrayal of Carol as such is not only harrowing, but very REAL. It’s severe enough to push all the right buttons, but not SO much so that she becomes harder to take seriously because a sense of immersion is lost. THAT is just as important, and it’s what really sells the effectiveness

The fact she wants to bring calamity upon the world is awful, sure. But that’s not why I hate her. I hate her because she’s a shitty mother. I hate her because Noelle has gone through so much because of her. And most of all, I hate her because of the implication that she’s using Dess to get her way, if I’m not going batshit crazy and Dess is the Roaring Knight like is seeming to be implied. Hell, she may have even staged her disappearance to be rid of her, as we know Dess wanted to leave home as soon as possible and take Noelle with her, and also that she was a contrarian to her mother’s strict beliefs and did things she never would have approved of. The reveal that, in her words, “I am always welcome in her home” would only have ever intrigued me if I didn’t know what I do about her. Perhaps she has more sympathetic motives than are being shown to me presently! But because these careful steps were taken to establish her not only as an antagonist, but as a VILLAIN, I felt pure unadulterated disgust. And the desire to be anywhere else and do anything else and listen to anyone else and never do what she wants me to do ever

What truly makes a good villain is the combination between narrative stakes and personal investment. And, more importantly than that, the effort to make it believably, groundely REAL, as opposed to overly blunt or performative. I’ve hated Carol from literally Chapter 1, assuming that she was gonna be an invisible driving force for Noelle’s character development and not much more, and now I just have a vessel to fuel all that rage into because the careful work behind the curtain is being unveiled masterfully. The fact there’s even more to know upcoming has my head spinning because I’m already reeling from just how much I HATE Carol, and just how GOOD that is for the story

If you’ve somehow survived my word salad the size of Mars, please please please leave tour thoughts or whatever else. I’ll see it when I eventually finish everything

[lovelyjj]

Thinking about JJ and a girlfriend who’s a cute nerd like Pope and loves to read. He’s curious about why she loves those books so much and one day he asks her to read one to him. Then suddenly he’s hooked and he’s making little comments along the way like “I can’t believe this! The audacity!” 

jj maybank x bookworm!reader

**the book i used for this is Icebreaker by Hannah Grace**

feel free to send me any thoughts you have :)

It was no secret that you liked to read. You loved to read. Getting lost in a good book was one of your favorite things. Any chance you got you were reading. Now your boyfriend JJ, was curious to what the hype was all about. But he supported you no matter what.

You were at the château reading of course when JJ planted his head in your lap. You stole a glance away from your book and down at JJ who had a goofy grin on his face. You ran some fingers through his hair and scratched his scalp. JJ leaned into your touch.

“Watch’s reading about?” JJ asked.

“Oh the usual adventure magic romance stuff,” you said nonchalantly.

“Can- can you read it to me?” JJ spoke softly.

“I mean yeah sure,” you felt your heart swell that JJ wanted to know more about what you love.

“Do you want me to start at the beginning?” You asked.

“No no just read me where you’re at. I will figure it out,” JJ told you.

“Okay.”

“There is a real chance I could spontaneously burst into flames at any moment. Nate’s voice is barely above a whisper as he suggests testing his theory, but I feel every syllable all over my skin as goose bumps spread down my neck and across my chest. I have been betrayed by my body from the second he put his hands on both sides of my head and leaned in.” You read aloud.

“He’s barely touched me and yet I’m ready to melt into a puddle at his feet. I don’t know whether it’s the proximity, the sheer adrenaline, or the tequila, but every rational thought disappears, and I crush my mouth against his.” You continue.

“Oh my god,” JJ gasped. “This is so exciting!”

“Keep going,” JJ urged.

“He wastes no time sinking his hand into the hair at the nape of my neck, gripping tightly. His free hand slips around my body and palms my ass, making me moan into his mouth.

Nate is everywhere at once; all I can do is hold onto him and take it, and when his mouth travels down my neck, sucking and nipping, I’m practically panting.”

“I didn’t think this would happen when I followed him up here, I swear. He just looks so good in his tux and watching him nervously check the party is going well all night has been sort of endearing. And he’s hot as fuck, have I said that before? All dark hair, dark eyes, and muscles upon muscles, upon muscles.

He sinks to his knees in front of me, tugging at his bow tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. With messy hair from where I’ve held onto it and flushed cheeks, he looks up at me. His hands run from my ankle to my knee, then back down again, and yep, still close to melting territory. “You sure?”

“Do you have a pen and paper for me to draw you a map?”

I’m making jokes. Why am I making jokes? Why do I find how unimpressed with me he looks right now so funny? And hot?

“I don’t joke about consent, Anastasia,” he says softly, leaning forward to kiss the inside of my knee.”

“That’s funny cause that’s something I would say,” JJ chuckled.

“I’m sure.” I don’t know why I’m sure. I’m sure I shouldn’t be sure. I shouldn’t like how he looks hooking my leg over his shoulder. I’m definitely sure I shouldn’t be enjoying his tongue running up the inside of my thigh. 

He pulls the material of the dress to the side, and when I put on this dress earlier, this is not how I saw the evening turning out. I hear a groan of approval when his mouth gets closer to the apex of my thighs, and he realizes I’m not wearing any panties.”

“This story is wild, no wonder you like to read,” JJ smirked.

“How about we go recreate this scene?”

[study-diaries]

How To Study Multiple Subjects

As someone who had studied 4 subjects plus 2 languages and additional courses and extra curricular when i was homeschooled and in high school, obviously i got used to studying multiple subjects. It's fairly easy and interesting.

Here's the thing, multiple subjects is a blessing in disguise. It's easy to study many subjects because you have variety. Your brain loves variety. So, here's some tips...

Maintain Good Study Material

The mistake most students make is that they don't have the basic ground foundation. They don't know what's on the syllabus, how its structure is. Literally nothing. Many students i know, only search for their materials like two days before their exam and they panic. So, gather the following at the beginning of the school year/semester:

Textbooks (If you have any)

Practice papers

Previous year papers

Extra reading materials/ Reference books

If you don't have any textbooks. Go through the topics that you have and gather resources from different sources.

Different Notebooks For Every Subjects

I really don't understand the concept of using a single notebook for like 5-6 subjects. Like, you literally can't manage it. Even if you divide sections in the book, it will get confusing and sometimes the pages won't even be enough. So, just get a notebook for each subject. It will help you stay organized.

Divide Subjects.

Every subject is learnt and graded in a different way. You can’t use the same study techniques for every subject you have. You have mostly 3 types of subjects:

Memorization based

Practical/Question based

Theory/Essay based

You use different study techniques for different subjects. Memorization based subjects require more revision. Practical/Question based subjects require more practice. Theory based subjects require you to learn how to format your information.

Read up more: Division Of Subjects

Easy VS Difficult Subjects For You

Take a paper and write all your subjects. Now, draw a line and write your difficult subjects on one side and easy subjects on the other side. And then rate it from the most interesting to the most boring and categorize it. And then rank them on which ones take the same place. You'll get an idea of where you stand with your subjects and now you can study accordingly.

2 Subjects Per Day

This is the most important one i always recommend. If you're studying, then only 2 subjects per day should be taken up for it. Pair an interesting subject with a lighter one. If you hate accounts or find it difficult but you love English, then that's your combo. Make combinations and write them down. You can change them any day based on mood or you can keep them the same. It's up to you.

Standard Subject

I usually like to have at least one standard subject every day. That was accounts for me because i was so bad at it. The goal is not to ignore the subject until it is harder than usual. The goal is to study it every day. That subject must be your weakest one.

Breaks

Breaks are really necessary. I advise you to not allot a certain time limit for the break. Rather take a break when you actually feel tired. If you've worked for 2 hours straight, then you deserve an hour of rest. If you worked for just 30 mins and you feel tired, take 15 mins as your break. Divide your work time by half and that is your break time.

Subject Alignment With Energy

Your weakest subject must be done in your highest energy in order for you to grasp the actual concepts. That's the main aspect of it. Low energy = Easy subjects. High energy = Harder subjects. You have to identify your core energy grids and align your subjects accordingly.

Chunk Information

Group all your facts together. Instead of studying like everything is completely unrelated, study like it's all connected. If you want to learn something, chunk all your facts together. Create a visual chunk. Make everything related.

Use Mnemonics & Storytelling

Learn with these two. These help you to remember easily. Make stories and catchy phrases to remember points/facts. These are like the building blocks of studying anything. Stick small notes to your books writing the small stories and phrases beside the topic so the next time you want to revise it, it's easy.

Cheat Sheets

Create small cheat sheets. Write them down. No digital notes. Because you have physical copies. Make formulae sheets, theories, everything for every subject you are learning and keep them in different folders. Don't mix your sheets. You'll get overwhelmed. During revision, this will help a lot.

Fake Exams & Improvement Sheets

Create a fake exam environment. Sit on your desk with a timer, take a question paper and act as if you're actually writing the exam. Do this at least once and note everything. How much time you take to answer each question. What are your mistakes. Which section is your weakest. Note them down and most importantly, your overall improvements you should make.

For me, I did this for accounts, and it gave me so much clarity especially the improvements. I used to go through this improvement sheet before my actual exam and i did not repeat even a single mistake again. The trick is to keep updating the sheet by adding improvements from your actual exams too.

Testing At Random Times

I did this mostly during travel time. If i learnt a specific topic some time ago. And if i had nothing to do then I'd just mentally ask myself a question about that topic and answer it. Many times, even i am surprised the questions i ask, it gives a deep understanding of the topic. I used to even connect it to other concepts. Ask questions relating both. It's even better if you jump from one subject to the other.

Connect Similar Topic

Connect all your related subjects. Everything in school is somehow connected. I usually used to connect economics and business studies concepts. Sometimes even computers so... Connect them.

Practice Subjects Need More Time

Subjects like Accountancy, Physics, Chemistry, Economics, Maths need more time because they are in one way more practical. They require practice. Whether it be experiments o through sums. Invest more time in these subjects.

PYQ's

Use past year question papers because nothing shows important topics like pyq's. Note and mark the repeated questions and review them repeatedly. This really helps.

Read up more: How do you actually use previous year question papers

__________________

Hope this helps :))

[yuurei20]

I just finished the new chapter drop on EN and may I ask why Idia freaks out about Ortho (robot) calling him by name?

Doesn't everybody except Malleus call him Idia? When Ortho (robot) shows up in the dream world he even has this line "And why are you calling me Idia...?"

He doesn't know who Ortho (robot) is, right? So why WOULDN'T he be called Idia? Or am I missing something?

Hello hello! Thank you for this question! 💀🤖

This is just a theory, but I think maybe what has happened is this! ↓

We know from Yana's interview that the story is complete and that she is not the only one who knows what is going on:

"The full main plot that I was to share with Disney seemed linear and uninteresting, so I submitted character details and sub-plots at the same time." - Toboso Yana (2023 Apple Store Interview)

But it is possible that Aniplex USA are not in the know 👀

The English-language translators can only work with what they have, and it's possible they haven't been told what points are going to be recurring, etc., so changes that they make to the localization that would be innocuous in any other situation are turning out to be important later on--and we have seen this before, also with Idia!

Idia has a line of "Leave it to your big bro (nii-chan)," which is extremely important.

We see that he used to say it to human-Ortho when they were children, and it uses the nii-chan variation of "big brother," not robot-Ortho's "nii-san"!

Every time Idia says it, he is invoking human-ortho.

But it seems Aniplex USA might not have known this about the character until the same time as the rest of us: when they got to Book 6.

As a result there are earlier instances (Book 5 and Ortho's ceremonial robes vignette) where Idia says his oft-repeated line and it was either rewritten or just removed entirely from EN.

And this is possibly what has happened with Ortho's "nii-san"!

While robot-Ortho has been programmed to refer to Idia as "nii-san" (and chooses to continue doing so for himself after Book 6), human-Ortho would use "nii-chan," in what seems like a throwaway character detail that is actually so important it was practically a plot point in Book 6.

More here:

That is what confuses Idia in Book 7! A humanoid he doesn't know has appeared calling him "nii-san," which no one has ever called him before.

But Aniplex USA possibly didn't know how important this was going to be! Ortho was localized to say "Idia" every time he says "nii-san," so that is what this scene became: Idia wondering why someone is doing what everyone does (call him "Idia"), possibly making it seem odd that it bothers him.

And unfortunately for the poor translators this just kept repeating in this chapter!

Originally Idia is confused by the three different entities all calling him "brother," but on EN he is just wondering why he is being called his name (which EN itself established as the status quo).

And that is why it seems that Idia is confused by someone referring to him in the same way that most all the characters do ^^

It is possible that the translators don't know where the story is going and are just doing the best with what they have, ending up in curious situations as new content is released that compromises changes they have made, catching them by surprise!

And we have seen this happen before, with the word "imagination:"

In a line that was retained on EN Ortho explains to Malleus himself, “Magic is powered by imagination, so you can’t manifest or defend against what you don’t know."

Silver suggests this about Malleus as well when wondering why it is that Malleus cannot interfere in Lilia’s dream, and connecting it to how Lilia’s dream is from before Malleus was born: “The source of magic is imagination. What if Malleus has trouble controlling things he doesn’t know about and can’t imagine…?”

The concept of imagination powering magic is a significant plot point throughout all of Book 7, not only due to it being one of Malleus’ rare weaknesses but because it is the basis for the construction of the dreamscapes that trap the rest of the cast.

Idia repeatedly comments on how the strength or weakness of a person’s imagination directly influences the depth of their worlds and the likelihood of awakening them, and in the original game it is a concept that was established as early as Book 1.

On EN, however, the word “imagination” was removed until Book 6, which is possibly when Aniplex USA received the scripts for Book 7 realized that it was important?

(I also wonder if that is what has happened with Ace and Epel having their dialogue changed from “Housewarden” to “Headmage.” Did Aniplex USA not know the significance of these two characters having issues with their housewardens, and decide on their own that Crowley made more sense?)

And this has just happened again with the newest chapter release on JP.

In Trey’s dorm vignette he originally explains that when Riddle’s mother discovered him at her house, she lectured Trey’s entire family for five hours, in a scene that was faithfully recreated in the Heartslabyul manga. This history with Riddle was changed on EN to Trey getting lectured by his own family, instead.

Unfortunately for EN, this experience between Trey, his family and Riddle’s mother was just confirmed in the main story.

He explains it happened when he and Chenya were 9 or 10 years old, with Cater providing the details that his mother scolded Trey’s family for five hours, as Cater was the person Trey was talking to in his vignette and he has already heard the story.

It will be interesting to see if EN attempts to change the characters’ backgrounds again to match the changes made to Trey’s vignette, or if they will be glossing over their own changes to stay accurate to the actual story.

[jenchan-writingmultis]

What do the dorm leaders + a few more students do when you leave them without saying goodbye / you go missing? (Series: Part 2)

──────⊱⁜⊰──────

Genre: Fluff/ Angst

Pairing: Leona x Gn Reader

A/n: Ooh It took me a while to create an update of this, I’m still in my second semester hell but I got a bit of time! So, I decided to write something for our dearest Lion, also I wanted to note that I’ll be doing this based on the book chapters, for example, Riddle First, Leona Second, Azul Third, and so on… I hope you like this part! I loved writing every part of it.

Credits: The design was made by me in Canva and the art that was used is all from the Official Twisted Wonderland Cards.

Warning: Cussing, OOC Crowley (lmao), smitten Leona, slight blood mention Masterlist Part one (Riddle x Gn Reader)

──────⊱⁜⊰────── Sypnosis: You went off already, actually, they didn’t even know where you were right now, Grimm was worried about you, where have you gone? You just vanished into the mirror that you were talking to every midnight, he knew that he should have listened to his gut feeling when he realized that you were warning him about your sudden disappearance. The moment he went dashing out of Ramshackle, paws cold from the snow that he stepped on and it was really bad that when he needed Hornton he wasn’t there.  Savanaclaw:

Leona: He was annoyed when Grim started screaming outside of his dorm in the middle of the night causing all beastmen to wake up due to his ruckus, but his annoyance vanished when he realized what the furball was saying. You were gone, while he looked indifferent outside, telling Grim to calm the fuck down because he can easily hear him without him screaming in his ears, he was a bit worried. (Just a bit)

“Oi, can you tone down your screaming?” he grabbed Grim by the collar as the kitty sobbed, “Calm down, we’ll help” He sighed, causing Ruggie to stare at him surprised, “What do you mean we?” Leona scoffed before he threw Grim at him. 

“This furball will just keep on screaming if we leave him” He sighed, scratching the back of his neck. Ruggie huffed “Well, it’s surprising for you to immediately agree to help though” he whispered to himself, Leona could clearly hear him, but he ignored what the other said. It was rare for you to leave Grim all alone, you two were practically attached to the hip, so you vanishing out of nowhere was odd, did you finally get back to your homeland? You didn’t talk about it, but he can see how you look at others when they’re with their families and he knows that look. It was a look he had when he was younger, when Farena was the golden child, and he was the black sheep. 

He wanted that kind of familial love from his parents before, but they never gave it to him. You probably missed your family in your original world, he understands the feeling, but he can’t help but feel a bitter ache in his heart. Did he and the others not make you feel at home here? Sure, they overblotted and probably could have killed an herbivore like you, but he’s a changed man, surely you didn’t leave because you got sick of him or the others, right?

Of course, he went to interrogate Grim, asking him various questions, and after a few hours of barking orders to his fellow beastmen, he went to Crowley personally to ask, he was running out of options, and he was starting to feel that his theory that you went home was right. The last time Grim saw you was you got sucked in the mirror that was inside your bedroom. He tried to check on that mirror too, he didn’t feel any type of magic in it, it was just an ordinary mirror. You’d know he’s already at the edge of his seat trying to find you when he asked Crowley out of all people for help, denying the feeling in his gut that you were truly wiped out of this world.

“You’re saying that the prefect vanished?” Crowley put his hand on his chin, he was a bit annoyed about how calm Crowley was, and he crossed his arms glaring at the guy. “Did you send them home?” He questioned, getting straight to the point, which made Crowley shake his head “No, I didn’t, I have yet to find the portal back to their homeland, but this is certainly worrisome, I’ll try to help you find them, and can you summon the other head wardens for a meeting?” Crowley walked past him, Leona’s eyes following him. “I’ll be getting the teachers involved, this is a missing student case after all” He murmured, now that’s the sight he likes to see, somehow his opinion of Crowley increased. He guessed Mc became important to him as well. 

However, despite the ton of effort to find you, none of them got any leads, the ache he was feeling from before got worse, he found himself awake than asleep most of the time, his head was aching, it was affecting his health too. When the housewarden meeting along with the teachers happened, of course, the majority of them volunteered to have their housemates search for you outside and inside, Crowley couldn’t get any officers involved since you weren’t officially in Twisted Wonderland, you were a walking unregistered herbivore; it was dangerous, it could get the school closed so he had to ask his staffs and students to help around, which no one complained. Everyone cared for you, you helped them one way or another; helped them grow as a person and as a mage, it made him fascinated that you get to change almost everyone in this school in just a few months of your presence, and you’re magicless even. 

The improvement of the school happened because of you, and you just vanished out of thin air just like that, like some God who graced everyone with their presence only to leave once everything was sorted out. What about him? 

Leona couldn’t help but feel numb, eyebags evident on his face, it was so unlike him to be overworking trying to find you, you were just a herbivore to him, someone who had the audacity to annoy him before just to gain his help. Ruggie was worried about him too, the guy tried to ease him into that he would try to use his “connections” to gain more manpower to search the whole twisted wonderland, it made him laugh, he was a second prince, he had more connections that can help with the search than Ruggie, plus he knew that you weren’t here anymore. He couldn’t accept it at first, it was just slapped on his face multiple times.

Your scent continued to fade as the days continued, he didn’t have any motivation to do anything else but try to find you, find you, and find you for the first few weeks health be damned, but when you manifested in his mind, festering him to do something else, to try to finish third year, then maybe during internship he can find leads to you. He decided that if he plans to continue to persevere, then he will. After all, he was known for his tenacity before. 

Ruggie was surprised when one day, Leona started to become focus on his studies, Leona was sometimes going to class, just enough to the point he could be promoted to 4th year, where he could do internships.  He thought that Leona might have forgotten about you, which kind of annoyed him, was Leona only good at doing stuff in the first place and abandoning it once he realized it was futile? Of course not! Ruggie slapped his cheeks and shook his head, Leona could never, he’s mischaracterizing his Housewarden. 

While the search died down, plenty of students gave up because they kept reaching dead end after dead end in their search. Grim was often with Ace and Deuce, he noticed that the furball lost a lot of weight and he often seemed out of it. Most of the students who knew Grim understood the devastation of losing someone whom he treated as family. They try to get Grim to eat more, but he always ends up either overeating or not eating at all, the only housewardens who get him to eat normally are Vil and Riddle who have strict diets for him. Riddle is more lenient due to knowing Grim longer than Vil. 

The housewardens get split custody of the Cat, and the main custody being with Riddle, Ace, and Deuce. Leona barely gets any time with Grim, and when he does, he usually just gives him to Ruggie. One time, Grim got really upset at him though.

Leona flinched in pain, blood seeping out of his arm, a scratch mark forming on it. Jack jolted and grabbed Grim’s arms, subduing him immediately. “Grim! What are you doing!?” Jack yelled out, gripping on the squirming cat. 

 “You! Out of everyone here, you’re the one who’s always so calm and relaxed!” Grim cried out, glaring at the Lion. Leona glared at him as he used his magic to heal his arm. “Do you even care! You just gave up after a few months!” He continued, biting Jack making Jack let go out of pain, and when Grim jumped on Leona. He got grabbed by the scuffle. 

 “What makes you think I stopped trying to find them?!” Leona snapped, gripping on the cat, as if he’s a cub misbehaving, this was annoying, people thinking that he doesn’t do a lot when in fact he’s been giving more than just effort  “You think I’m not trying my best here!?” He lets Grim go who is surprised at his outburst. “Shit” He pinched the bridge of his nose, Jack carrying Grim again. “I’m really sorry Leona” He apologized on Grim’s behalf, but Leona just waved him off. “It’s fine,” he said, looking down at the cat. “But I want you to understand that some people just prefer doing work behind the scenes, just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean they’re not trying.” 

He really was trying. The you that was cuddling him in his dreams, playing with his hair and kissing him, telling him to do his best. That had kept him sane while trying to find you. It was stupid and pathetic, but at least he knew that somehow, he never forgot your face, your scent, and your voice even if it took years. Even once he graduated, even if Falena tried to set him up with other Beastwomen or some high-ranking princess. He rejected them all, in favor of waiting for you, despite not knowing if you’ll ever come back. 

He never even got to tell you his feelings before you vanished, if he did would that make you not go back to your own world? Even after a few years, your friends had already graduated, he was working in Sunset Savanna, temporarily because his brother asked him for help, he was busy jumping from place to place to maintain connections and build new ones so while his brother is gone, he was the one in charge, Cheka was already in Junior High school dreaming of getting inside Royal Sword Academy where his friends would be around as well as his father encouraging him to enroll there due to being an alumni, and his sister in law kept festering Leona about mates and stuff. 

Right, did he tell you that he kept the mirror that you vanished from to his room? When he finally graduated, he felt that he needed the mirror, so he decided to buy it from Crowley, who graciously gave him the mirror without any complaints. Sometimes, he looks at himself in the mirror, hoping to see you behind it. He really wishes you would come back. 

He went to sit down on the edge of his bed, sliding himself into the covers, his bed feeling cold and needing another, he stared at the ceiling, wishing in his mind that when he woke up, you’d be there, touching his cheek. 

Drifting into sleep, he dreamt of you again, a dream that he saw multiple times after you vanished, his head laying on the soft plush of your thighs, he stared up at you, who was looking down at him with a soft smile, he nuzzled the hand that you placed on his cheek, placing his hand on it as he guides your hand to his lips, kissing it. 

 “I miss you” he murmured in his dream, your hand felt incredibly warm and soft right now, it felt… real. Maybe whatever Deity from above decided to pity him today and give him your touch that he was constantly seeking.

He didn’t want to wake up, the warmth of the sun hitting his body except for his face which you were shielding it from. The moment he lifted himself up, to go nearer your face, he wanted to kiss you now or else he might never feel this surreal experience ever again, a blinding light suddenly flashed in his vision, causing him to flinch. 

 “Oh, sorry Leona” a familiar voice apologized, making him groan and blink a few times, was he still dreaming? He felt his head resting on something else and not his pillow, it felt softer. When he finally was fully awake, he realized that he was in fact, not dreaming anymore. He looked up only to see you, in the same position as you did in his dream. 

“Herbivore…” he froze as you rubbed his cheek gently. “Yes, I’m here” You hummed as you pushed away a bit of his hair just to see his face better. “Oh wow, Leona you became prettier!” you giggled, causing him to sit up, grabbing your cheeks, he examined you. He can’t believe it, it really is you, he’s not dreaming anymore. 

“How? What?” he questioned, glaring at you maybe this was a trap, if this was some doppelganger or some shapeshifter, he’d turn you to dust, but the way you weren’t scared of his glare made his will falter, you were warm, you were there, your scent was there too, nobody can replicate that.  “Herbivore you’re back” he finally caved in, pulling you into a crushing hug, which you gave back happily. “I’m back Leona, I’m sorry I vanished,” you said, burying your face into his shoulder. “You idiot, I definitely deserve an explanation for this” He growled out, not letting you go at all. 

Word Count: 2,359

[mistiell]

When you're lost in the Darkness

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Summary: Astarion suspects that you're afraid of the dark. What he doesn't know, is that not only will he soon be proven right, but he severely underestimated just how severe your fear is.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Fluff, hurt/comfort, nyctophobia, brief description of panic attack, possibly ooc Astarion, literally one use of y/n

A/N: Hey hi hello, I am back from the void for now. I would like to make a disclamier: I have not yet played BG3!! So, if anyone is out of character, I apologize!

---

Astarion has a theory.

A small and rather unimportant one, but a theory nonetheless.

It started when he noticed the way you set up your bed roll when the group makes camp for the night. You’re always as close to the fire as you can be without lighting yourself aflame, and when it dims to a certain point, he’s watched you rouse out of a dead sleep to stoke the coals and add more fuel. At first, he thought perhaps you were just prone to chills – he knows some people run cold when they sleep – but after lingering after one of your shared nights together, he came to realise that you’re actually more like a mostly-human furnace.

Then he noticed the way you linger around any sort of light source like a moth to a flame after the sun has set, and the way you fidget and glance over you shoulder every few minutes on the off chance your back is to the darkness.

He finds it strange. Granted, he thinks you’re strange for a variety of other reasons, but this pattern of behaviour is particularly puzzling to him. Which has lead him to his theory;

“You’re afraid of the dark.” He jests after watching you glance into the woods for the umpteenth time, aiming for teasing and realising he’s missed when your face falls into something akin to shame and discomfort.

You try to cover it with a scoff, rolling your eyes in a way he knows is meant to feign indifference, “I have far worse things to fear than the dark.” You spit those last two words, as if they taste bitter on your tongue. Firelight dances in your eyes as you keep your gaze trained firmly on him, even despite how much you look like you want too search for whatever it is you’ve convinced yourself is out there, intent on disproving him.

“True,” He smirks with a practiced ease, suddenly – strangely – desperate to ease the tension he’s just created, “But should you ever find yourself too afraid to sleep alone,” He leans in just a smidgen closer, grinning coquettishly, “My arms are always open.”

You snort, the tension in your shoulders ebbing just so as you chuckle, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“By all means, keep me in your thoughts as long as you wish, darling.” He hums, smile just a little softer than he intends when you genuinely laugh at that, the sound sweet and airy as it bubbles up from your throat.

“And with that, I’m off to bed.” He nearly mistakes incredulousness for fondness, but catches himself as you stand. Turning back for just a moment, you give him a smile so soft, it makes is gut twist with a feeling he’s a little unsure of, “Goodnight, Astarion.”

If he’d fed more recently, he’s sure his cheeks would be flushed. He blinks, clears his throat, “Sleep well, my sweet.”

Only days later, his theory is proven correct when you stumble upon some sort of abandoned cottage – House? Astarion’s not entirely sure – and, upon Gale’s insistence that it could be useful, decide to search it for wares.

“You do know there’s likely nothing of use in here, don’t you?” Shadowheart sighs impassively as she thumbs through a tattered book, slotting it back into place where she found it once she’s deemed it useless.

Gale huffs and rolls his eyes, “Well, we won’t know until we look, will we?”

“We won’t be finding much of anything if you two don’t quit your squabbling.” You quip before turning your attention back to the chest you were searching. You just barely lean into Astarion’s space, grinning impishly. He leans in just a little closer – only to hear you better, of course – as you whisper, “They’re like children, I tell you.”

Something shatters. You both turn just as Shadowheart fixes Gale with a stern look, “Hells, Gale, pay attention to where you’re going!”

“Wh- It’s not my fault!” Astarion raises a brow at their bickering, tutting amusedly, “Children, indeed.”

Huffing a laugh, your attention slides to a door on the far side of the room and move to investigate. After trying the handle and finding it jammed, it takes a good shove to get it open. The only thing that illuminates the small pantry is the light filtering in from the door you’ve just opened.

You seem content to simply skim over the contents of the room from where you’re standing until you spot something of interest, eyes lighting up with a little gasp.

Astarion takes your place in the doorway as you rush into the room after propping the door open with a nearby pail, curious, “What have you found?”

Snatching a little tin box off a shelf, you open it and beam, “Oh, I haven’t had this in ages!”

“What?” He asks again, a little impatient.

You hold it out to him, and when he comes closer to look over the lip of the tin, he finds a fair amount of shredded, aubergine coloured leaves inside.

He looks back to you, confused, “Tea?” “Tea.” You grin, holding it up to your nose and closing your eyes to revel in the fruity scent, “I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s delicious.”

With how delighted you are over finding it, he doesn’t doubt it.

“Well, at least we can tell the others our searching wasn’t in vain.” He turns, “Settle that dispute between Gale and Shadowhear-.” The toe of his boot bumps the pail, sending it rolling as the door swings shut and swathes the room in darkness.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but eventually, the door comes back into view, only now the faded sage green paint is a dull grey.

Just as he moves for the door, he’s startled by the clattering of metal and a loud bump. He whips around to ask what in the hells just happened, but the words die in his throat when he finds you pressed flat against the shelves on the far wall – which really isn’t that far considering there’s only about six feet between the two of you. He can hear your heart racing from where he’s standing, your breaths quick and shallow.

That theory he had just got a lot more important.

He calls your name and you flinch, gaze flitting in his general direction but never settling on him. You look well and truly petrified. “Darling, are you alright?”

It’s a terrible question considering you are very visibly not alright, but he can’t seem to come up with anything else fast enough.

“I can’t–.” Your voice cracks and you swallow, looking dreadfully close to tears as you squeeze your eyes shut and cover your face with your hands, “I can’t see you. I can’t see anything.”

“Hang on,” After trying the handle, he finds the door is jammed no matter how hard he yanks. He considers calling for Karlach or Wyll, but thinks better of it, not wanting to frighten you further. They’ll notice the two of you are missing and come looking eventually.

“Astarion.” His name from your lips pulls him from his thoughts. He usually loves hearing you say his name, even when your cross with him. But when it comes out like a pitiful mix between whisper and whimper, he finds his heart twists uncomfortably in his chest.

He turns back to you and stalls. Unsure, helpless. He wants desperately to comfort you, but he has no idea how. He goes over the many different ways he could try, and the many different ways you could react, before finally, “Tell me what you need.”

After a moment of hesitation, you hold out a trembling hand and he steps forward to take it without a second thought. You tense when his skin first meets yours, palms wet with tears as your breath hitches. You tug him closer to wrap your arms around his middle and cling to him like a lifeline, shaking terribly as you bury your face into his neck. He secures you to him with an arm around your back and a hand cupped over the nape of your neck. He can feel your heartbeat stuttering under his fingertips when they settle over your pulse.

You’re still gasping.

“You need to breathe, lovely.” He says it gently, voice void of his usual coquettish flare. The nickname is softer than what he’s used with you so far, and it feels and sounds more earnest than it should. He tries not to dwell on it as he soothes his palm up and down the length of your spine, “Try to mimic me. I’ll guide you, alright?” You nod, and when starts coaching you through each inhale and exhale, you do your best to follow.

It takes several breaths, but eventually, they grow deeper and stop catching in your chest. Your heart slows. Not by a lot, but enough that Astarion can stop worrying that you’ll work yourself into a panic induced fainting spell.

He guides you through a few more before asking, “Better?”

You nod. With your throat dried out from crying, your voice is rather croak-y when you reply, “A little.”

“You sound like a frog.” It startles a laugh from you, the sound letting Astarion breathe a little easier.

“I do!” You sniffle, still laughing. It makes him laugh too.

“What the hells is so funny in there?” Lae’zel shouts from the other side with all her usual charm.

“Frogs!” Astarion shouts back, and you giggle a little more.

There’s a few loud bangs as one of your friends attempts to open the door. He can feel you flinch with each one until finally, it bursts open, blessed light washing over the two of you despite Karlach towering in the doorway. Your body sags with relief, and a little, involuntary sound escapes you as a new wave of tears threatens to spill, this time for an entirely different reason.

“What happened in here?” Gale asks, looking wildly confused as you slip out of Astarion’s arms and wipe at your cheeks hastily. “Oh, erm,” You clear your throat awkwardly, gaze bouncing between the items the fell when you backed into the shelf before settling on the tea leaves. You look genuinely disappointed as you gesture vaguely towards the small pile on the floor, “I found a tea I really like and got upset when I dropped it.”

“Ah. I see.” Gale nods, still obviously perplexed. If any of them find the explanation odd, they don’t say anything.

Shadowheart leans around Karlach, “We should get a move on. There are only so many hours before sundown.”

“Right. Yes, that’s a good idea.” You nod, clearly thankful for an excuse to get the hell out of there as you squeeze past them and lead them outside.

Much to Astarion’s chagrin, Karlach turns when she notices he’s hung back, “Oi, Astarion. What are you doing?”

He glances between her and the pantry before huffing, “Just... Tell them to wait a moment.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously but agrees, leaving him to tell you and the others. He makes his way back into the pantry for a moment before jogging outside to join you.

It’s a good few hours until you make camp, and another few before he finally plucks up the courage to approach you near your tent.

You notice him striding over and smile at the sight of him, “Astarion! To what to I owe the pleasure?”

“I come bearing gifts.” He announces dramatically, hoping his puckish grin will be enough to mask how incredibly fucking nervous he truly is.

“For me?” You ask, cocking your head slightly to one side.

He rolls his eyes playfully, “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, would I?”

“Well obviously, I just meant–,” You huff and shake your head, chuckling incredulously, “Never mind. What have you got for me?”

He holds out the tin and watches surprise and confusion flash over your face in quick succession before something unbearably soft settles over your features.

Taking it from him, you’re quick to pop the lid off. You gasp when you lay eyes on the contents, eyes wide when you look back at him with such wonder, it nearly knocks the wind out of him, “How did you–?”

“I salvaged what I could off the top of the pile. I– erm,” He clears his throat, “I thought it would be wasteful to leave perfectly good tea behind when at least one of us could enjoy what’s left of it. Irresponsible, even.”

You huff a laugh. There’s no mistaking the fondness this time.

“You’re absolutely right. That would be irresponsible of us.” Your smile shifts into something heart achingly earnest as you step closer and lean up to peck his cheek, “Thank you.”

“Of course, love.” He’s aiming for coquettish but it comes out too sincere to be convincing. That feeling twists at his chest again and it’s only now that he realises what it is.

He actually, genuinely cares for you.

Rattled, he feigns a yawn and smirks, “Well, as much as I adore your company, I really must be off to bed. Beauty sleep, and all that.”

“Right!” You seem to startle yourself with your own volume and clear your throat, chuckling awkwardly, “Right, of course. Goodnight, Astarion.”

He takes a mere second to mull it over before he throws caution to the wind and cradles the side of your neck in his palm, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw as he presses his lips to the apple of your opposite cheek. Before he takes time to actually think over his new found feelings and potentially freak himself out, he’s going to let himself indulge in you just a little while longer.

Pulling back, he brushes the back of his knuckles over the skin he just kissed, “Goodnight, Y/n.”

He can hear your heart thump, thump, thumping as he walks towards his own tent. The feelings he has for you are a new and rather inconvenient development. But if later he finds that he doesn’t particularly mind?

No one has to know just yet.

[starweaversguidetothehazbinhotel]



Is it just me or is anyone else bothered by how most Alastor Mpreg fics are written?

Seriously, whether you prefer reading trans-Alastor, (or my personal favorite) Cis-male unwittingly forced to endure the “miracle” of childbirth, too many fics forget that Al died in the 30’s.

The negative effects of smoking and alcohol didn’t become public knowledge until the 1960’s and 70’s.

I need Alastor, begrudgingly pregnant, throwing a hissy fit because Charlie tries switching his coffee to decaf.

I need to see Hüsker risking his neck and refusing to serve (a very hormonal ) Alastor any drinks.

I need to see Angel Dust -the drug addict- calmly explaining to Al that he doesn’t need a stash of opium on-hand for the baby after it’s born. They have better, safer medications for infants now.

I need Vaggie freaking out when Alastor cannibalizes anyone in protection of the hotel. Raw meat is dangerous and lone sharks are practically sushi!

On that note, I need Rosie lovingly fattening him up and giving him all the support and outdated parenting books he could possibly hope for.

I want to see Alastor go to the effort to ensure that his child has everything it could possibly need. Only to be confused by everyone’s judgment when he installs a baby cage into one of his radio tower windows. Unsafe? They act like it’s his first day in Hell! He’s already warded it against stray bullets and Vox-tec drones. Why, he even bought a special cover to keep out the acid rain!

I wanna see him have a breakdown because he’s not preparedfor parenthood, and nothing he does seems to be right. That the staff, well meaning, start crossing boundaries. Making his panic worsen to the point he ends up hiding himself away for days.

I want Lucifer to be the most understanding person in the hotel. Out of all of them, he’s the only one that’s ever been pregnant before and he gets that it’s a bitch. I want him to soften because as much fun as it is tormenting Alastor- he remembers what it was like.

I want him to help Al combat the Victorian mindset that “A held baby is a spoiled baby”

I want him to show Alastor the novel advancements in baby care while making it clear that these are merely options that are available… Alastor doesn’t have to use any of it and it will not be a lesser parent if he chooses not to. (Think of items such as baby monitors, rubber nipples and disposable diapers)

Because Lucifer presents these things as suggestions, Alastor takes it all in-stride, accepting the gifts with humor. “No need to add nappies to the laundry pile!”

In their time together I want Lucifer to discover that Alastor knows how to knit and embroider. I want them to sit together in the evenings crafting clothes and things for the nursery. (Bonus points if the child’s mystery-father turns out to be a completely unknowing Lucifer’s)

Of course, other things can be going on in the plot. War with Heaven. Dealing with the Sins. Stalking from the Vees. (Bonus points for Vox burning with jealousy) Alastor’s Deal TM. But we as a entire fandom are severely under utilizing a literal treasure trove of plot bunnies.

————

I’ve added some fun links for anyone who wants to further play with this idea.

[elliespassagerprincess]

Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader

masterlist

professor ellie masterlist

☆ Ellie knows she’s going to marry you long before she tells you. She buys the ring three months into living together. Keeps it hidden in her desk drawer beside annotated books and letters from you.

☆ She proposes on the floor of your shared office. Not at a dinner, not with a crowd—just soft music, ink-stained fingers, and a whispered: “Be my always. My only. My mind, my muse, my wife.”

☆ The ring is engraved with a quote from your writing. Not hers. Yours. "You make knowledge feel like coming home."

☆ She asks your opinion on “proposals in literature” a week before. You think she’s researching. She’s just trying not to cry at the idea of you saying yes.

☆ When you say yes, she buries her face in your neck and shakes. Not from nerves. From relief. From awe. From the raw ache of being loved back.

☆ She starts referring to you as “my fiancée” constantly. In grocery stores. On campus. During panels. “My fiancée’s theory on this is actually quite relevant…”

☆ She changes your contact name to “Almost My Wife.” With 3 hearts and a lock emoji.

☆ She sleeps with her hand resting over yours every night. On your ring finger. She checks it like it’s her most sacred relic.

☆ She updates her entire academic bio to include you. “Currently lives with her partner, her muse, and greatest intellectual influence.”

☆ She teaches a lecture titled: “The Intersection of Intimacy and Intellectual Devotion” She’s talking about you. The class has no idea.

☆ Ellie wants a tiny wedding—just you, the vows, and a quiet lake. But if you want more, she’ll plan a thousand-guest celebration without blinking. “You say the word and I’ll build the world for you.”

☆ She insists on writing her vows by hand. In her favorite pen. On pages she slips under your pillow the night before.

☆ She practices saying “wife” alone in her car. Wife. Wife. Wife. She can’t stop smiling.

☆ She hides love notes inside the wedding checklist binder. You find one labeled: “Stop reading this and come kiss your future.”

☆ When you choose your dress, she sketches you in it from memory that same night. Adds it to her journal. Dates it. “The day I saw her and forgot how to breathe.”

☆ Her friends throw her a chill night in. But she sneaks off to call you every hour. “I can’t even pretend to want to be anywhere you’re not.”

☆ You write each other letters to read before the ceremony. She cries through hers. Has to reapply mascara. Still keeps the tear-streaked one folded in her breast pocket.

☆ She makes a playlist of songs that remind her of your earliest days. Plays it while getting ready. One track in, she’s sitting down, hand over heart, whispering: “Holy shit. I’m marrying her.”

☆ She starts dreaming of your last name beside hers on academic papers. No hyphen. No division. Just unity.

☆ You give her a watch as a pre-wedding gift. She whispers: “I’ll count every second I get with you.”

☆ When you walk down the aisle, Ellie mouths “mine.” Once. Quiet. Like a prayer.

☆ She cries when you hold her hands. Not one tear. A whole storm. Her lips tremble when you say her name.

☆ Her vows start academic and crumble into desperation. “I thought I understood devotion—until you. You rewrote me. I’m yours now. Completely.”

☆ Her fingers shake when she slips the ring on yours. But her voice never falters: “With this, I give you everything.”

☆ She kisses you like no one is watching. It’s not performative. It’s urgent. She’s been waiting forever.

☆ She refers to you as her wife every chance she gets. Out loud. On paper. In conversation. She beams every time.

☆ She can’t stop touching the ring on your hand. Kisses it. Spins it. Holds it during dinner. “Still feels like a dream.”

☆ She hangs your wedding photo above her desk. Right beside her degrees. “My greatest achievement.”

☆ She uses your wedding date as her new password. She’ll never forget it. She couldn’t.

☆ She journals the first 365 days of your marriage. Every little thing. Every breakfast. Every smile. Every time you say her name like it means everything.

☆ She changes her legal name just to have part of yours. No one expected it. But she wanted it.

☆She introduces herself at lectures as “Dr. Ellie Williams—but more importantly, a wife.” Every time. Her proudest title.

☆ She builds a library with your last name engraved at the entrance. It’s her gift to the university. Her devotion in bricks.

☆ She keeps a framed note that says “You said yes.” Next to the ring box. Beside her bed.

☆ When you fall asleep first, she whispers: “Married you. Won.”

☆ She keeps your wedding vows on her desk at all times. Reads them when she feels lost.

☆ She starts calling you “my forever” in texts. Even to herself. Especially when you're not around.

☆ She wears her ring when she lectures. And if she forgets it? She’ll cancel class. That’s how wrong it feels.

☆ She celebrates every mini-anniversary. First date, first kiss, first “I love you.” “Why wouldn’t we honor our history?”

☆ Her phone background is a photo of your hand in hers. Wedding rings shining. Sunlight catching on your fingers.

☆ She saves every note you leave her, even grocery lists. “Married girl handwriting,” she says with a grin. She signs every card, “your wife, your fool, your scholar.”

☆ When she wins awards, she thanks you before anyone. “For keeping my soul fed while I chase knowledge.”

☆ She keeps your last name on her lips like a spell. Soft. Reverent. Yours.

☆ She reads your vows aloud every year on your anniversary. Her voice always cracks by the second paragraph.

☆ She builds you a bench at the lake where you married. With a plaque that reads: “Where I became hers.”

☆ She keeps your bouquet dried and shadow-boxed in her office. Next to a note: “Every day since has been full bloom.”

☆ She still asks you to dance in the kitchen. Same song. Same rhythm. Same girl.

☆ She rereads the proposal letters every winter. Wears your old hoodie and says: “Still can’t believe.”

☆ And when she’s asked what love is, she says: “It’s when you look at someone and think: If I never wrote again, I’d still have said everything I ever needed—just by choosing her.”

[windvexer]

Do you know if there's a chance that someone just... Can't do magic? I feel like none of my spells work despite trying different methods and advice, I've never been chosen by a deity like most practicioners seem to be, I feel like there's something I'm missing fundamentally that means I just can't make magic. How can I check, so I stop giving myself hope and then having it crushed?

Perhaps a bad faith take, but I doubt most practitioners have been chosen by deities. I am of the opinion that many people believe they are supposed to be chosen and then use very lax systems of omen reading to justify that such-and-such god is claiming them.

Over the years, many people have asked me for help getting their spells to work, or solving such-and-such magical blockage.

And unfortunately, just about every time, the end result is that the person really has not done as much work as they think they have done, and they are still more or less on square one (or square zero) of practice.

Here are the sorts of questions I would ask you if we were chatting about this:

Focus

What specific school of magic are you trying to learn? "Witchcraft" and "magic" are not schools. Are you trying to learn Traditional Witchcraft? Lodge Magic? Chaos Magick? Appalachian Folk Magic? Dianic Wicca?

Out of the school of magic you are trying to learn, how many books have you read about it?

Out of those books, how many of them focused on actual technique and theory? As in, explaining the magical theories as to why this system works the way it does.

Do you have a clear understanding of why this magical system works the way it does? Can you describe it to me?

Within the magical system you have chosen to study, is there a clearly laid groundwork for what practitioners are supposed to have to do before they are valid/initiated/adept within this system? If so, have you achieved all of those requirements?

How many months of ongoing study and practice do you think is reasonable until you are ready to move to a new school of focus?

Learning Plan

Witchcraft is a complex and variable skill that, like writing a novel, requires a working knowledge of many diverse skillsets.

What is the specific goal you are working towards at this time? "Getting a spell to work" is not specific enough. "Casting a prosperity spell that is able to generate small amounts of cash, gifts, or benefits within a 2 week period" is the type of thing I mean.

What is your lesson plan to achieve that goal? An example might be, 1) read a book on prosperity magic, 2) study and research 5 accessible plants related to prosperity, 3) learn an energy raising technique, 4) learn how to charge correspondences, 5) learn how to add correspondences to candle spell, 6) learn magical timing techniques.

Even if you do not have a lesson plan, can you name the top 3 things you have been actively practicing to try and become a better practitioner? Examples might be energy raising, visualizing techniques, talking to spirits.

Once you formulate a lesson plan, ask yourself how many hours you think is reasonable to spend on each step. If you don't think you've ever successfully raised energy before, do you think it's fair that you might require 10 hours of practice learning your first energy raising technique before you can do it?

Could you explain to me the steps you believe are required to perform magic? Include how many hours you've spent practicing techniques applicable to each step.

Practice

Think of magic as being like learning to close a restaurant by yourself. You must be experienced in all of the stations, and have in-depth knowledge about the standards required. Do you also have such experience and understanding when it comes to your own craft?

Outside of reading and study, since the start of your practice, how many hours of concerted effort have you put in trying to perform magical techniques? This includes energy work, casting spells, sensing energies, divination, talking to spirits.

Write a list of each specific magical technique you have tried to learn. Not just "energy work" but, "Earth-roots grounding visualization to raise or balance energy into the planet." "Gathering energy into the lungs and exhaling to release excess energy." "Trying to contact the spirits of tarot cards." Be very specific. Next, write down how many hours you think you have spent practicing each technique. Which techniques have you spent more than 10 hours practicing, even if that practice is across years?

Write down every spell you ever remember trying to cast. How many are there?

Of all the spells you've tried to cast, are they from a wide variety of intents (such as prosperity, protection, luck, binding, conjuring), or are they mostly one type (e.g., prosperity)? Write down how many different kinds of spells you've tried to cast, based on intent. Have you practiced at least 5-10 spells in each category?

Technique

You've asked me, so given the way I do things:

How long does it take you to cast simple spells? Do you think it might be reasonable to expect that casting even a simple spell could take 30 minutes or more?

When you work spells, how long does it take you to raise energy? This can also include hours/days spent finding objects/ingredients of natural power. Would you say that you spend at least 10-15 minutes raising magical power for every spell that you cast?

When you work spells, how do you imprint/program energy? How do you stamp it with your intent so you know it's going to do what you want it to do?

When you work spells, how do you deliver them to their target? What techniques and methods do you employ to make sure they can get to where they need to go?

Before you cast spells, how much divination or investigation do you perform to make sure the spell will be effective for your purposes? Even a perfect screwdriver will fail where a hammer is required.

Do you use traditional techniques like aligning your spells to planetary timing, gathering taglocks, casting circles, or calling quarters?

Hygiene

How often do you perform self-cleansing? Otherworldly grime can obfuscate magical power.

Have you ever cast, or had others cast for you, unblocking or unbinding spells to help open the roads of your power?

How often do you engage in managing your personal energy? For example, centering/reclaiming exercises to pull escaped energy back into yourself, or energy gathering exercises to build up personal power.

Resources

Of the people you are asking for magical help, are they all a part of the same group who carry similar worldviews and would tend to suggest the same advice?

Of the people you are asking for magical help, how many of them are able to affirm that they are mentors, teachers, spirit doctors, or consultants qualified to help people with the problem you have?

Do you have a group you can work with to practice skills, such as energy charging and energy reading?

When you cast spells, do you have someone you can send photos of the spellwork to, so they can try to perform readings or diagnosis on what's actually going on?

Reality

Have you chosen a start date for your practice (such as, "I've been a practitioner for 2 years,") but in reality you have only tried to practice magic for a very limited time (say, 1 or 2 months out of that period)? If so, is it possible that you are comparing yourself to the success of a practitioner of 2 years, instead of a practitioner of 2 months?

Does the kind of magic you believe in dictate that rigor and technique are required to achieve results? Or are you more working in the "visualize and believe" arena?

Are you comparing your successes to people who are telling the truth about their practice? Is it possible people you are comparing yourself to are not using rigorous self-assessment when they calculate their own wins?

Are you comparing your successes to people who may have been practicing for decades or more on intensive paths, or who have spent thousands of hours honing their practice within a single area?

Are you being realistic about what actual success looks like? For example, casting a protection spell, something not protected against happens, and then deciding that because something bad in general happened, the entire protection failed.

Anyway Anon, to actually answer your question: no, I don't believe some people just "can't do magic." In very rare circumstances, some people may have serious blockages or entanglements going on that must be resolved before they can do magic. Others may require less intensive spellwork like unblocking to clear the way (like idk, maybe granny prayed over you in the crib that you'd never get involved with all this evil occult stuff).

It's my experience that almost everyone who thinks they can't do magic, if they were being very honest with themselves, would have a hard time coming up with actual lists of things they have done to try to be better at magic; they have perhaps practiced for a handful of hours across several months; they are not learning core skills (like energy work, divination, or trancework); and they are not working off of tried-and-true systems, but are rather setting up camp at the intersection of every possible shortcut (clear quartz, rosemary, and roses are universal substitutes; you don't have to use any physical tools or ingredients; visualization is the same as energy raising; intent is all you need; traditional methods of targeting such as obtaining taglocks are irrelevant; casting a circle is irrelevant; magical headspace is irrelevant; building and consecrating of holy areas such as altars is irrelevant; astrological timing and places of power are irrelevant; going to great lengths to obtain or preserve power is irrelevant).

The other 3% of people pissed on a fairy tree when they were kids and need to spend a couple of months working with a mediator to rectify their relationship with the spirit world.

Do feel free to DM me, if you like.

[biancabi]

Jason: *Walking around the living room with a book until tripping over something*

Tim: *Lying on the ground being the "something" Jason tripped over*

Jason: What the fuck, Replacement?

Tim: Sleep is overrated and I don't need it!!

Jason: Of course, that clarifies everything. What do you think if we make the consumption of peanuts illegal too?

Tim: Actually that would be pretty fantastic-

Jason: No, I was being sarcastic. Why the hell are you on the ground?

Tim: I'm trying to test a theory about how inertia acts on bodies-

Jason: *Raising an eyebrow* You fell and you're too tired to get up, right?

Tim: ...

Tim: ....yes.

-

Jason: *Yelling* Can someone tell me why the hell the kitchen is covered in waffle batter everywhere??

Steph: *With a stack of fifty waffles at her side* We're making waffes, obviously

Jason: And you had to dirty Alfie's entire kitchen for that??

Steph: It's just a little disaster, he won't even notice.

Jason: He doesn't notice the flour on the floor, eggs on the windows and dough on the ceiling??

Steph: You're making it sound more serious than it is.

Jason: Don't fuck, goldie.

-

Jason: *Entering dramatically* Alright little bitches, which one of you takes my copy of Pride and Prejudice??

Dick: I haven't seen your book, littlewing

Duke: Don't you have like a ten copies of that book?

Jason: First, I have fifteen copies of Pride and Prejudice. Second, they took my special anniversary copy. So which one of you has it??

Dick: Are you sure you didn't leave it somewhere?

Jason: No, I looked everywhere in this damn manor and it's NOT there.

Duke: Man, it's practically impossible for you to have covered the entire manor, I tried but I got tired after 5 hours. 5 HOURS!! AND I ONLY WENT THROUGH THE EAST WING.

Jason: THAT'S NOT THE POINT! WHO HAS MY BOOK?!

Dick: *Replying to Duke* I don't know, after getting lost in the hallways I never tried to navigate the manor again.

Jason: HEY! RESPOND BEFORE I START TAKING THE BULLETS OUT!

Duke: *Excited* What if there is some type of ghost or entity that is hidden in the hallways?

Dick: That wouldn't be so strange, I mean, this manor is very old.

Jason: IT DON'T CARE IF THERE ARE ANY DAMN GHOSTS. I WANT MY BOOK.

Duke: Just think about it, what if the ghost took your book??

Jason: *Taking out their guns* This is it, it's bullet time.

-

Bruce: Jason, could you explain to me why my living room is full of bullet holes?

Jason: Whoa, old man. If we think about it technically, everything is your fault.

Bruce: Pardon?

Jason: I think it's actually Alfred you should apologize to, but I guess I accept your apology.

Bruce: *Take a deep breath* Jason, how is this my fault?

Jason: *Moving his hands indifferently* I mean, if you hadn't adopted seven of us your living room wouldn't be covered in bullet holes. So technically it's your fault.

Bruce: ...

Jason: You know, you should have stopped at kid number two.

-

Jason: *Holding Damian by the neck like a kitten* Why the hell did you jump out of the batmobile? Were you even thinking???

Damian: *Squirming* I was trying to get out of the terrible experience of you driving alive. We almost crashed and died AGAIN.

Jason: Oi demon brat, Just so you know we almost collided because you jumped out the window suddenly.

Damian: This wouldn't have happened if I had been driving.

Jason: *Exasperated* Your feet can't even reach the brakes. How do you think-

*They both freeze when they hear police sirens, they look at each other and back at the crashed Batmobile.*

Jason: Did you know? Bruce doesn't need to know this.

Damian: This is the first time I agree with you Todd, we don't have to bother Father with little things.

Jason: *Escaping from the place* Yes yes yes, definitely